That night, en route from my guest house, I'm shivering and pull my sweater around me tighter. The tiny restaurant we're in has a top floor and as I sit down at the table (Ayelet has yet to show) the shutters from the window bang loudly. The wind is howling and, peering outside, I can see rain bucketing down, hitting the ground like bullets. Seems like the monsoons have arrived in full force. A tremendous bolt of lightening then a terrifying crack of thunder follow. ..
About 50 minutes (and 12 prayer wheel spins later) I’m back where I began and the inner temple beckons. I love it! Beautiful golden Buddhas abound, resplendent, luminous, awe-inspiring. On every alter, all manner of gifts have been left – huge boxes of Ferrero Rocher chocolates cartons of orange juice and even – yes! – packets of cornflakes. The level of respect people inside this complex are showing also impresses me – not once do I hear a mobile phone ring. Butter burning lamps flicker (the butter comes from yaks, I believe) and, surrounded by these golden Buddhas, you could hear a pin drop...
The cultural heritage of these people is richer than I could ever have imagined and inextricably bound up with Buddhist practices. Their songs, step dances and masked opera are loaded with hidden meaning (I discover that Tang Xianzu, a prominent dramatic artist of the Ming dynasty, is regarded by many as the Shakespeare of the East). Moreover, between the 11th and 14th centuries, every significant Buddhist text was translated into Tibetan. Today, I am told, a fully ordained Tibetan Buddhist monk will have to have taken 253 vows, and then need to partake in bi-monthly “confessions...”
It’s just after 5am when we finally pull in to Mcleod Ganj (the ‘upper’ part of Dharamsala, named after the British Governor of the Punjab) and I stagger off the bus, grateful simply to be alive. The town centre is deserted, with every hotel door shut and not so much as a chai walla in sight. It’s bucketing down, I’m shivering and sneezing and the only place I can find refuge is a dirty doorway. So there I pass a miserable hour, leaning against my backpack and waiting for the sun to rise...
Within minutes of leaving town, our driver’s putting his foot down, despite the heavy rain, poor visibility and windscreen wipers working intermittently. He’s taking the bends like there’s no tomorrow. Rain is dripping steadily through the roof onto my head and soaking fleece. Out of the window, the road is unlit and all I can gather is that yellow headlights of other vehicles hurtling towards us. Fast. My fellow passengers, naturally, are munching on chapattis, not a care in the world. I don’t know what’s worse – over the Himalayas by day in blazing heat, or round hairpin bends at night in the rain.
We lunch with a man Rohit is working with – that night he takes us to his home, where I meet his daughter and wife, both dark-eyed and shy. I want to talk to them, even though they barely speak a word of English, and gesture that I’d like to help in the kitchen. Of course, I’m hustled straight back into the salon – it’s unthinkable that a guest would lift a finger in an Indian home. We eat excellent sag paneer and chapattis, pickled vegetables and fluffy rice, sitting cross-legged on the floor, looking out into the valley...
And then I hear a growl. I jump a metre high. It’s a low growl, not an angry roar admittedly, but it’s scared me witless. This isn’t Alaska, where Grizzlies climb trees for for a tasty bite and it’s not Africa, where lionesses dine out on hapless safari tourists every year. I’m in apple country, for god’s sake, and only 2kms from a noisy city centre. But I know what I heard – I’d bet my last rupee on it. I look right, look left, I look in front and…my goodness, it’s an enormous brown bear, with huge soulful eyes, looking me straight in the eye...
I am rooted to the spot. I shut my eyes, open them again and look once more. It is not my imagination – in front of me are the Himalayas. And all of the words I’ve always thought might do them justice – awe-inspiring, imposing, majestic, overwhelming, superb – fail me. I am utterly overwhelmed. They stretch as far as the eye can see, these craggy, untamed, structures, their peaks covered in pure white snow. I cannot help but gasp. I have seen a few sights in my time…but this? Truly a room with a view, and all for the princely sum of $9...
Whilst Yael and Nir are filming the monkeys, I fall into conversation with a man in his 50s who is walking our way. He tells me he’s a Professor from Delhi, here for a conference at the academic institute the Lodge now houses. He’s erudite, charming and soon I discover he has two daughters, one a VP at Citibank in the States and the other an engineer in Paris. When he hears I’m an academic editor he is thrilled to bits...
