Beautiful Valleys and Broken Dreams

Travels in Himachal Pradesh VI: Beautiful Valleys and Broken Dreams

The final day of our trip we awoke to a totally different vista. Having left the barrenness of the Spiti Valley as night fell, we were now treated to the lush, green slopes of the Sutlej valley. Trees – pine trees, eucalyptus, rhododendrons, splashes of bougainvillea lined every hillside, reaching up as far as we could see. For the whole of the past week we had travelled at over 3,000m – mostly above the height of Mt Cook, and more than twice that of Ben Nevis. The mountains around us had risen to well over 6,000m. And now, here we were, back in the land of ordinary mortals, less than 1,000m above sea level.

And still surrounded by beauty, though now of a different, more gentle, comforting kind.

As with the previous evening, we feasted on a sumptuous breakfast at Star’s restaurant, presided over by the ever-smiling Star herself. Star, from North East India, and another friend of Laji and Sheila, seemed to reflect the mood of this new valley: her easy-going, flowing manner contrasted with the austere and more reserved nature of the Spiti locals we had met.

Setting off from Jhakri, we drove a bit further down the Sutlej valley, past more hydro-electric plants and wandering towns, before crossing the river and heading up towards the Jalori Pass – a climb of over 2,000m. As with our climb to Rhotang Pass a week ago, the road switch-backed up and up, this time, though, through swathes of dense forest. There was far less traffic on this road, and mostly, the driving was easy. At every town and village, though, all traffic ground to a halt, as buses, cars, motorbikes and vans in both directions jostled for space in the tiny streets, already crammed with pedestrians, wandering cows, flocks of sheep and goats coming down from the mountains for their winter lodgings, and shop fronts spilling out into the already constricted roadways. As with so much of India, the general philosophy of driving seemed to be to nudge yourself as far forward as you can, make as much noise as you can, and hope that eventually someone or something will give way to create a gap through which you can squeeze. Somehow, miraculously, it eventually worked, though we were often left wondering if there might not be an easier way of achieving the same goal.

We paused for a leg stretch at the crest of the pass (3223m) and gazed in wonder at the view before us, up towards the Kullu Valley, and, far in the distance, the mountains on either side of Rohtang Pass. Above us, two eagles soared on the thermals, enjoying a freedom of which we could only dream.

We dropped down the other side to the tiny village of Jhibi, where we stopped for some lunch at a small hospital which Laji and Sheila had established in the 1990s, and Lois’ niece, Kaaren, and her husband, Jeph, had spent some time here as resident doctors while their children were small. It is hard to envision a more picturesque setting in which to practice medicine: a remote mountain village, surrounded by wooded hillsides; plenty of forest trails to hidden waterfalls and lakes; steep climbs to mountain ridges with panoramic views; and the clinic itself nestling beside a tumbling, clear mountain river.

When Laji first started coming to Jhibi from Manali, he would set up a road-side clinic on a sheet of tarpaulin. Villagers would trek from all over the valley to consult him, and his clinics would last long into the evening, continuing by candlelight, before driving 3-hours back to Manali after a long, long day. After several months of treating basic illnesses in this way, a local shop-owner offered him a small room at the back of his shop, where Laji continued to come regularly for his day-long clinics. Eventually, he was able to purchase a small plot of land beside the river, and designed and built the clinic, with a consulting room, pharmacy, operating theatre, x-ray room, dental surgery, and two wards, along with offices and accommodation upstairs.

The clinic served the people of this valley for many years, offering a much-needed alternative to the arduous and expensive journey to Kullu or beyond. However, as with so much that we had seen, what was lacking was other doctors to carry on the vision. Now in his late 60’s and still going strong, Laji continues to work tirelessly in Manali and the Spiti Valley, but just cannot sustain clinics in every place where he has gone. So, apart from a small team of nurses offering basic healthcare and health education, the clinic lies empty, its ancient operating theatre and x-ray room a sad reminder of what could have been.

I wondered what to make of these broken dreams. Was it all misguided enthusiasm? An over-ambitious passion to bring hope and healing to those for whom it might otherwise be unattainable? Was it a failure? Or was it just a vision that had its time? A practical response to human need that brought a glimmer of light to some people? Perhaps, for those people, it was more than a broken dream, but a step towards healing and wholeness; a touch of compassion in an otherwise harsh existence; an offering of beauty in the brokenness of our world.

And so, still pondering on beauty and brokenness, we left Jhibi, for our final stretch down to the Kullu Valley and so to Manali, and the Aadisha Retreat House.

