The plane is empty.

She’s adamant that we must stay in our assigned seats but I somehow find myself stealthy relocated to a window seat.

Tired, excited and most likely caffeinated we are airborne from Cairo. The previous flight had left London sometime past midnight, presumably to garner the cheapest departure cost, inevitably has disrupted my sleep pattern, worsened by rigid and unbending seats.

Alarm and confusion set in as we descended early and all l could see was miles of desert and dunes. This can’t possibly be India and I wonder if we have somehow found our way onto the wrong flight to the wrong destination. Maybe she’s amused but responds that we are landing in Dubai and assures us we will get to Bombay after a short stop that requires no disembarkation on my part.

Weeks go by and we’ve traveled enormous distances at a snail’s pace. We’ve crept south from Bombay to Cape Comorin, the southernmost tip of India. As lone travelers we are an oddity to many. We visit Hindu temples, have become very familiar with train stations, carriages, government hotels and a diet that is proving hard. Density varies from a handful of people in remote and struggling villages to throngs that are almost a deluge in cities of equally challenged people. We’ve swung north along the Bay of Bengal towards Darjeeling. 

Weeks become almost two months and we’ve skirted westward across the lower Himalayas and into Kashmir. Maybe it was an article in the Guardian, but Rico has decided we must visit Leh in the otherworldly place called “Little Tibet” or more formally, Ladakh. Not long since a war frontier in bloody battles with China, this area is now open for the first time to tourists. 

Ill again, I stay in the Srinagar hotel room. Against the odds, Rico has scored a victory with two bus tickets and permission for us to ride from Srinagar up through the mountains on what is sometimes a plausible road clinging to the mountain side high above the Indus River.

Kargil is a desolate high altitude place. Unfamiliar with much, all hotel beds are nabbed by those in the know and we find ourselves sleeping on a dirt floor in a hovel. Maybe tea revived us the next morning but a day later we arrived in Leh and straight into the 15th century. No cars, limited electricity, heavy felt clothing, distinctive hats all make for a sense of somewhere that is not India. Buddhist pray wheals, pray flags and a miniature Portola dot a hilly and rugged community and close in feel and outlook to Tibet versus India.

The compartment was typical of the era. Two doors, two bench seats offering privacy and these cramped spaces were repeated the length of the carriage. No bathroom, no ability to move up or down the carriage. If trapped, fellow travelers could make the  journey almost unbearable.

Each is not particularly heavy nor bulky but five, seven or more rapidly became a chore to move. Pulling one out was possibly the highlight of the trip. Aged relatives with little to say made for difficult company for this ten year old who was shy and also had little to say. 

In a world of black and white TV and music pouring from a tiny transistor radio, badly curated by a prescriptive BBC, National Geographic was manna from heaven. A beautiful, exciting and colorful world existed beyond the drab 1970s UK. 

I loved the photos of American National Parks, hoodoos in Bryce or geysers in Yellowstone. Definitely not central London. I loved the photos of American states, colorful Vermont, cactus rich Arizona, I’m sold, I’m coming!. The occasional pull out map was always a perennial favorite. Photo tours of Africa, South America and even Europe were a delight. The ads for Bell Air or Cadillac conveyed such a sense of optimism. Camera and exotic shortwave radio ads sealed the deal for me. There is a Brave New World somewhere else.

We were essentially broke. Film was expensive, space was tight and unbelievably for an almost three month trip I have around twelve rolls of 35mm film, predominantly color but a few rolls of black and white. As a pretty unseasoned photographer on such a ridiculous “snap” budget it’s a marvel I have really anything to show for what was and is tritely, a life changing trip which made me a better human. Not many, a few, sunrise at Cape Comorin and this.

Permission granted, not as V victory but by two fingers, a rupee for each.  

I snapped it, I labored to develop and print it and caringly carried it over the decades through countless moves, an emigration to America and stashed it with family photos.

Its significance, somewhat unrecognized nor fully understood until later in life. In a way it’s a homage to National Geographic. Imitation is the finest form of flattery and I was “mimicking” what I had so enjoyed.

Twenty five percent inflation, relentless crippling strikes and an IMF bailout sharpens the will in 1970s London to avoid failure. 

With a newly minted Computer Science and Math degree, emigrating to join the A team was made all the more palatable having so enjoyed National Geographic’s simple message; the world is a wonderful place, the glass is half full, not half empty and optimism and America are the same thing. 

A simple philosophy to guide a simple life.