Herewith a short, light-hearted look at the recce I did recently in the Himalayas, in readiness for the main event with 41 people which followed about a week later. Perhaps any scholars amongst you (unlikely I know) can ignore the poor spelling, punctuation and grammar. It is after all only the recollections of a grey haired old sod enjoying life! If you know anyone else who’s possibly as equally bored as you must be if you read it all, then please feel free to pass it on.
The morning of Wednesday 23rd June was a pleasant one for me. The thought of an easy tube ride to Heathrow, on account of England playing some other team in a big football competition was a particularly agreeable one. All went well until Hammersmith, by which time the game was over and pubs were emptying. We were joined by four ‘ENGER-LAND’ fans, one of whom was draped in the Cross of St George with matching air horn. His attempts to lighten the mood of the carriage by a continual barrage of ‘Toot toot, toot toot toot, toot toot toot toot, ENGLAND’ failed miserably as did his attempts at conversation, first with a French business man, en route to Heathrow, followed by an attempted chat up of a mature German woman! However, a smile was raised as he prostrated himself on the carriage floor to take photos of a suitcase, painted white with a red cross. Not sure if the owner was an England fan or an enthusiastic amateur first aider. Could have been both I suppose. We were finally left in peace at Osterly to enjoy our free copies of The Standard and Metro. Now, the funny thing is, all four of these guys would have looked more at home ‘meet and greeting’ us at Delhi airport! I then happened to glance into the next carriage, where I spotted the other England fan, sporting his red shirt but looking as if he would have been happier serving you No62 with special fried rice. Hmm!
Steve was at check in before me and had already done his chatting up and had secured two seats with extra leg room. So much room in fact, that even in full horizontal ‘slummock’ mode I was unable to touch the crew seat ahead of me. Such luxury on an eight hour flight. At this point it’s probably appropriate to point out the fact that my mate Steve tends to suffer from a ‘delicate’ tummy on these India trips. The simple act of checking into the Jet Airways desk is enough to set in motion (pardon the pun) what can only be described as a ‘bowel movement extravaganza’ which stays with him in one form or another until he returns to Somerset and some of Sue’s good old fashioned home cooking. Braised bull’s testicles, on a bed of boiled nettles with a lark’s vomit side dip are particular favourites. Followed of course by the ever popular dandelion and dock leaf crumble served with freshly pulled goat’s cream. No wonder he gets ill on all this strange Indian food! I don’t know what Steve’s middle name is, or indeed if he has one at all, but if he’s ever in need of one then I would venture to suggest that the name Steve Squirty Bottom McCullagh has a sufficient air of mystery befitting of a product of one of our fantastic public boarding school regimes!
We took off. We landed; de-planeing to the early morning chill of 30C which fortunately soon left us as the sun rose, taking the mercury with it to a high of 45C. God it was hot. The sort of weather to sweat your nuts off at the mere thought of climbing a set of stairs. Had we have been of the female gender I suspect that we would have been ‘glowing’. We were met at Delhi by our Indian contact Virender Kumar, who Steve has been working with for two years to put this venture together. Virender, a wonderful chap in his forties, is a man of the hills, Manali, to be precise and in the same way that we lowlanders might suffer a bit in the mountains he definitely suffers when he comes down to places like Delhi. Headaches, stuffy nose and so on, a sort of ‘lowtitude’ sickness I guess. Anyway, a couple of paracetamol down the hatch and we were on our way to our first recce appointment at The Ramada Plaza Hotel, the grandeur and opulence of which gave no clue to its former use as a hostel. Dining room, swimming pool and bedrooms checked (somewhat small by normal standards), business cards exchanged and we were off. The once fabulously grand Connaught Place, now a vast building site undergoing a complete, long overdue refurb’ in time (ha ha!) for the Commonwealth Games this October was our next port of call to exchange money in a dingy upstairs Thomas Cook office the like of which I’ve never seen before. A bit of time to kill before our evening train to Amritsar, so keeping to the train theme we headed for the National Rail museum. York it ain’t! Nevertheless, some interesting stuff, in as you can imagine, an ‘as last used condition’ even if that was at least 150 years ago. The model engines on display bore no resemblance to anything I’ve ever seen at the Model Engineer Exhibition or, come to that, in my brother in law’s loft. Close inspection of the souvenir kiosk left me torn between a faded railway tie, a faded railway mug or a faded railway book. I resisted the temptation and bought nothing. A return to Connaught Place for a bit of grub saw Virender leading us towards a lovely looking oriental restaurant offering dim sum and other such delicacies. No doubt very tasty, we shall never know, as our actual goal was the McDonalds next door where we ‘enjoyed’ a sort of spicy pasty thing, French fries and Coke.