October 22, 2019

White elephants in Kaza

Travels in Himachal Pradesh IV: White elephants in Kaza

In contrast to his softly-spoken wife Sheila, Laji is like a modern-day itinerant rabbi or sadhu. And we his travelling disciples. There was nothing he loved more than discussing his thoughts and musings as we wandered among the fields of those Himalayan villages, or sat in the evening round the warming tandoor. Laji had a deep love for the people of these valleys, for their way of life, and for the surrounding beauty and awesome majesty of nature. He could draw deep philosophical and theological truths from observing a pair of oxen breaking up the clods of earth, or a shepherd bringing his flock of sheep down from the mountain heights.

As a follower of Jesus, Laji had his questions – deep, challenging dilemmas heightened by the powerful, demanding landscape. He loved to serve others – whether through an impromptu medical consultation, or by entertaining a group of village children; and he was clearly loved by the people he has served. Over the years he and his wife Sheila have established clinics, small hospitals and school rooms, and led teams of doctors and nurses in providing health services to these remote areas. And yet, he longed to bring more to these people. He saw the impact of drink and gambling on the men of these valleys – men who struggled to cope with the harshness of their lives and the long, cold winter days with nothing to do. He saw the fear etched into people’s hard-lined faces; the resignation brought by an ultimate belief in dharma and an individual’s lack of capacity to change the way things are. He saw the corruption and greed that limited progress and ignored the most vulnerable in these societies.

And yet, he knew that our typical Western, or even Indian, Christianity had little of meaning to offer to these people, and so often came tainted with all the trappings of Western consumerism. To seek to impose his beliefs on others would be both meaningless and arrogant, showing little respect for their own deep beliefs and way of life. So he longed for an authentic faith which he could share; one which would respect the spirituality and traditions of these people; one which would affirm their unity with nature and their commitment to peace; one which could offer genuine hope in the face of their fear and resignation, tangible grace in the midst of the harsh realities of their lives, and practical love for each individual, no matter what their lot in life.

As we spent time in the Spiti Valley, I, too, could share something of Laji’s hopes and dilemmas. The sheer magnitude of the mountains around induced a sense of humility and respect. Any concept of a creator had to be so much greater than my own, limited understanding of who or what that creator might be.

Looking down to Mane from the ridge above

On our second morning in Mane, I took an early walk up through the village and the poplar groves above, then on up the slopes behind. My path took me up to a shoulder of the ridge from where I was treated to another stunning view up a small hidden valley beyond – once more with golden groves of trees and terraced fields nestling among the tumbling boulders and scree of the higher mountains. Later in the day, I would look back from across the valley and realise just how miniscule my walk had been – the shoulder I had climbed completely dwarfed by the gargantuan mountains above.

Looking back towards Mane – the ridge I’d climbed can just be seen above the yellow of the poplar groves towards the bottom left

We were heading back to Kaza where we needed to pick up fresh passes for the road south. But Laji took us via the monastery of Dhankar – a classic Tibetan monastery clinging desperately to a rocky outcrop. While Sheila, Laji and the driver remained at the monastery, relaxing in the café, Lois, Amanda, Juan and I enjoyed a strenuous climb to Dhankar lake. This beautiful lake, at over 4,000m and surrounded by Himalayan peaks was a highlight of the trip. A haven of peace and stillness with just a gentle breeze rippling over the turquoise waters, and fluttering the prayer flags on the adjacent stupa. We were surprised to see two cormorants sitting on the bank on the far side of the lake, then even more surprised to find several large shoals of carp shimmering in the warm, muddy shallows.

As we set out from Dhankar, we spotted a number of women pursuing a pilgrimage of penance up the road to the higher monastery. Each one would stand, kneel and then lie down on the road, stretching out her hands before her and placing a stone at their extremity. She would then stand again, move forward to where the stone was placed, pick it up and start over again. Thus, slowly, each woman would inch up towards the monastery and the goal of her pilgrimage. Perhaps, I thought, I have something to learn about commitment and devotion to my own faith.

From Dhankar, another winding mountain road brought us back to the life and bustle of Kaza. Here, Laji and Sheila had built a small hospital and school room some years ago. The clinic still operated intermittently, and the pre-school more regularly, but there weren’t the people to keep it going the way Laji had originally hoped. It was a pattern we were to see elsewhere on this trip. Even more troubling here in Kaza though was the Community Centre in which we stayed. This had been built in 2015 as part of the inspiring Spiti Valley Project. Championed by a charismatic English woman, Joan Pollock, the project has brought healthcare, education and community developments to many throughout the Spiti Valley. The Kaza community centre was one such project, inspiring in its ecological design and vision for the community. However, four years on from its grand opening, the centre came across as unused – a pristine white elephant that has failed to fulfil its objectives. A craft room, dining room, meeting room and library lie empty and unused by the community. The John Lewis towels and bedding in our rooms seemed bizarrely out of place, and we wondered how they fitted with an emphasis on empowering and encouraging the local people. Was this just another example of something good and well-intentioned that had failed to engage effectively with the very people it was provided for?

