The only way to travel

The only way to travel.

                This story begins with me and Harel attending the orphanage for Harel’s second to last time. We had plans to go climbing the next day and Harel’s itchy feet seemed to be as contagious what ever it was that the girls teacher, Leila had. Although i wash my hands when i get back from orphanage when i’m there i find it very hard to refuse their hospitality whether it’s a cup of water or a plain biscuit. Unfortunately this means that i end up eating food that’s been handled by young sets of hands who’s concern for hygiene isn’t as great as my own.

                The next day we were up around seven, and away by eight. He had a full days climb ahead of us and a heavy bag packed with food, drink and the chess set. Before the day was half done i was experiencing some suggestive symptoms which made me regret my leniency in accepting the girls manky looking cookie. We trooped on after spending the mid day heat in the shadow of a tree, out water bottle’s chilling nearby in a deep patch of snow. We rest longer than I would have liked because the heat of the day seems to be affecting me. We complete the climb, which was a little hair raising at the top. We begin the walk down and I’m feeling worse. It seems that it isn’t sun stroke because I’m not dehydrated. In fact i haven’t been hungry since breakfast, and since when had my vision been so irritably unstable?

                I spend the next day recovering from the early onset of altitude sickness, while my stomach bug really steps into its own whilst I’m distracted. It’s not a pleasant day. The next day is Sunday and the brunt of sickness seems to have been ejected from my body. We agree to depart the next morning on the six o’clock bus and go to the orphanage to say goodbye to the girls. Harel has to leave a little but early since he’s a day behind me with the illness. We don’t have any reliable means of waking ourselves up, so i decide to pull an all nighter and settle in with a Mongolian thriller. Harel crashes and i wake him at 5.30 so that we catch the 6 o’clock bus. His condition had deteriorated in the night, and the nausea which i’d managed to contain to acidic burps had broken through. We postponed the departure by 24 hours and the both of us slept the day away.

                Finally we set of, tiered as you like with neither of us in top form. The first five hours pass easily enough, and we wake up in Rampur. Jumping of our first bus we’re told by the ever so amused man at the information desk that there are only two bus’s per day that go to Kullu and Manali- one at 6.30am and one 7pm. It’s 12 o’clock now and we have no real desire to spend 7 hour in what looks like a glorified truck stop. There’s a bus to Mandi at 4 o’clock. We go to a restraunt that’s expensive by our standards, but deservedly so i think. We’re eating plain food, but even with a dodgy stomach their Dal Machni was astonishingly moreish. We play too games of chess. Harel has developed his abilities nicely, and i can no longer really on school boy error’s to win the game. They’re a great way to pass the time, and unfortunately after we bring the end of second game to a close over coffee on the hotels balconies, it’s 4.05. This is frustrating.

                With no real desire on either of our parts to leave the proximity of a western toilet we non the less lug our bags over our shoulder and tramp back to the bus station across the road. Rampur is somewhat of a contrast to the quite of Kalpa, and we decide to walk up the hill a bit and relax on the tree line rather than pay money for drink we don’t want, to stay in a dhabba we won’t like. On the way we meet two college lads back home from Shimla.  Like most young, educated Indians they spoke excellent English. Soon enough they established that we hadn’t seen the local monastery, which is amazing, and on the lush grass beneath stained glass windows and the scent of roses, they took charge of our map and showed us a way to hope buses through local villages. Happy to be of early we left the tranquillity of the beautiful monastery and charged to the bus. Two healthy, full checked beggars proceeded the arrival of our next bus. We originally thought that we’d have to change buses twice or thrice that night, but in fact the bus continued straight to Ani-the second stage on the boys instructions- and we could go no further by public transport that night. The time in Ani was, well, weird. It felt like a cross between the extras from a chain saw massacre film, highlighting one or two main creepy characters. It’s very interesting, in a way that made my stomach tighten, meeting a series of individuals who feel like they’ve been written into existence by Neil Gaiman, or, perhaps i should say by the Sandman himself. We considered getting a taxi the rest of the way. Although to would be around £30, I didn’t think that £15 was a ridiculous investment if we got driven through the night. We’d wake up with a full day in Kullu, and would be able to dispose of the discomforts of long distance travel in one swoop. However by the time i’d convinced Harel the guy we’d talked to earlier had disappeared, and the ret of the guys we asked were licenced taxis, and asked for close to double. The shitty hotel and bus fair would still only cost us about £6. We didn’t sleep well.