Shimla is completely charming! I am captivated. It’s like a scene out of turn-of-the-century country England, complete with churches (Protestant and Catholic), a town hall and library (where you can pore over faded exhibits) and guards, dressed oh-so-smartly, scattered across the main square. There are few Westerners around; the centre is full of well-to-do Indians, strolling happily, their kids trotting round the square on donkeys whilst their parents take endless photos of them screaming with joy....
By the time we arrive at Shimla, it’s late, and I’m a wreck. My palor is ashen from the hair-raising bus ride and I look like something the cat dragged in. I can’t believe we actually made it here in one piece and mouth a silent prayer to the Big Guy. Yael, Nir and I scramble off the bus and prepare to catch our dusty backpacks, as they’re thrown off the roof in chaotic style. Frankly, I’m just glad they’re still there, after the hairpin bends. OK, three passengers plus luggage intact, mission accomplished...
The windows are cracked. The doors look like they could fall off at any moment. And it’s packed. And when I say packed, I don’t mean every seat is taken. I mean, it’s two or three to a regular seat, people jammed in, squeezed up against each other like sardines, screaming babies, cute kids, shy women and old people that I can’t even give up my seat for. Oh yes, and don’t forget the woman with the livestock in her lap (luckily, she’s at the front). Nir throws our backpacks on the roof and we bundle in...
The Punjab is a “safer” option (we can always find a place to spend the night) but if there really is no direct bus, we could find ourselves sitting at this bus terminal all day, which won’t be pleasant. I spy two young, pretty women with small holdalls and run up to them. Yes, they tell me, the “short cut” is fine. In fact, they’re going that way, because they’re studying at Solan University, about two hours south of Shimla. That’s it. Never one for procrastination, I make my decision. “Short cut” it is...
We leave late (always a bad idea) but it can’t be helped I guess. Trudging over the suspension bridge (I’m weighing in at an impressive 8 kilos, but Nir and Yael are carrying packs so heavy one could be forgiven for thinking they’re schlepping corpses) I take a last look over my shoulder at the Ganga. Well, not quite. The guys are starving and want a quick bite. We stop at the German Bakery. It’s almost 6pm, and I’m conscious that the sun’s going down. The river at dusk is at its most beautiful...
This place is pretty New Age by anybody’s standards. Without a doubt the yoga and ashram capital, of India, there’s no better place to come if you want to stand on your head, stare at a wall (I’ll give this one a miss) bang a drum, use healing crystals, learn to play the sitar or just ‘get spiritual man.’
Now I've escaped the dreaded ashram, and had several cups of cawfee, I am in remarkably cheerful spirits. I've soon checked into the Ganga View - an unpretentious little guest house, owned by a guy called Ajay with a bloodhound called Tiger sitting by his side - a few minutes walk from the river. It's $4 a night (the going rate) and for that I get a double bed, my own spartan bathroom (with sporadic hot water) but - most importantly of all - a fan with three different temperature speeds...
Tomorrow comes early. Really early. I am woken at 5am, for morning meditation. Bleary eyed, and with pounding head, I stumble to the main hall, where all around me are chipper-looking devotees, cross legged on the floor, chanting mantras and looking much more peaceful than anyone should be allowed to look at such an ungodly hour...
Off we go…and it’s not long before we’re picking up more passengers. Schoolgirls in their blazers, pigtails tied up with ribbon, women on their way to work, and a huge “babushka” type who shoots me a toothless smile. And it’s not long before we’re pulling into the next town. One schlepp across the road to the next shared auto rickshaw and I know I’m on the home run...
I am completely unfamiliar with my surroundings and stroll off down a side street, spying a cow ambling towards me. Women are sitting on the ground all around me, surrounded by piles of zucchini, chillies, an array of tropical fruits (quite a few of which I can’t recognise), children are returning from school, neat and tidy in their white shirts and grey skirts/trousers – little bags under their arms, chattering amongst themselves...
At least arriving in the middle of the night means you won’t get caught up in the notorious traffic that plagues the city, both night and day. Thirty minutes at night could be two hours in the rush hour (as I found out to my cost two years ago). People are rising from their slums at the side of the road, the chai walla is stirring his brew, small boys on their rickety bikes are wobbling by, precariously, and the city is coming to life.