One striking feature of Indian life is their capacity for leaving everything seemingly half finished. All over Kaza, as elsewhere on this trip, there were buildings going up, a rush responding to the continued influx of tourists and their love for ‘homestays’. But it was often difficult to tell which buildings were newly constructed, which were still being built and which had been built some time ago, but left with protruding iron rods or concrete pillars. Perhaps, though, looking at it through another lens, it is us Westerners, with our fixation on having making everything neat and tidy – on having to have everything resolved and tied up – who are the foolish ones. Why spend thousands of pounds finishing off your house, then spend thousands more to take off the roof, insert reinforcement beams and add a dormer when you decide you want to expand? Surely it is far better just to leave it ready to add to once you can afford to do so? And perhaps the same is true of our philosophies, science and religion: we do so love to have everything explained, neatly packaged and complete. Perhaps we in the West could learn something from our Indian brothers and sisters about leaving things unresolved, mysterious and open-ended.

And then there was the row of western toilets Lois and I came across as we wandered across the fields from Kaza. Someone had obviously decided to build a tourist camp on the plateau above the river. They had got as far as putting in the plumbing and the toilet bowls, but clearly run out of money or drive, so they sat, each on a concrete plinth, beneath the wide, blue sky, ready for another season, another day…

As with Laji’s musings on what his Christianity could possibly bring to these people, so, too, with a more secular community development project. While both may bring some benefit to individuals (and, perhaps, even great benefit to a great many people), real, lasting change cannot rely on individual charismatic personalities; it has to start with the people, with listening; with walking the long, hard road with them; with breaking out of our own preconceptions of what is good or right for others.

October 21, 2019October 21, 2019

Saints with human faces

Travels in Himachal Pradesh III: Saints with human faces

One of the benefits of growing up in Hong Kong, having worked in Cambodia, and my long association with the Mission Servants to Asia’s Urban Poor, is the number of inspiring people I have been privileged to know: modern-day saints who have given of themselves in the service of others.

Sheila and Laji are two such people. Both from South India, they met and married at medical school in Ludhiana. Shortly after qualifying, they moved to Manali to fill a gap left by the departure of the resident physician at the local mission hospital. That was forty years ago. Laji – an energetic and engaging character – recounts how they had a six-month handover during which he was taught to do everything – general medicine, infectious diseases, surgery, anaesthesia, orthopaedics, gynaecology. As the sole resident doctors and with no tertiary hospital to refer to, they just had to cope with whatever came their way. For many of their patients – some of whom had trekked for days on foot or donkey back to reach them – they knew that, no matter how unqualified they felt, if they did nothing, the patient would die.

And so they stayed on in this remote part of Northern India, learning on the job, making do with whatever limited resources they had, and trusting that somehow their efforts would make a difference to at least some of those who came to them.

As we travelled through the Spiti Valley, it soon became clear just how much of a difference they have made to so many people’s lives. Everywhere we went, people would come up and greet them warmly and Laji would tell us how they had helped them: ‘I treated that woman’s brother for meningitis’ or ‘this person was brought to us as a child with intestinal obstruction’. For some, the outcomes had been less favourable: adults with cancers for which no treatment was available; those with advanced tuberculosis which had spread throughout their bodies; or alcohol-related liver disease. Or the woman who had trekked three days across the snow-covered passes to Manali, carrying her child wrapped warmly on her back, only to find that the child had died on the way.

Our landlady in Mane, was one of the more fortunate ones. Laji had first met this wonderful couple when he had come trekking in the Spiti Valley. J had been his guide and, at the end of the trek, had asked Laji if he could take a look at his wife, S, who was unwell. Laji had diagnosed peritonitis with advanced shock, but with no medical equipment to hand felt very pessimistic about the outcome.

At that time, Mane had no road or bridge connecting it to the outside world. So they had set out along a narrow track up the valley, S on donkey back. Several kilometres up there was a cable basket crossing to the road on the other side. There they were able to flag down a passing truck to Kaza where Laji was able to beg some IV fluids to mitigate some of the effects of shock. They then hired a jeep to take them the arduous 200km journey over the Kunzum and Rohtang passes to Manali.

Remarkably, S survived, though left infertile as a result. She and her husband were wonderful hosts during our two days in Mane.