And now a new experience for me: early evening, New Delhi railway station. What an adventure. Virender did a deal with a couple of the official red shirted porters to carry our luggage to the right spot on the platform. I couldn’t quite understand why at first, as we both had wheeled luggage. I soon found out why. To drag luggage through this mass of humanity who ate, rested, slept or lived on the station concourse would have been a complete impossibility and any attempt to do so would surely have ended in our premature death! We stood on the platform waiting amongst a mountain of food and drink that, as it turned out was to be our refreshment during the six hour journey to Amritsar. Virender proudly showed us the ‘e’ ticket which guaranteed our seats, 15, 16 and 17 in air conditioned chair (carriage) No1. The train arrived and we joined in the spirit of the occasion by taking part, to the best of our ability, in the quite pointless pushing and shoving exercise that goes on in India whilst boarding any form of public transport. We found our allotted places, heaved our bags onto the luggage rack (bear in mind we were both carrying full bike kit) and flopped down into our seats, looking forward to the journey ahead. Minutes to go and there was a tap on my shoulder. “Excuse me” said a well dressed portly Indian guy, “you are in my seat”. “I think not” said I, confidently looking towards Virender. What followed was an exchange of paperwork and Hindi conversation between the two of them, none of which, obviously, I could understand. I mentioned earlier that Virender is a wonderful chap, which he is, but it must be said that his grip of spoken English is not 100%. As it turns out, his grip of written English is not 100% either. Our A/C 1 was in fact A/C10. The intruder was right; we were in the seats he had reserved for himself and his family. Nothing for it, but to heave the luggage down again and set off for A/C 10. That’s all we needed after over 24 hours without sight of a bed. “Don’t get off the train” said an unidentified urgent voice. Good advice indeed, as no sooner had we started our exodus the train lurched forward towards Amritsar. For those not familiar with Indian trains I will tell you that they are huge, truly monstrous, with several more, always packed to the gunwales, much longer, carriages than anything you’ll ever see in this country. I led the way, walking backwards, my tank bag loaded into a back pack claiming the odd Indian head as I slowly fought my way down the train. Fought is not too strong a word, as not only did we have all the other passengers to contend with but at the end of each carriage is a strongly sprung self closing sliding door which would attempt to separate you from your luggage at every opportunity. Not only that, but the space between the carriages was full of food crates, tea urns, bottled water, blocks of ice, dustbins (two of which I knocked over) and uniformed chai Walla’s trying to make sense of it all. If it was bad for me, then spare a thought for Steve, who in addition to his holdall, had as hand luggage, a huge tank bag, motorcycle jacket, fleece and crash helmet! Virender made it ok with his miniscule day bag. At least half an hour later we reached our Shangri-La, seats 15, 16 and 17 in A/C10. What’s this? Two smiling brown faces looking up at me. Not again surely. I mustered up my best ‘withering look’ as taught over the years by my wife Chrys. The two men got up meekly without a word and slithered off towards A/C11. We collapsed just in time to enjoy the start of a veritable food and drink fest which continued pretty much throughout the entire journey, albeit one part of which could only be described as the ‘not the tomato soup course’. Any similarity was purely coincidental. A first class seat on a journey, equivalent of London to Edinburgh with food and drink provided for the princely sum of £9.00. Not bad eh? One moment of amusement, which did raise a smile; I noticed a mature Indian woman in a pretty, long, mauve outfit returning to her seat after apparently visiting the on board hole in the floor loo. The back of the dress bore substantial evidence of the train having given one of its occasional severe lurches whilst she was probably in ‘mid squat’. Still, no doubt it had dried out by the time we reached Amritsar. Just before reaching Amritsar I became aware that my camera (well actually it belonged to Chrys) was no longer in the side pocket of my cargos, but to be honest, by this time the shutters were coming down and I assumed I’d put it back in the tank bag after taking some shots on Delhi station. I don’t need to tell you the rest do I? I’m pretty sure it got lifted during the bun fight to board the train or during our 3 mile forced march to A/C10. Oh joy, she will be pleased! In truth she was very understanding when I phoned her with the news. Perhaps it was the fact that I also dictated a long list of what to bring and what not to bring next week that took her mind off it.
Although Steve had made Virender aware that we weren’t too bothered where we slept on the recce he had actually booked us into the hotel that will be used for the tour. Namely the Ista, Amritsar’s only 5 star hotel, recently built, alongside a huge European style shopping mall which boasts prices on a par with anything you’d find at Lakeside or Bluewater. We rolled in at 11.50pm totally exhausted. The sight of the bar next to reception put a smile back on our faces, but not for long. It shut at half eleven. Sod it! Thank God I’d had the foresight to buy some ‘medicine’ at Heathrow for just such an eventuality. We headed up to our room where I was somewhat relieved to find that I didn’t actually have to share a bed with McCullagh, a practice I would recommend to no one, having had to do it a few times.
