It’s remarkable how one’s baseline for acceptable accomodation can shift in 12 hours, when exhaustion, hunger and extreme heat get involved.
We cycle across a bridge towards the road snaking up the cliffside to Nyerak village, eyes set on a building at our latitude nestled in the some of the valley’s meagre patches of greenery.
But on the way there, a concrete storefront appears before us. It’s brightly coloured shelves promise sugary hits and possibly something other than lukewarm water to quench our thirst. Most of all, the shade provided by the cool concrete beckons.
We wheel our bikes up and are immediately greeted by several men so it isn’t immediately clear who’s the owner. One man is quick to inform us he is a soldier, and proceeds with unfounded authority to tell us what we could eat or drink and even where we might stay next, despite us having just arrived.
Another man quietly delivers us water, then a plate of chopped banana sprinkled with salt, slices of cake, two cartons of lassi and some almond-flavoured sweets. We are effusive in our praise, telling him this is exactly what we need and thank you so much.
Possibly emboldened by the compliments, this man who we come to understand is the store owner, is suddenly behind Cael giving him a vigorous head massage. Squeezing and clenching and ruffling and clapping the skull then without ample warning, after two preparatory rotations to the side, a violent neck-cracking. I sit watching on in perturbed amusement as he then moves to Cael’s legs.
Little did I know that it was my turn soon after. “No neck, no neck” I say firmly, to what seems to be acceptance. “If it does happen, don’t fight it,” Cael cautions. The hands clasping my head feel wiry and strong, like they could wring my neck without a moment’s notice.
After an array different techniques are employed I feel the powerful hands do the familiar sideways motion and I close my eyes and let them sharply carry out a technique I’ve decried chiropractors for administering.
We learn that our ad hoc masseuse is called Bablu, and he is not from Ladakh.
He takes Cael behind his store to show him the room he has on offer. Cael emerges and asks if I want to see it, silently hoping I will dismiss it instantly but not realising I am in no state to be making sound decisions due to exhaustion from waking at 3.30am and riding in the hot sun all day.
I take a look at the room, which is a concrete bunker with a tiny window covered in bars. On the floor is a layer of bright green underlay foam, and on it sit two bare mattresses. Such is my desire to be horizontal and asleep that I immediately say that it’s fine. Cael remains unsure, but when he goes outside the heat of the day is at its most intense and he realises we are devoid of other options.
We promptly fall asleep and wake a couple of hours later at 4.30pm, and before we have a chance to blink the bleariness from our eyes, Bablu is in the room with us. Moments later, he is on the bed straddling Cael and massaging him for a second time. This time the massage extends to fondling Cael’s belly and then, most disturbingly, plunging his thumb into Cael’s belly button.
I’m not quite sure how I allowed this to happen, and can only conclude that we were both so tired and Bablu the opportunist recognised a vulnerability to be exploited. The same treatment is given to me, and since I, unlike Cael, have a shirt on, this is pushed up much too high for comfort and the utterly invasive groping of handfuls of belly fat repeated.
We eventually get Bablu out of our room and to his credit he makes us a nice dinner. I sit in the fading light on his front terrace and sketch the mountains as they’re illuminated in golden orange.
I decide to gift the drawing to Bablu, and he proudly pins it to the wall just below a framed photograph of the Dalai Lama.
We eventually get to bed, the mattresses feeling more like upholstered rocks than when we’d collapsed on them earlier. Our door locked, bikes safely inside and eye masks on, there’s a sudden knock at the door. Alarmed, Cael leaps up in his silk sleeping bag liner but otherwise naked to see what the emergency could be.
It’s Bablu, enquiring if we want another massage. Politely, we decline.
Classic! Bablu sure sounds like the host with the most! Nice yarn.
Warrick