For me, those two days were really the highlight of the trip. Mane is a beautiful village, nestling in a small valley on the South side of the main Spiti river. The village itself is surrounded by small fields and groves of golden poplar trees. In spite of a steady increase in prosperity since the building of the road – the valley here is a prime area for growing peas which are now exported as a cash crop to the rest of India – the village retains some of its charm and a way of life that has existed for centuries. Until recently all the homes were traditional Tibetan houses of mud and wattle, each with its store of cow dung for burning in the tandoor stove that heated the one room for cooking, eating, sitting and sleeping.

That morning we went for a walk over to the next village. Strolling out through the small paddies, we stopped to watch two of the villagers ploughing a field with a pair of Choru (a robust cross between a yak and a Jersey cow). As they ploughed, the farmer sung a repetitive chant to encourage the beasts as they broke up the hard, dry soil. And then, cutting across the serenity of the scene, as though to remind us that Western ‘progress’ infiltrates everywhere, the grating sound of the Nokia theme tune broke the stillness of the rural life.

Once ploughed, teams of donkeys carried huge sacks of cow dung to spread over the fields as fertilizer, and they would then be left, ready for planting once the snows melt in the spring.

However, that way of life is slowly changing. Increasing prosperity and education have meant that many of the young people in these villages travel to the big cities for college. Having tasted a different way of life, too many no longer want to return to the harshness of this remote existence at the edge of civilisation. At the same time, the wealth brought by their cash crops and by tourism has prospered the village and resulted in a building spree. Only now, rather than using the traditional methods and local materials, the homes being built are grand brick and concrete mansions, constructed with cheap Bihari labour, and altering the picturesque feel of the place.

Sheila had described Mane as an ‘Asterix’ village, with narrow stone-walled lanes connecting all the little dwellings. In contrast, one of the saddest things I saw was one area of fields and poplar groves surrounded by a concrete wall topped by a barbed wire fence. A village where once everyone knew and trusted each other now succumbing to greed and suspicion.

How I would love to see some way in which these remote villages could enjoy the benefits of progress – good health care, education, and easing of their harsh existence, without all the negative trappings of greed, mistrust and exploitation that seem to go with it; for the people of these valleys to be able to live in harmony with their environment, tradition and culture, rather than embracing wholesale our Western materialism.

And, as I reflect on the damage caused to this traditional way of life, I have to acknowledge my own complicity in these fractures of our world.

October 20, 2019

In the heights of the Himalayas

Travels in Himachal Pradesh II: In the heights of the Himalayas

Once before, 30 years ago, I experienced the agonies of altitude sickness. While trekking in the Karakoram Mountains with Helen, our guide had taken us up far too quickly. I can still recall the intense headache, nausea and shortness of breath I felt then.

This time, fortunately, I was spared the headache and most of the nausea, but the thinness of the air still left me feeling breathless on any exertion. Even taking off a sweater, cleaning my teeth or getting up to move to the other side of the room left me panting for ages afterwards.

Up here at 14,000 feet, the air was not only thin and dry, but bitterly cold. I was very grateful for the efficient thermals I’d brought as well as the thick Tibetan quilt on our beds.

Nothing, though, could taint the awesome beauty of snow-capped mountains in the golden glow of the rising dawn.

‘Glancing back in the twilight at the huge ridges behind him and the faint, thin line of the road whereby they had come, he would lay out, with a hillman’s generous breadth of vision, fresh marches for the morrow; or, halting in the neck of some uplifted pass that gave on Spiti and Kulu, would stretch out his hands yearningly towards the high snows of the horizon. In the dawns they flared windy-red above stark blue, as Kedarnath and Badrinath – kings of that wilderness – took the first sunlight. All day long they lay like molten silver under the sun, and at evening put on their jewels again.’

Rudyard Kipling, Kim

The next day, Friday, we went on even further to the remote village of Tashigang, where we were welcomed into one of the three homes in the village for a warming, sweet glass of chai, once more with the beneficent face of the Dalai Lama smiling upon us. The villagers here live simple lives: farming; collecting dung and brushwood for their fires; maintaining their homes. But they face their challenges too: long winters, cut off from the rest of the world; minimal and remote healthcare; hard manual labour. It is perhaps easy to idealise a way of life of which we see just a tiny picturesque snapshot. The harshness, though, is perhaps etched into the deeply lined faces of the old men and women remaining in these tiny villages.

Laji and Sheila have been coming to the Spiti Valley for over 30 years now and it seemed they knew or had treated someone from every remote village and hamlet, and were welcomed warmly wherever we went. The mountains around Chichim, Kibber and Tashigang are known for their wild Himalayan Blue Sheep, Ibex and Snow Leopards. Sadly, we didn’t see any while we were there, but we were treated to the majestic soaring of a golden eagle as we made our way along the steep-sided gorge of the Spiti river below.

Gradually this striking gorge opened out into a wide glacial valley, the rushing river winding its way along the flat bed of the valley, and, on the slopes above, irrigated fields, villages and groves of trees brought a freshness and life to the otherwise harsh, barren wilderness.

