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.