"Does the boat go to Europe, France?"

—Marilyn Monroe in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes

When in 1871 James Gordon Bennett, owner of the New York Herald, sent Henry Morton Stanley to Africa to find the missing David Livingstone, who was suffering from that incurable disease wanderlust, a new type of serial travel journalism was born: the journey as journal. Stanley sent dispatches from the field that were received with great enthusiasm by readers, who got a rare glimpse into an unfolding adventure in a land far away and unfamiliar.

"Well-Traveled" brings the seed of Bennett's conceit to the 21^st century, dispatching some of the world's finest writers to distill the spirits of places little known and pouring the concoction onto our digital pages. Today, thanks to satellite technologies and the Internet, we can stretch the bar of the imagination, break the tyranny of distance, and publish our correspondents' spontaneous musings, insights, images, and audio within hours. There is an honesty and rawness to this format not found in the well-tuned pages of travel magazines, and our hope is that we will inspire and illuminate travel in a uniquely satisfying way.

So, join us as we lace the boots, box the compass, and set sail for Europe, France, and ports betwixt and beyond, on the routes less-traveled by our well-traveled band.

And be sure to check out our trips to Kashmir, Zambia, and the Outlaw Trail.

—Richard Bangs, Producer

What is Well-Traveled?

Scandinavia: Design and architecture.

Costa Rica: Exploring Eco-tourism with Natalie Angier.

"Mission to Galápagos": Ruffling feathers in paradise.

"The Blues Highway": Exploring the routes of the blues.

"The Outlaw Trail": tracking the robberies and roosts of Butch and Sundance from Wyoming to Mexico.

"Into the Heart of Africa": the source of the Congo, a journey through Zambia.

"The Road to Kashmir": a trundle through India's Ladakh region on the Tibetan plateau.

Other trips

For our first "Well-Traveled" journey, we trundle through the Ladakh region of Kashmir on the Tibetan plateau. The 12-day trip takes us from Leh, a city of butter lamps and prayer wheels, to the hill station of Manali, to the plains city of Chandigarh. We negotiate an ancient caravan route billed today as the world's highest motorable road—18,380 feet at the pass—and traverse the sharp blade of territory adjacent to borders disputed by India and Pakistan. Bunkered between the world's great ranges, the Himalaya and the Karakoram, it is a land of monasteries and mosques, of lamas and mountain gods, of palaces and tea houses, and of giant glaciers and vast deserts. Often called "Little Tibet" or "Land of the Pure," this quarter of the high world has always been a hidden paradise for the well-traveled, but today even the cognoscenti are away. Join our team as it surveys this Shangri-La and shares the sights, sensations, observations, and interpretations of a frontier intersection of cultures, religions, and politics on the front lines of adventure travel.

The trip

Seth Stevenson, often found shopping for Slate, recently filed a "Diary" from Bangkok.

Jonathan Chester, our field producer, is an expedition photographer and author who has traveled extensively to report on extreme travel. His latest book is The Young Adventurers Guide to Everest, From Avalanche to Zopkio.

Stan Armington, our guide, is one of the pioneers of Himalayan trekking and the author of several definitive guides to the region. He is a director of the American Himalayan Foundation, a member of American Alpine Club, and a fellow of the Explorers Club and Royal Geographical Society.

The team

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Longitude: 77.40 E
Latitude: 34.10 N
Altitude: 11,550 feet
Today's audio update

The rules banning riding on top of buses were relaxed for the eventThe pretty Ladakhi girls in the back of the jeep play peekaboo. They sit in their open back seat, rolling along ahead of us, and turn, look back, and tease us with their shawls. They cover their faces right up to their giggling eyes—and then, for one second, they show us their lovely smiles.

Our jeeps are just two in what seems to be an endless procession of cars. We stretch out along the curve of this highway forever. A few of the jeeps behind us get impatient and duck off the pavement. They carve new shortcuts into the sloping sand.

Eventually, we all inch off the highway, one by one, and enter a maze of makeshift parking lots. The lots are near full already. But we find a space, stop our jeep, climb out with our gear, and are instantly drowned in a teeming river of Buddhists.