‘At last they entered a world within a world – a valley of leagues where the high hills were fashioned of a mere rubble and refuse from off the knees of the mountains. Here one day’s march carried them no farther, it seemed, than a dreamer’s clogged pace bears him in a nightmare. They skirted a shoulder painfully for hours, and, behold, it was but an outlying boss in an outlying buttress of the main pile! A rounded meadow revealed itself, when they had reached it, for a vast tableland running far into the valley. Three days later, it was a dim fold in the earth to southward.

“Surely the Gods live here!” said Kim, beaten down by the silence and the appalling sweep and dispersal of the cloud-shadows after rain. “This is no place for men!”’

Rudyard Kipling, Kim

We stopped for lunch in the town of Kaza – the main administrative and commercial centre of the Spiti valley. Here we met up with Jo Smith – a Kiwi friend of Lois. A teacher by background, Jo came to Kaza seven years ago and has lived here ever since – the only foreigner resident in this isolated town. Jo lives a simple life and is entirely self-sufficient. Although she has never learnt Hindi, Jo has set up a small play room, where the children of the town and surrounding villages can come after school – a safe and stimulating place with games, puzzles, arts and crafts, and the opportunity to learn basic English and numeracy in a fun environment. For these children life is harsh, with few opportunities just to enjoy being children. Somehow Jo has also won the trust of the local government teachers and officials and will go and help in the government schools too, teaching English, supporting the teachers, befriending the children, and – slowly – challenging the deficits in the quality of education and the deeply ingrained use of harsh corporal punishment in the schools.

Leaving Kaza – we would return two days later – our final stretch of the day took us further down the Spiti river before crossing over and climbing a short way to the beautiful village of Mane. Here we were welcomed into the luxurious home of Jeet, the local district commissioner, and his wife, Samten, where we were to enjoy a well-earned respite from our two long days of travelling.

October 19, 2019October 19, 2019

Rohtang Pass

Travels in Himachal Pradesh I: Rohtang Pass

We set off shortly before 8. With seven of us in a 12-seater van, it was comfortable enough, though perhaps not the height of luxury. We did, however, feel a bit insecure – particularly knowing the sorts of roads we would be travelling on – without any seatbelts to strap us in. Driving on Indian mountain roads teaches you new layers of trust and you can certainly understand how people live their lives with an acceptance of fate as the dominant principle. Later, as we careered around hairpin bends and along precipitous cliff edges, we had to put our trust in the skill and alertness of our driver; to hope and pray; and not to pay too much attention to the cavernous drops below us.

Still, it was gentle enough to start with. As we made our way out of Manali on the Mountain Road, the streets were lined with hire shops offering ski suits, winter coats, boots and ‘dangres’ (dungarees spelt out as pronounced in this part of the world!) for the many tourists who go up to the Rohtang Pass to experience the snow.

Laji told us that the local government issues a maximum of 1,500 passes a day for vehicles taking tourists to the Pass. It felt as though most of these were travelling up with us as we snaked our way up the head of the Kullu valley.

The drive up through the lush orchards and pine forests above Manali was pleasant. As we climbed, the valley got steeper, with some impressive waterfalls cascading down the cliffs on the other side. As we came up above the tree line, we passed a police check point and continued to climb, zig-zagging up towards the Pass. Near the top we drove through a large bazaar of Dhabas, complete with huge vultures circling above, seeking out the scraps of discarded food. And then we were up in the snow and the first of many traffic jams, as large convoys of vehicles tried to force their way past each other while tourist jeeps and vans lined both sides of the narrow road as their occupants delighted in the novelty of snow.

Leaving all that behind, we topped the Pass and an amazing panorama opened up before us: the long ranges of the Lesser and Greater Himalayas stretching out to our left and our right, and a single deep valley into which we must descend. This valley, running East to West was so different to that up which we had just come. The lush, green slopes of the Kullu valley were replaced by the dry barren rock of the Lahaul valley. There was a harsh power to this place that carried a different form of grandeur.

Above them, still enormously above them, earth towered away towards the snow-line, where from east to west across hundreds of miles, ruled as with a ruler, the last of the bold birches stopped. Above that, in scarps and blocks upheaved, the rocks strove to fight their heads above the white smother. Above these again, changeless since the world’s beginning, but changing to every mood of sun and cloud, lay out the eternal snow. – Rudyard Kipling, Kim

We began our descent, switching back and forth slowly down the icy road. Part way down we had to pause as a long convoy of army trucks inched its was up towards the Pass behind us. And then, a little lower down, our whole descending convoy ground to a halt. A huge yellow crane had got itself stuck trying to negotiate a bend. It didn’t have enough traction in the slippery mud to lift its massive weight up the road and was just digging itself deeper and deeper into a rut.