The alarm was a failure and we missed our early bus. We probably needed the sleep though to be fair. In the warm light of the Himalayan sunshine Ani wasn’t nearly as peculiar as it was the night before. We stop for Chai, having been told by our hotel manager that we’ve missed out bus. I want a plain breakfast and so go to buy some tomatoes for the place to fry up. I saw some up by the bus stand, and waiting for the fruit-wallah to finish with the first customer, i wander over to a bus that’s just coming to the limits of it’s capacity. Shouting in broken Hindi over the noise of the engine i ask the driver where he’s heading, and hearing the reply i set of at a dash to grab Harel with cries of ‘ek min, ek min!’ thrown over my shoulder. The bus is gently pulling out of it’s dock when we come panting up. Harel get’s on board with our small rucksacks to claim some seats and i squirrel up the ladder on the back of the bus to clip our luggage onto the roof.

                Buses in India are interesting experiences. Its a mix of extremes, where frustration mingles with acceptance, and the repulsive with the endearing. This was the type of bus that was a little over packed. Though of course we can’t say anything since they didn’t even consider it an issue to squeeze two more people, namely us, in with the crush. There is the smell of fresh, somehow sweet air drifting in through the window, and the stench of sweat and vomit congealing inside, waiting with malicious intent. Its overcrowded and there’s no way that we’ll find a seat for a good period of time. However women double up on each others laps, and the more grey hair to be found in a passsanger’s head, the greater the probability that they’ll find a place. Life is uncomfortable. I can’t read and my music died the day before. There’s nothing to do but hold your noise, forget the cramp and stare out of the window, wrapped up in your own thoughts. After lunch i achieve the desire that’s been at the fore of the mind for the last few days, ever since i read the large print warning in the lonly planet. One second, i’ll go and fetch the book.

Warning!

“Beware of low-hanging power lines on the trip between Manali and Dharamsala if you’re riding on the roof of the bus.”

Wait, what, roof!? I tried asking out right and was told that it wasn’t permissible. I’d say maybe three minutes after I’d asked a bus going the other way was crowned with gawky limbs jutting of the roof at funky angles. Ah, i smiled to myself. So not completely impossible. Lunch comes and goes and when the driver starts the bus up after his Thali, i’m reclining on top of it with my head lying on my bag, my legss crossed, feet braced under the side rail basking in the fresh sunlight and thinking that this is by far the best way i’v ever travelled. The wonderful scenery; high hills with irregular bulging character, covered in a forest reminiscent of high France, and with just the occasional cloud to add contrast to the sky, we rode through natural wonders of Kullu valley. After a while Harel joined me, and sipping whisky with the laptop singing to us we watched the local sceans from our delicious vantage position.

We follow the river closely, and the old women are sat by the banks chatting away as the clothes dry on the rocks. We go through different towns where we negotiate the small streets with much blaring of horns. Boys of all ages play cricket in side allies and in parking lots. The fields are a canvas of green, incandescent in their simplicity. They cover the terrain, planted with great effort into different tiers that were long ago constructed by the current farmer’s ancestors. The police men catch sight of us and wave with a smile on their lips, just like to many others. The wind blows through our hair and occasionally we have to grab the deck to avoid a head full of leaves. The wind smells amazing and we are happy with life. We pass by the obligatory array of wandering cows and herds of goats. The breeze brings the sound of laughter and the smell of candy floss. The fun fair with its giant ferrice wheal goes by, and now the river has restraunts at its edge, chairs and tables in the waters edge. Groups of friends and happy couples dine on very fresh trout, and the occasional cable stretched across the bank with someone clambering along. The tourist line’s looked very safe and were generally accompanied by collections of beached rafts. The ones that seemed to get more use though were those in the position of the locals, who ferried cargo across. The mountains surrounded our sides, and the path seemed to fork ahead indefinitely.

                We had given thought to staying in Kullu and seeing a few things at a lesuirly pace before heading up to Manali. The road to Leh probably won’t be open for a while and there’s a few things of interest. However the intentions changed, as intentions will do in India. The bus pulled up in the usual manner, either to allow passengers to get off or on, or to allow right of way to another veirchial. However as it paused the conductor jumped out and pointing at a neighbouring veirchial exclaimed ‘Manali!’. Seeing our scattered attempts to gather out belongings together he disappeared out of sight once again. The bus pulled forward with a jerk, plonking both of us on our arse. However it stopped soon enough next to our next bus and with a few gestures, indicated that we should jump from across to continue our journey. Laughing we happily complied.