I have decided that the way to get through these two weeks
in quarantine is to be disciplined.
Being confined to our hotel room for two weeks it would be
all too easy to become languid and while away the days through sleeping,
eating, drinking, reading and watching mindless TV. But no, that is not in my
(or Lois’) nature, so a clear routine is called for, along with a defined set
of achievable (but stretching) tasks.
So far, allowing for a minor jet-lag effect, we are on track.
The plan:
Get up early and listen to the (world/UK) news
with a cup of tea
Spend some time in prayer and contemplation
A 40-minute slot walking round the pool-deck exercise
yard
Breakfast
Spend the morning on academic pursuits
Mid-morning excursion to the lobby to indulge in
a barista coffee (brought back to our room for consumption though)
Continue my academic work
Lunch
Cup of tea and a siesta, preceded by jointly
reading a chapter of To the Land of Long Lost Friends (Alexander McCall
Smith’s latest Mma Ramotswe novel)
Some more gentle academic reading in the
afternoon
Mid-afternoon cup of tea and a puzzle or two
Write and publish the day’s blog
Watch the evening (New Zealand) news with a
pre-prandial glass of wine
Supper and a glass of wine
Short excursion to the ground-floor exercise
yard
Relaxing evening playing a game of Ticket to
Ride/Bananagrams or watching a Brit-Box or i-Player film/documentary/comedy (with
another glass of wine for good measure)
To bed and fall asleep reading the latest
chapter of my novel (currently The Plague by Albert Camus – very topical!)
We’ll see how it goes – watch this space!
(PS hopefully Lois’ expectation isn’t too much at odds with this!)
I realised, after posting yesterday’s blog, that I’d got it
wrong, and we were actually still on day zero. The New Zealand quarantine
regulations stipulate that those entering the country must spend a minimum of
336 hours in managed isolation – which might conjure up an image of all those
troops of corona viruses carefully synchronising their watches before setting
out to invade an unsuspecting traveller: 336 hours; 20,160 minutes; 1,209,600
seconds.
With that in mind, the earliest we will be allowed to leave
this hotel will be 12.20pm on Thursday 10th December, exactly 336
hours after our flight – EK448 – touched down at Auckland international
airport.
The flight itself had been remarkably comfortable, even if
rather long. New Zealand is a long way from the UK, so it always takes a long
time. And this time it seemed longer than usual, given an 8-hour stop over in
Dubai and a further brief stopover in Kuala Lumpur. Checking in at Birmingham
airport was a strange experience – never have I seen the airport so empty, and
once checked in, we whisked through security to wait for our flight.
The first two legs had been daytime flights, and I took the opportunity to read, in its entirety, a book on safeguarding in the Church of England for my PhD. That, and two inspiring but challenging films: Harriet – the true story of Harriet Tubman, an escaped slave who went on to rescue dozens of slaves, leading them to freedom along the underground railroad in 19th century USA; and Ken Loach’s latest film – Sorry We Missed You – a harrowing story of a family struggling with the gig economy. The reality of life for so many families living on the edge, and now made worse by the pandemic and lockdown, is something that is hard to face.
Once again, I have been left with that unanswerable question – why am I so privileged while others have to live with such inequity?
The last stretch of our journey was a night flight, and I lowered the tone somewhat by watching Charlie’s Angels, for a bit of mindless escapism. With a nearly empty plane, Lois and I were both able to stretch out on two separate rows of seats for as good a sleep as one can possibly expect on a flight. This pandemic may not be good for the airline industry, but it does make for more comfortable flying.
So here we are, properly completing day one of our quarantine. Refreshed by a good night’s sleep. Engaged by a day of reading, writing and a little bit of arithmetic thrown in. 28 hours down. Only another 308 to go. 😊
So, after 39 hours’ travelling, we have arrived in New Zealand
and are lodged in the hotel room that will be our sole living space for the
next two weeks.
Getting here in these times of Covid has not been
straightforward. Having avoided the worst of the pandemic, New Zealand Aotearoa
is keen to stay that way, so is only allowing New Zealand citizens into the
country – and, fortunately for me, their spouses. To board a flight you are
required to have a managed isolation certificate from the NZ government
specifying the date of arrival and flight number.