We awoke at quarter to nine, agreeing that the beds were without doubt the most comfortable we’d ever slept in. It was also Friday 25th. Where the hell had Thursday gone? Oh yes, I remember. A fabulous breakfast saw us eagerly awaiting the arrival of a local guide for a planning meeting scheduled for 10.30am. He arrived at 12.30pm. Not a good start, but remember, THIS IS INDIA. Steve took an instant dislike to the man not only for his lateness but on account of the fact that he was wearing a pair of shoes, the toes of which protruded beyond his feet for about 12 inches, a long sleeve shirt, neatly pressed and a sort of Elvis Presley style haircut. I think actually he was just jealous.
Anyway, meeting over, we were duly escorted around Amritsar to check out various locations and venues along with a visit to the local coach yard to see for ourselves what vehicles would be used for next week’s guests. The Department of Transport vehicle examiners back home would have had a field day I can tell you. Finally we arrived back at the Ista with, joy of joys, a bit of spare time to head for the roof top infinity swimming pool. Sheer bliss after the turmoil of the last two days. I had my binoculars and bird book with me thinking I’d be able to identify a few species. I did. Pigeons, bloody feral pigeons and a crow. All the way to India to see what we have in our back garden every morning. Just a hint of disappointment I must confess.
An evening meet with Virender saw us head across the road into the shopping mall. Forget Benetton, Tommy Hilfiger (or whatever his name is) and so on, but a visit to the 99Rupees shop (like our £ shops) was an absolute must and proved fruitful for a few odds and ends. It later proved to be a bit of a lifesaver for Chrys, as she had lost her goggles on the way out and we were able to buy 2 pairs for about £2.50. Not bad eh? The mall was our evening eating choice, the third floor, although not yet finished, being given over to about a dozen fast food outlets. It’s often said that the Brits gave India bureaucracy and India perfected it and oh boy how they’ve perfected it! Here’s my simple step by step guide to a quick ‘fast food’ snack. Step 1; select your choice of eatery. Step 2; study menu. Step 3; place order with counter staff. Step 4; go to one of three pre-payment counters. Step 5; hand over more rupees than your meal is going to cost to the payment clerk. Step 6; rent a payment swipe card for 25 rupees. Step 7; wait while your card is validated. Step 8; return to chosen outlet and pay for food with card. Step 9; find a suitable nearby table and await food order. Step 10; return to chosen outlet on being given the ‘nod’ that food is ready. Step 11; return to table and consume food assuming you haven’t by now given up the will to live. Step 12; clear table. Step 13; return swipe card to pre-payment counter. Step 14; await refund of card rental and balance of pre-payment. Step 15; leave eating area whilst making a solemn vow never to return again! That’s about it really. What a piece of piss! Can’t believe it’s never caught on over here. Now, anyone fancy a Coke to wash it down? No, on second thoughts, maybe not. This eating trauma was enough to ensure an early night especially as a before breakfast (shame) 5.30am start loomed.
Our 7.00am train to Ambala finally got under way some 25 minutes late, without I hasten to add any of the ‘wrong seat’ drama we had previously experienced. It was a journey of some 4 hours, which took us predominately for mile after mile past literally thousands of rice paddy fields. Some, empty dry patches of sandy looking soil, some , flooded but empty, others being planted, yet more in mid growth and many which appeared to be ready for harvesting. What a rich diverse tapestry. Oh, I nearly forgot. If you got fed up with this pleasant passing scene then the never ending early morning line up of villagers squatting between the rail tracks whilst they did the morning crossword made for an unusual (at least for us) alternative!
Virender’s relative and helper Nuresh, another delightful Manali man whom we also knew from our previous visits, awaited our arrival at Ambala. As we made our greetings we couldn’t help noticing that Nuresh seemed a little flustered, to say nothing of being bruised around the left eye. Apparently he’d been parked in the station car park and left to check on the progress of our train and on return was confronted with damage both to Virender’s Tata Scorpio, and the jeep parked alongside. Not only that, but three local heavies accused him of causing the damage and set about him. It was very obvious that the damage had been caused by the other vehicle cutting across the back of the Scorpio and catching the back bumper. What they alleged was impossible, but in true India style Virender paid up, about 2000 rupees, as I recall, to settle the matter and in no time we were on our way. With hindsight, both Steve and I wished we had got a bit more involved, but the truth is, it would probably only have inflamed the situation.