All traffic both ways was stopped.

A small army crane had managed to get above and attach a live with which it was trying to winch the larger crane free. We watched as they struggled together to free the monster.

Realising we would be here for some time, I decided to walk down the road past the blockage and climbed off to the side to sit on a large rock and watch the proceedings. Eventually they managed to get it free. Rather than pull aside to let the opposing rows of vehicles past, however, it continued to struggle up the road, only to meet the next spot where its wheels just spun in the mud and its huge weight slipped back down.

Eventually, though, the traffic started to move and I climbed down from my rock to join Lois, Amanda and Shelia who had also decided to walk down the road. We carried on some way down until I spotted a nice little valley running down to join the road further down, just below the junction where we were to turn off towards Spiti. Lois and I found a path down beside a clear Alpine stream while Sheila and Amanda stayed on the road. We reached the bottom of the valley just as our van turned the far corner and pulled over to pick us up: perfect timing, and a wonderful leg stretch and respite from sitting in the van; a respite we were to truly appreciate by the end of the day.

The road to Chichim

We were now in the remote Lahaul Valley. Until the 1960’s accessible only by foot and pack pony. Even now we encountered occasional caravans of ponies making their way up to the Pass behind us.

At this point nearly all of the traffic continued West and North on the main road through to Keylong, Leh, and on to Srinigar in the disputed regions of Jammu and Kashmir. We, however, turned East dropping down to the Chandra river. As we came down the river we passed three glorious groves of Himalayan Birches shimmering golden in the autumn sun.

The colours here in the valley were so different to those around Manali: all browns, sienna, ochre, russet and red. And, in contrast, the rich teal of the clear mountain river reflecting the cloudless skies above.

We stopped at a small Dhaba at Chhatru for a welcome lunch of omelette, chapatis and daal, and then set out on one of the most unpleasant stretches of road I have ever been on: 44km of unsurfaced track through terrain made up of glacial riverbed stones. Every bump of the van jolted through our spines to our necks in a repeated frenzy of whiplash.

By the time we stopped at the Batal Dhaba for a much-needed glass of chai, the combination of the altitude, diesel fumes, and the jolting of the car had left me feeling nauseated, aching, and starting to struggle with shortness of breath.

After Batal the road continued in the same condition up and up to the Kunzum Pass at 4551m. From here, mercifully, the road itself improved – at least as far as the surface went, and we made much better distance dropping down to the Spiti river at Losar.

After having our passes checked, we carried on down the Spiti valley. As darkness fell, the valley looked ethereal in the moonlight; the dark silhouettes of the mountains rising up on either side, and strange eroded rock shapes rising like pedestals from the valley floor.

One final climb in pitch darkness brought us to the small village of Chichim – at around 14,000 feet one of the highest settlements in the world to be reachable by car, and the highest I have ever been on land. The air here was thin, dry and cold, and the stars above us bright and clear. We were met at the roadside by our host, Chenzing. We carried our bags down a short, steep path to his home, a most appreciated meal by a warm cow dung-heated tandoor stove, presided over by a 2017 calendar of the Dalai Lama, and a very welcome bed.

October 9, 2019

Himalayan rain

Rain

We woke to rain: the steady dripping of water on the tin roof outside, water flowing down the earthen footpaths, and the hills on the other side of the valley shrouded in cloud. Some time in the early hours of the morning, the fireworks of the Dusshera festival had given way to the thunder and torrential rain of autumn. It may be outside the monsoon season, but these high valleys can still capture the huge downpours as the thick clouds of the Northern plains climb up the steep slopes of the Western Himalayas.

Our first two days in Manali had been dry and clear, giving us wonderful views of the valley and the mountains beyond, complete with a fresh covering of snow on the higher peaks.

The dangerous beers of Manali

After our long bus journey, and revived by a welcome breakfast, shower and late morning doze, we had taken a stroll up above the town through climbing orchards abundant with apples, up and up to the thick forests beyond. It was a steep climb, and we took it gently as we gradually adjusted to the thinner air. Eventually we came to a clearing and a fork in the path – one way seeming to go back down to the river above Manali, and the other carrying on up into the forest. We were about to take the higher path when we heard someone behind us frantically calling us and gesticulating to us not to go that way: ‘no, no, you must not go there, there are beers. I have seen beer shit. They like the apples and they are very dangerous.’ Eventually when he started talking about the ‘brown beers’ and ‘black beers’ we clicked that he may be referring to the furry, four-footed creatures that live in these mountains. So, reluctantly we took his advice and, after a short rest, made our way back down the way we’d come. On our way down we did, indeed, see evidence of the bears, remnants of their apple feast clearly visible in their deposits on the path.