We set our dates, booked our quarantine and our flights –
with Lufthansa, via Zurich and Hong Kong. Within 24 hours they’d cancelled the
flight to Zurich, and with no alternative we had to rebook – this time with
British Airways/Cathay Pacific via Hong Kong. Two weeks before we were due to
travel, they, too, cancelled the first leg of the flight. So, after a bit more
scrabbling around we found new flights with Emirates, via Dubai. The only
problem being that our managed isolation certificate still showed the old
Cathay Pacific flight number.
And there was a glitch in the system. New Zealand
immigration told us they couldn’t change the flight number and that we just had
to persuade the airline to let us on board and all would be well once we
arrived on Kiwi soil. Emirates, meanwhile, were adamant they wouldn’t let us
board without the correct flight number on the certificate.
Less than 24 hours before we were due to leave, the NZ
authorities fixed the glitch and we got our updated certificate. So, armed with
that, our passports and marriage certificate (which proved essential for
proving my legitimacy to enter the country), we finally boarded our flight.
And here we are – tired, isolated, and very pleased to be here.
It is a fine, crisp February morning. I am sitting at my desk, looking out on the garden at Breathing Space. Outside, a large family of long-tailed tits vies with other (blue and great) tits, robins, a chaffinch, and some gold finches for space at the many bird feeders scattered around.
A week ago, I was sitting in the assessment unit at
Walsgrave Hospital with nothing like the same inspiring view.
I have now lived through two life-threatening incidents,
both of which could have been fatal. Eight and a half years ago, while cycling
from Land’s End to John-o-Groats, a mini-stroke caused by a carotid dissection put
me in hospital with a loss of speech and paralysis of the right side of my
body. Last week, it was unstable angina caused by a near-complete blockage of
one of my main coronary arteries. On both occasions I have been up and about
and back home within days.
So, with all that in the background, and feeling good to be
alive and at home, I walked our labyrinth on Sunday. And as I did so, the
question came to mind:
Why am I still here?
The obvious, pragmatic answer is because I just happen to be living in the UK in the early 21st century. As a result of which, I can enjoy all the benefits of a functioning health system, advances in medical care, and a National Health Service which, for all its struggles, continues to provide excellent health care, freely accessible to all, and delivered by competent, compassionate and caring staff. I am one of the privileged few – something I don’t ever want to take for granted.
Another, equally pragmatic, answer would be that (in spite of some rather dodgy cardiovascular genes) the healthy, active lifestyle I have led has made me resilient to these fairly major knocks to my health. While I haven’t attempted any other long-distance cycle rides, I do keep active and manage a reasonable amount of gentle exercise several times a week; I eat and drink in moderation; and I have never smoked, so perhaps I am still moderately fit. Indeed, in spite of a bit of middle-aged spread around my waist, the ECG technician last week described my torso as ‘a perfect specimen’! Admittedly, that was in the context of wanting a model on which to teach a student how to position the ECG leads, but I’m happy to accept the accolade.
But of course, neither of those answers really get to the
heart of the question.
I have pondered it frequently over the past few days, and I’m
not convinced there is any really meaningful answer.
It doesn’t make sense to put it in terms of merit: if, somehow,
I had done something that meant I deserved to go on living, then it implies
that my wife, Helen, who died unexpectedly eight years ago, somehow didn’t
deserve it; and that makes no sense.
Another way of looking at it would be to conclude that God
(whoever or whatever God may be) somehow ‘hasn’t finished with me yet’ or has
some further purpose for me in this life. To me, that seems both theologically
and psychologically suspect and doesn’t fit well with my perception of who God
is. It seems to me that such a conclusion conveys a very utilitarian view of
God, who only values us for what we contribute, rather than loving us for who we
are. That puts a lot of pressure on me to go through the rest of my life trying
to figure out what that purpose is, and living with the worry that if I don’t
get it, God may suddenly decide to take my life away.
So, putting aside those philosophical/theological musings, I
rather like Snoopy’s approach to the questions of life and death:
And, with that perspective, perhaps the question is not so
much, ‘Why am I still alive?’ But ‘How will I live the rest of my life?’
I think, perhaps, I need another wander round our labyrinth
with that…
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.
Sutlej Valley
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.
Waiting for the goats
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.
Jhibi Clinic
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.
Travels in Himachal Pradesh V: The world’s most treacherous road
The world’s most treacherous road?
