At the Edge of Fear

August 7, 2010

“Alex!”

Roused from a fitful sleep, my body simultaneously shivered and ached and my head was pounding.

“Alex! Wake up! Quickly, get your stuff and bring it up to the first floor.”

I opened my eyes and squinted into the light. Sumit’s silhouette filled the doorway as he spoke, his voice measured but firm. The last thing I wanted to do was get out from under the warm bedcovers, but an urgent voice was telling me to run upstairs. I groaned. What time was it?

“What’s going on?” I croaked.

“They say there’s water coming.”

I could hear the urgency of voices through the open door. The Hindi words were lost on me, but it was clear the same conversation was being repeated throughout the building. Footsteps. Doors closing. Louder voices from upstairs, asking something of those in the garden; questions as responses. A door opening. The rustling of plastic bags. Distant voices echoing from the street. Familiar female voices nearby. Mantse’s thick Catalan accent, the tension in her voice betraying her panic. Valentina speaking in Russian, calm as ever despite the lack of a common language with anyone in the vicinity. Silvia stuttered in English, only succeeding in stressing herself and feeding Mantse’s anxiety. This was her second solo trip outside of Poland, and as usual her life was in danger. Why did these things always happen to her? Mantse would be looking for a cigarette about now. Chaos.

The gaggle of voices faded up the stairwell.

“What do you mean?” I managed. I barely had the strength to prop myself up.

“Come on, hurry.”

He left the room and for a moment there was silence. Water? I had been bedridden for the prior 36 hours, and every muscle in my body was aching, weakened by a raging fever and frequent diarrhea. This was my second trip to India, and the first time I had managed to avoid the infamous “Delhi belly,” but now I had been hit hard. By the time I returned to modern civilization in Mumbai I had shed over 12 pounds of weight.

In the grand scheme of things my concerns were relatively minor. The same night I was gripped by the first flu-like symptoms, the skies brought unprecedented and record-breaking rainfall to Leh, triggering landslides that killed more than 100 people and completely cut off the town from the modern world. No roads, electricity, cell phone coverage, telephone, internet or airline flights. Thousands of locally stationed troops from the Indian Army struggled to recover bodies in the remote desert town that normally sees a few inches of rain each year. Water. The same exceptional rains that would leave tens of millions stranded and thousands dead in the Indus river valley in Pakistan, a stone’s throw from this valley. The same Indus river that gave birth to an ancient Bronze Age civilization.

Water. This was not what anyone wanted to hear right now. As destructive as unusual in a steep-sided arid valley, this was a warning that might save your life. Without any channels for communication, the best we could do was follow what people were saying. I sat up and shifted to the edge of the bed taking a deep breath. I closed my eyes. I could just lie down again… I took another deep breath and stood up, hunched over and eyes barely open, fighting the light. I shuffled towards the door, straining to ignore the cry from every muscle in my body. My intestines grumbled.

Up on the roof, I peered over the edge, resting my forearms on the wall next to Sumit. The dirt road was below us, and I looked at the drainage ditches either side, expecting to see the first tendrils of a torrent of water. Two men hurried past on the street, each looking over his shoulder as he did. A few shouts came from up the street.

“What are they saying?”

Hindi isn’t the local language in Ladakh, and it wasn’t clear if Sumit had heard or understood. A doctor from Delhi taking leave between jobs, he just shook his head slightly and squinted, calmly looking uphill. Waiting. The rest of the guests either looked down on the street or sat down. Few words were spoken. The six of us, representing five countries between us, had met on the two-day bus journey into Ladakh. Together we had crossed two of the highest mountain passes in the world, toured impossibly perched monasteries, and shared overnight quarters in tents in a desolate and remote valley. None of us had expected to be cut off from the outside world, our lives potentially in danger, but adversity makes for fast friendship, and we were thankful for the mutual support.

Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary. I looked up, shielding my eyes from the bright sky with my forearm. It was a typical summer day in the Himalayas, nary a cloud in the sky. The air was bone-dry. My head hurt. Altitude sickness had hit most of us. Our highest crossing had been close to 18,000ft and the town of Leh is nestled at a cool 11,500ft. Most of the altitude-induced symptoms had passed for me a few days earlier, but hydration was an acute problem given my illness, and the rarefied dry air couldn’t be helping.

There was restlessness on the rooftop. The roar of water I expected never emerged from the quiet distance. The mood gradually lifted, and people started making their way downstairs again. Sanjay smiled as if nothing had happened and rubbed his stomach.

“Lunchtime!” he announced.

We would never know the source of the rumor, but with all communications down, there was nothing to do but react. I would find out later that with help from friends in Mumbai, my parents were trying to make contact with the US Embassy for further information. The reality was that no one in Leh had any idea what was happening, much less a foreign embassy a thousand miles away. We heard that the military was clearing roads and repairing damage, but it was impossible to get any accurate information. With every road blocked, hundreds of tourists were camped out at the airport, desperate to fly out, yet unable to get any information from the local airline agents. Information was so difficult to nose out that later on I would be shocked to find out that the substitute flight for my original departure from Leh had already left, half-empty.

I slowly lowered myself down the stairs and into the bedroom. My belly rumbled, and I made my way to the bathroom. No toilet paper is the norm in India, particularly in rural regions, and you’re expected to wash with a water nozzle instead. I turned the tap for the nozzle and nothing happened. With no electricity to pump water, we were relying on what remained of water in a reservoir on the roof. I hoped that at least there was one last cistern full of water in the toilet as I pulled the lever.

It was empty.

When would this nightmare end?