The next day, too, was spent relaxing at the Aadisha retreat house, enjoying the peace and quiet of the place, sitting half-way up the hillside overlooking Manali. We did take a stroll into the town and round the little ‘wildlife’ park, but didn’t encounter any mammalian wildlife other than a few cows, some stray dogs, and a monkey. We did however spot a yellow-billed, long-tailed magpie and some dippers by the river. And a variety of Himalayan pheasants in rather sad-looking cages.

Encounters with a stove

Our plan for today had been to retrace our footsteps of the first day and go further up (defying the bears) into the forests. But those plans were scuppered by the steady, persistent rain. We resolved to spend the day quietly instead: reading, knitting, and relaxing. Half way through the morning, we were all starting to feel quite chilly, sitting in the large main room at Aadisha. So we decided to light a fire in the wonderful iron stove. We found some kindling, wood and matches and confidently lit the fire. Gradually the room filled with smoke. Smoke was billowing out of every gap in the furnace and metal chimney. Fortunately it wasn’t long before the housemaid arrived and showed us how to separate the stove from the flue, whereupon we were able to extract the solid Mynah’s nest that had filled the whole of the long metal pipe. The fire started to draw and soon was generating a wonderful heat to counteract the cold draughts we had needed to blow away all the accumulated smoke from the room.

What may or may not come to pass

Unfortunately, the clouds that had brought us Himalayan rain, higher up had brought further falls of snow, including a thick covering blocking the road at Rohtang Pass. Laji had planned for six of us (Lois and me, Laji and Sheila, and two other friends of theirs) to be picked up at 6 the following morning, to drive up to the Pass (3,978m) and on down the other side for breakfast at the little village of Chattra, before continuing up to the Kunzum Pass (4,551m) and so to the Spiti Valley.

With the Rohtang Pass closed, we have had to change our itinerary. Currently Laji’s plan is to take the longer Southern Road through Kinnaur and the Rupa Valley and so approach the Spiti Valley from the East by Tibet. Whether that will come to pass we wait and see.

Still, even Himalayan clouds may have their silver lining, as we won’t be heading off at 6am tomorrow.

October 8, 2019

Night bus to Manali

Indira Gandhi International Airport

I flew in from Birmingham to Terminal 3; Lois, having spent a week with her daughter and family in South India, to Terminal 1. Miraculously, both our flights arrived on time and we managed to meet up – without the benefit of mobile communication as, being a Sunday, I couldn’t get an activated local SIM card – at 3pm as scheduled, outside the arrivals’ hall of Terminal 1C. A taxi ride across Delhi brought us both to Mandi House and the bus terminus for the Himachal Pradesh express.

The restaurant served meals from 12-3 and 8-10pm, which wasn’t particularly helpful as our bus left at 6.30, but they did manage to provide us with a coffee and later an omelette sandwich while we waited.

The night bus

The bus was comfortable enough with reclining seats and enough leg room, though the back of the seat had a ridge in the wrong place for a 6’2” person, sitting just below my shoulders, and the helpful leg rest had a nasty habit of suddenly breaking free of its catch to swing up and catch me unawares at the back of my calves. Still, we were together, and we were on our way.

As we crawled northwards through the Delhi traffic, I delved into my George Eliot novel, trying (somewhat unsuccessfully) to ward off sleep for now. The juxtaposition of early 19^th century rural England with 21^st century New Delhi was somewhat incongruous. Though, perhaps not too outrageously so, as Eliot’s descriptions of her characters’ corrupt and intimidating electioneering tactics wasn’t too far removed from some of the events I have previously seen reported in Indian newspapers in the run up to their elections.

As I nodded off and Lois helpfully rescued my Kindle from my knees, we gradually broke free of the congestion of Delhi to the somewhat freer-flowing highway north. Two hours in and we stopped at the ‘70 mile’ Dhaba for a toilet break and a delicious and sustaining Masala Dosa, before settling once more into our seats and surrendering to a fitful, jolting sleep.

Sometime after midnight we started climbing out of the plains and I sat up for a while, watching the lights of the towns below us recede to be replaced by those of scattered dwellings in the villages above. One has to marvel at the courage and tenacity of these Indian bus drivers as they career along the roads, dodging (or not) potholes, wandering cows, slower trucks, motorbikes and tuk tuks, and the blazing full-beam headlights of the oncoming traffic. They bring a new meaning to the concept of the double-blind experiment as one would, honking loudly, swerve to overtake a heavily-laden truck, overtaking another heavily-laden truck as all three veer round a hidden bend in the road. Perhaps it was just as well to re-cover my eyes with my eye shield and trust that ‘all shall be well’ as I gently dozed off again.