A ten minute drive got us to the Kingfisher hotel, which will be the location next week for the clients to meet their vehicles for the first time. Perfect. A large car park, clean toilets, an acceptable restaurant for food and a briefing , with easy access onto what is probably one of the best roads we’ve ever encountered in India. Even though after 500 metres a u turn will be needed it will nevertheless be a very suitable introduction to Indian roads for people who will be in strange vehicles or on even stranger bikes. Basically, a well surfaced, not too busy, dual carriageway, which we will follow for about the first 40 kilometres before reaching the foothills of the Himalayas. I’m sure they’ll all soon get the hang of dealing with the odd, fast approaching, head on, bus, lorry, car, tuk tuk or motorcycle which they are bound to come across on our side of the carriageway! We grabbed a bite to eat, Steve and Virender made the final arrangements with the manager, before we jumped into the Scorpio and headed for the hills. Destination, Shimla, one hundred miles away and a fascinating relic of the Raj, a place from which at one time one fifth of the World’s population was ruled. Unbelievable but true, what a fantastic place for a stopover.
We now needed to follow next week’s route exactly in order that every major turn and junction could be plotted and drawn by hand, with the addition of the exact distance recorded in readiness for the preparation of a route book when we finally arrive at Manali. It’s a great credit to Nuresh and Virender that we never once had to re-trace our steps to re-plot on account of a route finding cock up. Well done guys, a brilliant effort. As the route progressed deeper into the mountains and the roads got worse and worse it’s truly amazing that anything at all could be deciphered from the mass of scribble that Steve and occasionally me had put together as we were thrown around in the back of the Scorpio like a pair of silk knickers in a tumble drier. Probably not a very good simile actually, but I just like the thought of a pair of silk knickers going round and round in a tumble drier! So, what’s wrong with that then? Back to the plot. All went well until reaching a small town called Kulka, well known as being the starting point of the narrow gauge railway that winds its way painfully slowly up to Shimla. By now the dual carriageway had finished and we were back onto the usual madness of Indian roads that we are so familiar with. For some reason the town was gridlocked with nothing able to move in or out in either direction. What a hoot watching the antics of some of the drivers who persisted in trying to squeeze more of the quart into the already overflowing, proverbial pint pot. Without doubt some of the tricks if tried in the UK would have resulted in at least one road rage death. Gutter to gutter and beyond solid traffic was the order of the day until someone finally pulled the plug and we inched our way slowly through the town. One and a half hours later we were on open roads again, by now, heading steadily upwards until finally reaching Woodville Palace, Shimla at 7.40pm, some six and a half hours after leaving the Kingfisher hotel. Not the quickest 100 miles I’ve ever done.
Woodville Palace, an imposing 1930’s building will be used next week and although we have been there before a further inspection of facilities and so on was made before we were dropped off at the less imposing, although ,equally comfortable as it turned out, Springfield Hotel, itself a former palace. Virender and Nuresh headed off to stay with relatives. We ate in and I enjoyed a pleasant but brief conversation with the chef. “How’s your food sir?” “Very nice thank you.” I said. Sadly, that was it; he’d obviously bunked off from English lesson 2 onwards. We did in fact venture out after dinner in a desperate search for a phone box, as Steve needed to contact Sue and get some phone numbers for the person who could help him sort out a connection problem with his laptop. These booths are absolutely everywhere and normally are run by the local shopkeepers who, without any consideration for the plight of Steve, had long since shut up shop and gone home. Eventually we found that the local liquor store was still open and having explained the problem to the owner Steve was delighted at the offer of the use of his phone, for which no payment would be considered. Fantastic generosity. Can you imagine that happening in your local ‘offie’?