From Kaza the Spiti river winds for miles Eastwards towards Tibet through steep narrow gorges, interspersed with all too brief openings of wider, fertile valleys. This sixth day of our trip was to be one of the longest, most challenging and most inspiring.
Above us, the rocky mountains towered unbelievably high, stretching up to the clear blue skies. Huge scree slopes with impossible paths traced across them alternated with enormous rocky outcrops. It was as though nature itself was challenging humankind to defy it. These mountains that had taken millennia to form, thrust up from the very foundations of the earth.
And humans had risen to the challenge.
Our road tracked along the side of the river: sometimes cutting through hard rocks close to the river bed itself, at other times, rising high above it in multiple bends to overcome the sheer rock faces rising above the raging torrents.
A steep climb in the Spiti Valley
After a stop for breakfast and a visit to the home of a student from the school Laji and Sheila had established in Manali, now a primary teacher in a small school in Tabo, we carried on Eastwards to the checkpoint at Sumdo. Here, the river turned south, skirting the Tibetan border and continuing down through ever more challenging gorges.
Signs along the side of the road proudly proclaimed this to be ‘the world’s most treacherous road’. And, to complement, this, the Border Roads Organisation (BRO) had commissioned a series of road safety signs, all bearing the signature Deepak. Whoever Deepak is, he clearly loves playing with words, so we were treated to a host of amusing philosophical musings, puns and rhymes:
‘Always Alert, Avoid Accidents’
‘After whisky, driving risky’
‘A cat has nine lives, you only have one’
‘Stay alert, accidents hurt’
Once again, we had to marvel at the skill of our driver, and that of the countless other tourist vans, army vehicles, trucks and buses, as they made their way along this awesome highway. The BRO is working hard on a highway improvement scheme, gradually transforming this unsurfaced, single track road into a wide two-lane highway. But most of it remains single track (without passing places), and much either untarmacked or undergoing grading and surfacing. The most unbelievable incidents came when two vehicles met on one of these stretches. It is amazing just how narrow a road two large trucks can pass on, particularly where there is no clear edge to the road, a sheer cliff rising above you (and often overhanging above you) on one side, and an equally sheer cliff dropping down to the tumbling river far below. It is a wonder there aren’t more tragedies along these roads.
There seem to be three main occupations in the Spiti Valley: growing fruit and vegetables for export (the cool, high altitudes particularly favouring apples and peas, which are shipped out each season in trucks piled high with boxes of produce); the tourist industry, with all the restaurants, hotels and home-stays, tour experiences, and building works to support it; and road maintenance.
The skill of the engineers building and maintaining the roads is quite phenomenal. Each winter, the harsh temperature (dropping to -30°C or less), snows and rock falls wreak their havoc on the existing roads, so from April to October, there is a constant programme of clearing, regrading and surfacing, let alone any upgrading of the main routes. In places, the roadway has been literally chiselled out of a sheer, unforgiving rock face. In others, the challenge is to create a secure surface on the loose shingle of a scree slope.
Part way down the South-flowing route, we were held up for an hour as a huge digger worked to clear a rockfall that had completely blocked the road. We concluded this was a planned part of the upgrading programme, as there were workmen above the road at this point, painstakingly drilling dynamite holes in the solid rock. So much of this treacherous work is done by hand, with ancient pneumatic drills, hammers and stone chisels, all wielded on the sides of these precipitous rocks and with a minimum of safety equipment.
All in a day’s work: a bit of road maintenance
After another police checkpoint, the Spiti river joined the Sutlej river flowing through from Tibet and turned West into the region of Kinnaur. As darkness fell, the landscape gradually transformed, becoming increasingly green as we once more came out of the rain shadow of the lesser Himalayas. The road, too, became easier, with more and more of it paved, mostly wider, and with clear, marked sides. The remote, barren landscape was being replaced by signs of industry and commerce, huge hydro-electric projects, and sprawling towns spreading up the mountain sides, their myriad of lights shining out in the darkness.
Travels in Himachal Pradesh IV: White elephants in Kaza
The glorious colours of Mane
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.
Dhankar Lake
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.
Dhankar Monastery
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…
A row of white elephants?
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.
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
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.
Breaking up the hard, rocky ground
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.
An ‘Asterix’ Village
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.
