The Fuck You! Story

So we’re on our back from the end of the world, or, at least, the end of India, see? The end of India being a place called Turtuk, which is the last visitable village in India, direction Pakistan. It’s been only open to tourism (meaning the road has been more or less built until there) since two years, so it’s a pretty virgin destination. And foreign tourists don’t even get to see the border because the last 7 km are, for them, me included, off limits, unless they have a strong desire to get shot. Still, the border is 90 km further than it was in 2010.

So, there are five people in the jeep, see?: two Russian brothers, Robert and Albert, tall and English-speaking and short and non-speaking respectively, a German lady, complaining-er than even I, who will be the subject of a later paragraph, a Ladakhi driver, who seemed to always mock us in some way, and yours truly, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, as ever. This was the formation which started out from Leh, over the 5600 meter Khardung La pass and into Nubra valley to gaze at the beauties of the cold, lonely desert encircled by snowcapped mountains. Not that there’s no desert right next to Leh, but the desert beyond the pass was special-er.

So, after staying in Diskit for two days, we headed to the end of India to spend our last Nubra valley day there, see? On our way, we aw-ed at the most impressive mountain scenery

marveled at the cold beauty of the landscape

and waited for the herds to come home from their summer-long holiday at the grazing grounds (the road being as wide as the backside of two yaks and a donkey next to each other)

So, Turtuk is in full autumn now, see? Which only made it more beautiful and our host proudly showed us around the village which seems to be both reanimated from the Middle Age, and the perfect advert for an ethnic museum. It seems that everything they have is locally produced and the only thing they want is chock-o-lat or p’n (pen) – the un-photographable kids told us so.

So, whenever they don’t use bizarre trunks of wood to built their houses,

the weird-looking slab on the right side of the door is actually the end of a wooden beam 

the Balti – the local population, use other, unconventional materials to build their homes, see? The most common one is discarded canteens, which, apparently, are really good at insulating (?)

Speaking of which, it took us – me and the German lady – a very long time to choose a room in one of the three guesthouses available in Turtuk (and I really think three guesthouses to a population of about 300 families is a good percentage), because all the rooms that weren’t the Russians’ room was not going to be good enough for us; my German roommate did not seem pleased with any room, so we moved around the guesthouse quite a bit. Also, sleeping at 10^o C can be a tad tricky, as there’s no heating and the blankets have a tendency to smother you.

So, this is the paragraph dedicated to my German roommate: around 50, relocated in Venezuela, which she loves, the only inconvenience being she cannot quite live there right now, as it’s very dangerous because of the unstable regime and the frequent kidnapping, with some plastic surgery done (yes, I’ve seen them and yes, they’re not real!) is having a hard time adjusting to Indian life: this is a little different than the perfect weather and temperature in Venezuela, it’s a little different than the perfect, spice-less food in Venezuela, it’s nothing like the perfect cappuccino in Venezuela, the roads are a little bit rockier than the perfect ones in Venezuela and, in general, this is not perfect Venezuela, which, in turn, is not perfect because it’s not safe… Go figure!

So, there’s a gompa in Turtuk, see? That’s a Buddhist monastery. It’s placed on a hilltop, of course. And it’s quite nice, except for the fact that it’s deserted. The whole population of Turtuk is Muslim, and they have two or three mosques scattered throughout the village. But the gompa is there, standing proud and, unfortunately, lonely, but has some really nice views:

So, the next morning we leave Turtuk and we're on our way back from the end of the world, see? And our driver shows up with a friend, to which we gladly give a ride back to Diskit, while having to stop on the way to leave some eggs (!) in some village. And in the same village, a Ladakhi woman comes up to the jeep and asks us for a ride to Diskit. She seemed really desperate but our English-speaking Russian refuses her point-blank: 

‘We pay forr comfort. We not want crrowded carr!’

‘But please, my mother is sick…’

‘Sorrry. No.’

‘But I missed my bus and have to get home…’

‘Why not go with bus? Wait forr anotherr carr!’

‘But please’ she turns to me.

‘I’m sorry, he said no…’ me, looking down to my Indian-made Columbia sneakers.

‘Please…’

‘No’ the Russian goes again.

‘Well, well… well FUCK YOU!’ door slams in my face.

So, this was my first ‘fuck you’ in India, which I did not extend, but receive and, coming from a young, well-spoken, pleasant-looking Ladakhi, it came as quite the shock! 

So, the Russian only got silence afterwards.

See?