Twenty past eight on Sunday morning found Nuresh zeroing the odometer outside Woodville Palace in readiness for the next session of plotting to The Srikhand Hotel at Sarahan, a mountain top location with spectacular views of the valley below. It was going to be a long day by virtue of the fact that this was not to be our overnight halt on this lap as our intention was to do two days in one and continue on to Kalpa situated over two thousand feet higher than the seven thousand at Sarahan. For me at least, the highlight of the morning’s drive came as we rounded a bend, to be confronted quite literally at the roadside, by the magnificent sight of 10 Himalayan Griffon getting well and truly stuck in to a cow that had possibly been the victim of a recent road accident. Really miffed that I’d lost the camera, although Steve made up for it with some great video footage. They were completely unfazed by our presence and just kept going with their new found prize. Fantastic! The last time we were in this area two years ago we were driving at night when Steve suddenly called to Nuresh to stop the car. I thought we were about to disappear into some bottomless chasm, but in actual fact Steve had spotted (pardon the pun) a leopard casually strolling up the road towards us. It got almost to the front of the car before vanishing over the edge into the darkness. What a buzz. I had the camera that time, but needless to say, didn’t get a picture! Nothing to do with this year’s recce, but I just thought I’d let you know. The rest of the morning’s drive was uneventful, although the long climb up to Sarahan through villages and small orchards was particularly rewarding. We noticed that the temple that was being built on our last visit is now finished. Worth a mention is its method of construction. In common with many of the other local buildings, some of which date back many hundreds of years, a very stout wooden frame is first constructed, with horizontal gaps of two to three feet and then the whole thing is in filled with very precisely cut stone. Not a drop of cement can be seen anywhere. Apparently the idea is that this arrangement will withstand earthquakes much better than a conventional build. It obviously works; they’ve been doing it an awfully long time. We got to Sarahan about half one and did the usual meet with the manager and room inspection before heading across the road into the ‘bedroom annexe’ as we weren’t all going to fit in to the hotel. Somewhat unusual this one. In fact, I’d go so far as to say, very unusual. To be precise, it was the spectacular Hindu temple that has occupied this superb hilltop location for almost a thousand years. As you can imagine, accommodation was basic, but nevertheless clean and functional. Surprisingly, no flat screen TV or Wi-Fi connection for the overnighters though!
With all arrangements complete we headed off back down the mountain to rejoin the main road which we had left several hours earlier. We took a brief lunch stop in a roadside cafe that could have kept an environmental health officer in employment for a week. Nevertheless, the vegetable tali, fresh chapattis and chai was very acceptable, although we all passed on the huge bowls of roasted red chillies that adorned the tables ready to tempt the brave or foolhardy. Our route took us through the biggest civil engineering project I’ve ever seen. For the last six or seven years a massive hydro electricity scheme has been taking its steady toll on the beauty of the surrounding river valley. The road takes you right through the heart of this mess for at least 25 kilometres. Any trace of tarmac has long since disappeared and depending on the prevailing weather you drive in either a dust bowl or mud bath. Quite a challenge two up on a Royal Enfield I can tell you. At the head of it, no massive dam, but the sight of some of the river disappearing down into a huge sink which in turn leads into a 4 metre head race tunnel cut through the valley side at a much less severe slope than the river itself. After many kilometres this head of water is way above the valley floor and it’s now ready to be diverted into vertical shafts and forced by gravity through nozzles to drive the turbines, culminating in a truly spectacular plume of water and spray as it re-emerges back into the river. The electricity so produced is then sent on to its final destination, Delhi, no doubt with various tap off diversions on the way. Anyway, the outcome is that a little man in Delhi is now able to boil an electric kettle full of water for his morning chai. That’s progress for you! With all this 21st century technology going on around you, as a westerner, it just doesn’t seem right that some of what you see hasn’t been consigned to the dustbin of time. I refer to the common sight of the ‘rock breakers’, small gangs whose job it is to reduce huge piles of rock to useable size road stone. Flip flopped, or even barefooted men make the first moves with sledgehammers, with the resulting stone being passed along the line until it finishes with the women, often with babies ‘blanketed’ on their backs and tiny children who spend all day squatting in the dust and rubble using small hammers until the required size is achieved. Unbelievable, and to be honest, quite a distressing sight. And all for just over £1.00 a day. Can’t imagine many of them having chosen this as a career move can you?
We eventually turned off the main NH22 highway (in name only I assure you) and started another spectacular climb, this time to Kalpa and our overnight stop in the Kinner Villa Hotel, run by Anhil a most charming and helpful host. We arrived at 7 o’clock, just in time to enjoy the last vestiges of daylight striking the top of Kinner Keylash an over 6,000 metre peak which lay to our east. Comfortable accommodation with its own built in euthanasia feature in the wet room style bathroom. In common with most hotels in the area, each bathroom has its own, wall mounted, electric water heater tank usually wired up into a sealed outlet. This one was a little unusual in as much that it had a conventional three pin plug into a conventional socket. If spraying the water directly from the shower onto this arrangement didn’t work for you then you had the convenient option to direct the jet across the bathroom to the other socket, at the side of the basin mirror, which had been thoughtfully left hanging half out of the wall! Everything for the guest’s convenience sir. We were now at 9,300 feet and both of us commented how we were a bit breathless after taking our morning showers. It may of course have been the anxiety and excitement of wondering whether or not we would survive the shower ordeal or get our feet soaked from the leaking loo flush pipe connection!