By two thirty we were bumping and winding too furiously to sleep as we started to climb higher into the mountains. I sat there listening to the cacophony of snores filling the coach, the part-empty water bottles rolling backwards and forwards across the floor with each new hairpin bend, and the frequent honking of a horn as we overtook, were overtaken, or met something coming the other way in a narrow stretch of the road. I must, though, have dozed a little more, as the next thing I knew it was starting to get light and the dark shadows around our coach gradually emerged into a deep, wooded valley, our coach traversing a precarious rock-hewn highway, with a wide and eventually cobalt-blue river far below us. The remnants of landslides and fallen rocks, the ongoing patches of road maintenance and the road works for a new, faster highway all added to the interest of the journey, and our driver deftly negotiated them all. The towns and villages sprawling along the length of the road were gradually coming to life, with several Dhabas open for business, numerous processions of young men carrying local deities down from the mountains for their annual re-consecration, a large flock of goats and sheep being herded by their shepherds, with pack-ponies carrying their goods and some of the younger baby kids. On the other side of the valley isolated dwellings, terraced fields, and the occasional monastery or temple stretched up the steep slopes, connected by defiant swing bridges or cable baskets.

Manali

And so, at eight-thirty we pulled into Manali’s muddy coach park near the head of the beautiful Kullu valley. The town with its packed-in jumble of buildings meandered up both sides of the valley and, high above, our first glimpses of Himalayan peaks shifting into the clouds.

May 3, 2018

Ooty to Marlimund Lake: a walk in the Nilgiris

The jungle

The metaphor of a jungle seems to fit India really well: a tangled mass of life, jostling upwards. Chaotic, vibrant, dark, mysterious. After a flight and a three hour taxi ride, we had replaced the hot urban jungle of Delhi, with the cooler but equally chaotic human jungle that is Ooty. The climb itself echoed the frantic struggles of life in India. While the dark jungle stretched, impenetrable, on either side of the road, our taxi driver joined the countless other trucks, buses, jeeps and motorbikes careering around the hairpin bends, fighting for that extra few inches of road space.

The tourist season had started and Ooty was heaving. Vehicles honked their way round Charing Cross, and crowds of people flocked to the botanical gardens and the evening Tibetan market at its side: colour, noise, laughter, life.

Our second day dawned bright and clear, the oppressive thunderstorms of the night before swept away by a cooling breeze. We had decided to seek out Marlimund lake – a small reservoir 6km to the North West of Ooty. Setting off from Jo and Mark’s house just up past Modern Stores, we climbed up a short lane to the YWCA Guest House Road, and so to the main Snowdon Road. As we climbed we marvelled at the cacophony of colours on the houses clinging to Ooty’s steep slopes: violet and pink, turquoise, red, purple and blue, orange, green, yellow – a frightening assault on our aesthetic senses.

The Snowdon Road itself zigzagged upwards, past faded colonial bungalows, new air-conditioned tourist resorts, and a host of other dilapidated buildings. In typical Indian fashion, Shiva and Ganesha, Mary and Jesus sat side by side in neighbouring roadside shrines and chapels. The bustle of the city gradually gave way to a more open, gentle ambience, just as the breeze blew away the rancid dust and grime of the inevitable piles of uncleared rubbish. We looked back over the sweeping spread of the Ooty valley, and ahead to the rolling hill country, brown terraces waiting for planting with the next rotation of carrots, potatoes and leafy vegetables. Further afield patches of tea plantations shared the space with spreading forests of eucalyptus.

Reaching Marlimund, we found a small gate off the road and scrambled down to the water’s edge, enjoying a snack and admiring the beauty of some simple water lilies, their pure white flowers, just tinged with purple and a splash of yellow stamens. It was good to sit there, enjoying the cool breeze, the clear skies, and the stillness of the countryside. We managed to find a way around the lake, appreciating the soft grass under our feet and the beauty of the scene. Not a soul was in sight as we walked – just us, some cows, and the wonders of nature. Countless melodies burst forth from the surrounding natural aviary. We were hampered by the absence of a bird book or binoculars, but nevertheless identified egrets, a wagtail, and the charming red-whiskered bulbuls, their little black crests sticking up proudly as they sang. We wandered up to the head of the lake and stretching valleys of eucalyptus, before picking our way through gorse bushes and reed marshes to return on the other side. Sitting on the grass, beside the lake, we paused once more, savouring the stillness, before setting off once more to head back.

We found a little paved track just beyond Sunrise – an old colonial residence lavishly restored to something of its former glory – which brought us down to the Havelock Road, and a quiet, gentle meander back to the waiting jungle of Ooty.