Manali

Manali was one of the coolest, hippest, dare I say trendiest places we visited.  Despite a very un-India feeling at times, it was really quite quaint and comfortable.  The “mountain scene” was alive with travelers from all over the world.  It felt like The Beach.  Having traveled halfway around the world, we were surrounded by hundreds of people that looked just like us.  This was certainly the epicenter for western neo-wanderers in northern India.

Our bus from Shimla dropped us in the heart of Manali.  We pre-purchased bus tickets for the following morning to embark on a two day journey over the second highest highway in the world to Leh.  All we wanted was a nice place to relax for the afternoon and a quiet place to spend the night.  Typically I resist all barrages of husslers at the bus stops trying to offer me a ride, or hoping I will stay at their brothers hotel.  One man in particular in Manali was dressed a little different from the others.  After turning and walking away from a couple other pushers, this petite nicely dressed man explained he had a new clean guesthouse with one room available in Old Manali.  I kindly replied “no thank you” and walked further down the street.  After gaining our bearings Gretchen and I glanced at the travel guide book.  As I was looking up from the pages I noticed the same petitie man standing in front of me.  He once again offered his services, and said he had a car right around the block which could take us to his house.  I decided to trust this one, and told him we would first look at the room, then decide.  

Old Manali is about 5 kilometers north of Manali.  Nestled in the woods.  Roads still unpaved, much of the town only accesible by foot.  We parked the Tata, and walked a couple minutes through alleys and trails back to his guesthouse.  I was thankful we chose to go with him, today we found a very nice, very small, very clean and accomodating guesthouse.  Once again, it was someplace I could have spent weeks relaxing and exploring.

It was Cheech and Chongs wildest dreams, the streets were literally over growing with marijuana.  Nearly every where in Old Manali we found shrubs of marijuana plants growing.  I’m not really sure who they belonged to.  At times little gangs of Indian men seemed to be watching them, other times they were just growing in-between other flora.  

Manali was more embellished then most places.  If you didn’t come with the right about of bohemian clothing, hemp bags and tie die t-shirts- no worries, they could be purchased from nearly every bazaar.  It was actually hard to find something authentic from India here.  We ate in a Mexican restaurant that also featured Greek, Italian, and Israeli food.  Across the street they served Heineken from behind an espresso bar.    

The countryside around Manali was very different from Shimla.  After leaving the hill stations we twisted over and around a series of ridges and mountains.  Deep within the Kullu Vally lies Manali.  As the valley widened from the Beas River drainage, orchards and farms filled the land.  Buddhist red, green, blue, white, and yellow prayer flags hung from everything.  Across bridge spans, throughout trees and houses- prayers flags blew in the gentle breeze.  The people changed along with the landscape.  Thousands of Tibetans call this part of India home since being thrown out of China.  The Dalai Lama lives only 100 kilometers way in Dharmsala, India.     

Sadly we awoke just after sunrise, had a nice breakfast and left Manali.  Our stay in the Kullu Valley was briefly extended when our bus failed to shift out of second gear.  For 15 minutes the driver blocked a major switchback in the road out of town.  He jolted back and forth trying to get from 1st to 2nd and finally 3rd gear before he called it quits.  The bus gently rolled back into a pull over and we waited for our backup bus to arrive.  Moments like this quickly remind you where you are.  Not that accidents don’t happen in other places, but the buffoonery in cultural differences is amusing.  It felt like the bus driver thought he would be able to drive the bus another 495 kilometers without those gears if he could only get around that one turn.  Not only that, but several locals came over and tinkered with the bus for at least 20 minutes before deciding it was inoperable.  Like they could magically put a curse on the transmission to work in all gears.  I’m not a mechanic, but I think low gears are important when you’re  driving a bus loaded with people over steep mountains passes at extremely high elevations.  So what else do you do in these types of situations?  Find the closest chai shack and wait for a new bus to come.

The second highest highway in the world travels 500 kilometers from Manali into the northern province of Ladakh and its main hub city, Leh.  Squeezed between Pakistan, China, and Nepal- you might recognize the other name for this territory, Kashmir.  Over the last 60 years the border here between Pakistan and India has been constantly disputed and fought over.  Where artillery volleys are fired across jagged glacier peaks and valleys.  Thousands of troops sit just a few kilometers from one another, waiting.  Its actually quite sad.  The acreage is petty.  Yes its gorgeous country, but not worth dying over.  The real victims here are the Tibetans.  Displaced from their true home in China.  They make the majority of the population in Ladakh, with only a few Hindu’s that have migrated from over the mountains.  Several of the even more remote valleys around Leh have indigenous communities that have lived and survived here for thousands of years.

The landscape is remote and desolate.  Rocky peaks as far as the eye can see.  This highway has only been open to westerners since 1989.  Before that, a few wary travelers visited from the western part of the province by way of Sringar on the rim of Kashmir.  The average mountain pass was around 3500 - 4700 meters, the highest pass at 5360 meters.  This was the highest elevation I had ever been to.  Nearly 17,000 feet.  Surprisingly we both felt fine.  After spending several weeks at altitude, I think we were prepared.

Gretchen in her usual travelers posture, me on the lookout. 

We spent one night along the highway in a tent camp near the village of Keylong; a little less than halfway.  The scenery gave a lot of time to think.  We rarely passed other vehicles, except the occasional military convoy or road construction crew.  The landscape varied from narrow valleys, our road hanging over cliffs, to wide open vistas and epic mountain passes.  Our bus puttered up the passes at about 20-30 mph, then sped across wide open deserts.  Midway the second day we spent hours crossing a wide dusty valley.  It must have been as dry as a desert.  It probably was a desert.  I couldn’t imagine this place during the winter  The Earth was bone dry, the slightest breeze blew huge dust clouds across the valley.  The sand was fine and blew everywhere.  Closing the windows wasn’t enough, it was circulating through the bus ventilation system.  At times the road looked like a braided river, spreading out in multiple channels, our experienced bus driver carefully choosing the right way.  At times his conductor dismounted and checked the route.

There aren’t to many settlements along the highway.  Small populations of indigenous people have built summer shacks to serve soda pop and noodles to tourists.  Tanned by the sun, their faces always happy to see tourists arrive.  We gathered in round tents drinking milk tea, listening to stories from motorcyclists brave enough to travel this route.

It was hard to compare these mountains to anywhere else I have been.  At times, they reminded me of drier places in the southern rockies or mountains of New Mexico.  Except there were no trees and little snow left from the extreme sun.

We arrived in Leh well after dark.  Amidst a swarm of taxi’s at the bus stand we broke free and headed to our hotel.