Breakfast was taken with a glass of excellent, local, Kinnur apple juice a product of the area’s number one industry. Every available patch of productive land is given over to apple and to a lesser extent, pear orchards, pretty much throughout the whole state of Himachal Pradesh and although both Virender and Nuresh are both heavily involved in the tourist trade, their main source of income is from apples which will be harvested and sent to market a little later in the year. For followers of an ‘alternative’ lifestyle who maybe don’t fancy the apple juice, a stroll out onto the road may prove more fruitful. You could help yourself to as much ‘Manali Gold’, or to be precise, marijuana as you could stuff in your suitcase, it grows wild here everywhere. I even watched a local cow munching on it!
Before we set off on today’s main route we were taken on a short diversion past the hotel to a tiny mountain village which Virender thought might be of interest to next week’s visitors. He was right, a tiny mountain village that gave a fascinating insight into a rural mountain community. Of particular note were two 1000 year old Hindu temples which have now been taken over for worship by the wholly Buddhist population. A tiny water driven mill which looked as if it had been abandoned for years is apparently still in regular use. Many of the buildings used the in filled wooden frame method of construction. Would you believe that on the tiny, narrow, sheer edged (about 1 kilometre down according to Steve’s sat nav) dead end approach road to the village we had to reverse to allow the morning bus to get by!
Having given the little village the thumbs up, we made our way back down to the valley floor and the NH22. Every day the scenery just gets more and more intense, as does the realisation that you are getting into a very remote corner of the world indeed. At the Kharo bridge crossing we stopped briefly at the memorial stone, laid to the memory of the 35 Indian army personnel who were swept to their deaths on 8th September 2005 in the raging river below, when the bridge which they had just finished building, collapsed as they were led across in convoy by their commanding officer. What a tragically avoidable waste of life. A strict ‘one vehicle at a time’ policy now operates on the many iron girder bridges you come across. They don’t seem to worry about the motorbikes though, just do what you like! We had a forced stop of 15 minutes while some aspect of the never ending road repair/improvement programme was carried out. We were lucky; often the holdups are much, much longer. The road maintenance programme in this area is looked after by the Border Roads Organisation, a branch of the Indian army, employing thousands of poorly paid road workers who live in the most appalling conditions, to ensure that as far as possible the roads near India’s borders, Tibet in this case, Pakistan further west, are kept open for military vehicles, of which, there are an abundance. The deep river gorge we had been in for some time eventually opened up and we made a sharp right turn heading up the mountainside round numerous hairpins to arrive just after two o clock at Nako a tiny village at almost 12,000 feet.
We met our local village organiser and it soon became obvious that there was a potential problem looming on the horizon for the actual tour. Some accommodation Steve had been banking on was no longer available which meant that we were definitely going to overfill the village. Unless, that is, we used a few of the permanently sited tents which are used throughout the season. We’ve stayed in similar accommodation before and in truth it’s quite a pleasant experience. They are like a fabric lined oversized old fashioned scout tent with an annexe out the back with flushing loo and running water. Fully carpeted in the bedroom, with an overhead electric light made it a veritable home from home. Steve had no need to worry, as the reality was that we would have more ‘camping’ volunteers than we needed. Having checked out the other accommodation and grabbing a bite to eat we set off once again on another of our two days in one jaunts, stopping briefly at one of the ‘Inner Line’ police check posts where passports and permit details are religiously recorded. The confluence of two rivers saw us take the left option into the Spiti valley which we were to follow on the next leg of our journey. Turning right would have taken us in a few kilometres to the border with Tibet.
We drove for hours following the river when Virender suddenly indicated a girder bridge on our left. “That takes you to Pin Valley” he said. “So what?” said Steve. Well, as it turned out it was quite a big ‘so what’ and it’s all to do with land and wealth. Apparently, for generations the Pin Valley has had quite a reputation as somewhere that the practice of polyandry has gone on. Not just any old polyandry but fraternal polyandry, or in other words the rather strange habit of one woman marrying two or more brothers. There are still about 70 families who favour this system. If you think about it, it makes sense, sort of. Imagine that you and your brothers inherited a patch of land from mum and dad. Eventually you all want to go your separate ways and marry the girl of your dreams, in effect, meaning that your 10 foot square plot has got to be divided three ways. How much more sensible to all have the same dream and share (sorry, marry) the same vision of loveliness, thereby keeping it in the family so to speak. Needless to say, our minds didn’t linger for long on the finer points of land division but soon diverted to the more ‘practical’ elements of the arrangement with a barrage of questions to Virender and Nuresh. The car was rocking! Apparently, in the case of a ‘triple share’ liaison the three brothers would apparently all wear different designs of the local Kullu cap and when a particular brother is in favour then his hat is hung on a hook outside the bedroom door as a warning to the other brothers to keep out. I know, we didn’t believe it either, but we were reassured it’s true! Does the lady of the house have ‘specialities’ for each of the brothers we wondered? Absolutely not, they all have to be treated exactly the same. When we eventually got back to Manali we were shown some pictures of a three brother family and it must be said that it’s hard to imagine anyone rushing home from work to ‘hang their hat’ and spend time with the wizened, worn out specimen they were posing with! In no time at all the daylight was fading and we arrived at the Spiti Hotel in Kaza. I stayed in the jeep whilst Steve and Virender went in to see the manager. Another potential problem. Due to a burst pipe some of the rooms were pretty much unusable although they were reassured that all would be sorted by the time of our next visit on the tour. We shall see. We carried on into the blackness of a Himalayan night to the Hotel Sarai that Virender often uses on his tours, situated a few kilometres out of town on tomorrow’s route. That first beer went down well after another long, although somewhat merry, day’s drive.