We find ourselves channeled between two eye-high stone walls, 10 feet apart. Flowing along, we are bumped from behind by a pack of pushy monks. We hear chanting in the distance—deep, throaty rumbles, like didgeridoos. As we reach the crest of the hill, we glimpse what we came for.

Most of the faithful protected themselves from the blazing sun with parasolsSpread out before us are vast acres of kneeling worshippers. Twenty thousand people, maybe more. They are shaded by the faded fabric of thousands and thousands of parasols. The wide, flat field they kneel on is wet and muddy, and there are big bald spots in the crowd where the water's too deep. Everyone faces east, toward a small stage, which is silhouetted by the still-rising sun.

We are ushered down a thread of a pathway—a fault line through the chaos. Halfway along, a team of security monks halts us. They pat us down and check our bags for weapons. As we get near the stage, there's a sorting process, by race: We are funneled into a fenced-in pen for white people and their guides.

Here we find canvas tarps spread over the mud. We are close to the action. Right before our eyes, in unobstructed view, sits His Holiness the Dalai Lama, cross-legged on a raised throne. We lay down our bags and kneel quietly on our damp canvas.

Gathered here in our holding pen, transfixed by the sight of his holiness, there are hippies with eyebrow rings and knit ski-hats that say "FREE TIBET." There are older hippies, too, with beaded bracelets. But above all there are middle-aged German women, in packs of 10, dressed in some sort of Euro-cabana-wear. They fussily open up parasols and plastic-wrapped foodstuffs.

As the chanting continues, a line forms—full of people holding sacks. Phunsook, our guide, explains that these are offerings. Apricots and rice and maybe rare books. Interspersed among the Ladakhis in line—and carrying sacks of their own—we see the big tour group of Russians who are staying at our hotel.

The Dalai Lama comes to Leh every two or three yearsWhen the chanting stops, his holiness prepares to start his sermon. The huge crowd behind us grows silent in a heartbeat. Do you know what it feels like to sit in complete silence with 20,000 people all in rapt expectation? Many of whom have traveled hundreds and hundreds of miles, leaving behind untended livestock and children? Or have flown in from far-off continents just to catch sight of a single man? Neither did I, yesterday.

His holiness' sermon begins with a discourse on altruism. It's hard not to like this sort of message. (And it helps that an English translation's piped into our pen.) What could be more appealing than a world full of selfless people looking solely to help one another out? His holiness even says that if a man you don't know beheads you for no reason ("parts your head," the translator puts it), you should treat him as a spiritual teacher. It's just like turning the other cheek, except you no longer have cheeks.

His holiness exudes warmth. You can't not like him. When he gets excited, his voice rises way, way up, and I swear he sounds just like Yoda speaking Tibetan (I'm sure many others have mentioned this before). He jokes with the crowd, and he seems down to earth. When he asks that we put down our parasols and take off our hats for a special prayer, he is apologetic. (Instantly, a sea of sun-faded nylon folds out of sight—and gives way to an ocean of hair.)

All this said, I am not a Buddhist. I am not really anything. I have read a good deal about Buddhism and much appeals to me. And, of course, I freely admit that I've lots to learn.

(The other day, in a monastery, Phunsook pointed to a mural of an ogre, who was stomping on the head of a defeated enemy. "This is the Buddha of Compassion, in his wrathful form," Phunsook said. Again, this may require some clarification.)

But in the end, no -ism floats my boat. So, for me, despite the spectacle and the wonder (and there is much), the sermon from his holiness is not a moving experience. I'm glad that it is for the many people around me. And I'm glad to have seen his holiness here, in the heart of Little Tibet, with thousands of Tibetan refugees—instead of in San Francisco with a crowd of college kids. But after a couple of hours, I find it hard to follow yet another verse on suffering. And the smoldering pit of incense behind us is starting to sting my eyes. And my pants are muddy, and the sun is frying my lips.

So we leave and turn our backs on the divine leader of Tibetan Buddhism. We mean no offense at all—we are great admirers.

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Seth Stevenson, often found shopping for Slate, recently filed a "Diary" from Bangkok.

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