No rest for the wicked as they say and ten past seven saw us back into plotting mode for the final push through to Manali which we knew was going to be at least a ten hour drive away. For quite some distance the landscape which was basically a flattish valley floor had some very unusual features where the river had cut its way through the valley. Huge termite like mounds lined each side of the river bank from the water’s edge to the plain many feet above. A most unusual, interesting spectacle. We were now deep into ‘stupa’ country. Stupas are memorials to the memory of notable people, usually monks, and take various forms. Either, a purpose built edifice, or quite commonly, a large pile of rocks at the side of the road. In the same way that Buddhist prayer wheels are always turned clockwise, etiquette dictates that stupas are always passed on the left side whenever possible, necessitating diversions off the tarmac on several occasions to comply with this tradition. Morning chai was taken alongside the police check post at Lossar, the last village approachable from the east during the long cold winters. Temperatures of minus 25-30C are not uncommon, hard to imagine as we sat there in our t shirts and shorts soaking up the morning sun. Whilst sipping my chai I couldn’t help noticing a Royal Enfield, heavily laden, parked at the side of the road. A mature, bandana wearing white man wandered across from the check post and started to repack his luggage. I strolled over. “Long journey?” I asked in a friendly sort of way. He thought for a moment, before coming back with this little gem. “My friend, everybody is on a long journey, but some people go nowhere”. I immediately lost interest and dived behind a hut for a pee! A steady climb took us to the top of the Kunzum Pass, a gnat’s short of 15,000 feet and the highest point of the tour. Needless to say, on the actual tour, several of the more sprightly guests couldn’t resist the temptation to abandon their vehicles and wander up the mountainside to claim their ‘I’ve climbed to 15,000 feet ‘badge. A magnificent collection of stupas adorn the top of this pass and it is tradition that travellers stop to pay their respects. Even the number 3 bus stops there to let its passengers have a wander about (in a clockwise direction of course) in this godly place. Within one of the stupas is a small rock and legend has it that by putting your hand through the protective iron grill a ‘pure’ person will be able to make a one rupee coin stick to its vertical surface. Obviously we had to have a go. Now I’ll give you three guesses as to what happened and I bet you’ll only need one of them!
A long, very rough, steep zigzag road dropped us down to our first sign of civilisation, a summertime eatery, where the proprietor and his family from Manali, spend the season providing food and shelter for the not inconsiderable passing trade. The cafe is basically made up of permanent dry stone walls to a height of about 4 feet with tarpaulins and poles providing the cover. Roll mats and blankets are scattered around on low rock seats in the eating area. Alfresco dining takes place under an old Indian army parachute. Kerosene stoves in various states of disrepair provide the cooks with a source of power. At the end of the season the whole shooting match apart from the walls will be dispatched for storage back to Manali. There must be an easier way to make a living, surely? We got chatting to one of the bus passengers, a young Californian guy, we’d previously seen at the top of the pass. His was a tale of woe indeed. He had apparently been trekking in the area with his mate when they stopped to take some happy snaps on a scree slope they were crossing. He parked his rucksack whilst he took his photos and as he turned, he was just in time to see his belongings start an unstoppable journey of their own down the slope. He took off after the rucksack but was always that one step behind until eventually his belongings disappeared over the cliff edge into the fast flowing river below, never to be seen again. He was left with the clothes he stood up in and fortunately, his passport and money which were in a small day sack. Oh yes and his camera! He reckons this little episode has cost him about $1,000 and of course the rest of his trekking holiday. No wonder he was ‘relaxing’ with something that definitely wasn’t a Benson & Hedges King Size!
Shortly after this chai stop, small dusty dots on the horizon soon became dusty Royal Enfields as we came face to face with the 60 plus riders who were taking part in this year’s Himalayan Odyssey, an annual event organised by Royal Enfield for owner/riders. It had started in Delhi, with the route taking it north into the Himalayas and the town of Leh before heading up Khardung La, the highest motorable pass in the world at well over 18,000 feet. They were now on the return leg. The ‘head honcho’, marketing manager at Royal Enfield is a mate of Virender and we were able to attract his attention as he rode by, causing some rapid braking, handshakes all round and a bit of a natter before going our separate ways. You probably realise that the usual Indian bike gear consists of bare head or turban, short sleeve shirt, shorts or dhoti, with flip flops. We were amazed to see that every rider was properly dressed in western style bike gear. If nothing else, an indication of how seriously they took the adventure they were on.
Another wayside temporary cafe saw us grab a quick one o clock lunch before fording two deep, rocky, river crossings and eventually making a left turn up the Rhotang Pass at over 13,000 feet. We came to a temporary halt on the way up as or path was blocked by a huge BRO tipper truck that was attempting a multi point turn on the narrow, cliff edge road. All right so far, except for the fact that it had stalled mid turn. Needless to say the battery had less charge than a glow worm, with not a chance of the engine turning over. All hands on deck managed to provide enough forward motion (amazingly about 2 feet) for the driver to bump start it on a full left lock with half the front wheel overhanging the road edge! Quite exciting really. On our way to the top, Virender explained that we were at the end of the school holidays and as the Rhotang is still above the snow line it’s not unusual for there to be a lot of activity with day trippers. However, this was Tuesday and the Rhotang Pass was closed to tourists to allow the BRO to get on with their road maintenance programme, so there wouldn’t be many people about. He was right. Only half of India had decided to defy the traffic ban and make their way up ,to play snowballs, ski (although there was not one single drag lift), take a sledge, snowmobile or yak ride, or otherwise just wander about in their hired wellies, fur coats, woolly hats or gloves. What an amazing sight, I thought we’d turned up in Val d’Isere! It must be said, the snow was pretty old and very patchy though, with more the appearance of a layer of volcanic ash than the virgin white snow of a top Alpine resort. We resisted the temptation to join in and carried on down, along with many of the ‘illegal’ day trippers who’d had enough of the snow experience for one day. It was pretty much one long convoy down the mountain, except of course that the convoy wasn’t going quick enough to keep ‘Fangio’ Kumar happy. You can always tell when things aren’t exactly to our liking in the car when the conversation stops. This was one such moment. We must have overtaken fifty other vehicles in this long procession. Fine, whilst the overtakes are being done with the rock face on your right but not quite so relaxing after you’ve rounded the next hairpin and a drop of several hundred feet is right alongside you as yet another weaving vehicle is picked off. In fact, bloody horrible! Such a good idea to race ahead like that, especially as we stopped halfway down for another cup of chai! Another hour and ten minutes saw us pulling in to the Ambassador Resort at 5.15pm to check out the final rooms, restaurant and bar of the tour. We liked what we saw, although we would only be staying there on the actual tour. This time round we were to stay at Johnson’s hotel, a much smaller place in the centre of Manali, but more conveniently situated for Virender’s office and so on.
So, that’s about it then. Recce over. Just a few more headaches for Steve, Virender and his staff before everything is finally in place for what will be a fantastic tour for their clients. All that’s left to do is produce the route books, sort out the logistics for the cultural show on party night (my suggestion of a phone call to Pin Valley for some ‘triple share’ family action was apparently not what was in mind), find some suitable mementos, work out how to get 42 people (Virender is coming as well) and luggage by plane back to Delhi on a newly scheduled 70 seat service that hasn’t actually materialised,(THIS IS INDIA, remember), lean on a local official to get something done about the water problems at the Spiti Hotel, change some money at the best possible rate and get ourselves back to Amritsar in time to meet the guests and do it all over again. Bugger all really! Oh, I nearly forgot, I found time to get a haircut, have a head massage and grab another beer.
Now for the tour; but that’s another story; searing heat, torrential rain, floods, closed railways and roads, no water, landslides, punctures, breakdowns, a lost passport, a disappearing luggage truck to name but a few of the little interventions in one heck of an adventure. Another time, maybe.
Footnote
Sorry if this has turned out to be a bit long winded, but I got a bit carried away. If any of what you’ve read has tickled your fancy then have a look at www.classiccarjourneys.co.uk to see what’s going on next year. Or, speak to the boss, Steve McCullagh on 01458 224109 who hasn’t read this yet and may not be talking to me after he has!
Dave Hobbs