Dreamy soul-searching in Dharamsala

Fig. 1: Are we going there? ©FG

“What have I got myself into?” I asked myself as I gazed out the hotel lobby in McLeod Ganj, Dharamsala, admiring the snow-capped mountain which seems so high almost reaching the heavens. I convinced myself, “Of course, we would not be going there. It looks too high for comfort.” Sheepishly, I approached the guide to ask, “Just how high are we going?”

“You see that snow," pointing at the same peak that I had seen earlier.
"We will try to scale the snow line and see how far we can go after that,” he replied.

I felt a lump at the back of my throat. Not wanting to be a spoilsport or an attention seeker, I just kept my trepidations to myself.

Come to think of it, in hindsight, all the fears and uncertainties proved unfounded. All our faithful weekend boot camp pieces of training under the auspices of our masochistic slavedriver leader dubbed
‘Commando’ apparently did not go to waste.

Maybe it was slightly more strenuous than a walk in the park, but we did experience some harrowing times scaling the slippery thin-iced slopes. It is not as if that we were dragging our sorry legs through the snow, but instead, we stopped to smell the roses (just that they were none,) be awed by the breathtaking picture-perfect views of Mother Nature and had time to take lots of pictures and selfies.

#Day 1

The first league of the journey was from the sleepy Buddhist town of McLeod Ganj (see Fig. 3 below). Housing many exiled Buddhist Tibetans, this small hill town houses many monasteries, Hindu temples and even a gothic-styled Anglican church.

Fig 2: All gung-ho before the kill; 5 trekkers and 2 eye candies. ©FG

Fig. 3: Peak time McLeod Ganj Times Square. ©FG
This is essentially the heart of the town. The confluence of three narrow streets is usually packed with the patient, uncomplaining restrained drivers who are courteous enough to allow the fellow motorists to pass through, even though the other is not following traffic rules, without raising a ruckus or the middle finger.

The first part of the trail involved a 3-hour walk to Baal Village. Dressed to the occasion, anticipating cool temperatures, we were stuffed with long-sleeved vests and double-layered clothing, we left what remained as the last semblance of civilisation. Equipped with Mr Manu, our guide, his helper, a cook and four faithful ponies, the mission began. This stretch started with a steep one-hour hike. The path was paved by cuboidal granite slabs which acted like steep stairs. As we kept climbing, we started peeling off our clothes one by one. The air was getting thinner, but the sun was out with a vengeance. We could feel the thinness of the air as we ascended rapidly. The route was, however, was not a lonely one. Along the way passed high-spirited fellow tourists and even Buddhist monk who meditated in monasteries up in the mountains who were free with their cursory greetings and also posed for a shot or two.

Fig. 4: It ain't heavy, it is just my karma. ©FG

All through our journey, at the back of our minds, we were ambivalent on our decision to agree to employ the services of timid ever accommodating services of these ponies. Of course, it is inhumane to put these obliging creatures to carry our worldly burdens. But at the same time, we justified by telling ourselves that it is a win-win situation. The ponies broke their sweat for the employers who would have the finances to put nutritious feeds on their plates as well as the owners’ families. The ponies can walk with their heads held high knowing well that they work for their existence and not live on handouts.

Our stopover at Baal Village was an idyllic double-storey chalet by a slow-moving stream. It was situated strategically at the junction where mountain tribal people traverse. It was here we had the honour of witnessing a traditional wedding complete with full regalia.

Fig. 5: By the streams of Baal Village, where we sat down. ©FG

Fig. 6: A big day in a small place.

In what seems like a place where nothing happens, a wedding brings out the colour and the smiles in everyone. Is it not cruel to revel in the plunge of others? Music, food, wine ruled! ©FG

Fig 7: The Guardian of the Mountains.©FG

Sprinkled along the path of the hills are many small structures, stone monuments and deities to pay dues to the spirit of the mountains. On special occasions, scores of worshippers throng these powerful places to show respect. At least devotion here is democratic - there are no individual preferences. The young, old and the weak have to endure the hike to reach their destinations; no special pass, no express lane. Devotees have to go to the mountains, the mountains will not come to them!

#Day 2

Fig. 8: Survived the first night, off to conquer the rest. ©FG.

After a not so good nights' rest in an unfamiliar wrap of the sleeping bag, despite the comforts of the chalet in Baal Village, it was time to hit the trails. Towards the end of Day 1, we almost had a scare. One of our hikers had pulled his thigh adductors muscles (of all places). Only then did we realise that with all the backup that we had, we found ourselves handicapped to treat something as simple as a cramp. After multiple trials, errors and manoeuvres as well considering sending him back on a pony, he miraculous recovered at the mention of the word whiskey! That was the excitement of Day 1.

After a hearty breakfast fit for the King, prepared by the friendly chef, he headed towards the dizzying heights of Triund. Thanks to our local outdoor activities' shop in Subang Jaya, we were dressed to the nines to meet the challenge that Triund had for us. Again, we soon discovered ourselves to be overdressed for the occasion. As the body got heated with the walking and the rising sun, one by one, we started stripping our tunics. We ended up just with short-sleeved T-shirts and multi-purpose long pants.

Many locals seem to treat this stretch of the hike as a literal 'walk-in-the-park'. College students with too much time on their hands were seen making last-minute decisions whether to make a day trip up to Triund. And some were still in their party clothes and stilettos from the night before, I reckoned. Surprisingly, they all eventually made it, in about 2 to 3 hours. I suppose they had the luxury of youth and home ground to their advantage.

The landscape as we approached Triund is one of a surprise after another. Just as we thought we had the best postcard shot, right in front of our eyes would another and another. The best was yet to come. At the peak, flashed in our faces were 360o of panoramic flaunting of Mother Nature in her full glory - mountains, ridges, troughs, ravines, greenery, snow and rocks.

Fig. 9: A kaleidoscopic play of colours by Nature.
Snowy white on the top, frosty white in the bottom, interlaced by shades of brown and black of the hardy granite terrain and bark of a tree with a spread of leafy green and mustard yellow flowers dancing to the tunes of the quiet stream and cooling zephyr.©FG

Fig. 10: The view as we peel open the leave of sheet from the inside of our tents in Triund.
Do not need to go to the Alps for this view. The camping ground in Triund is a flat plateau overlooking some of the best breathtaking mountain range in the world. Snow-capped tips on one side with ravines and valleys as far as the eyes can see is a sight not for the faint-hearted.©FG

Fig. 11: The sun subtly announces the end of another day in paradise. Sunset in Triund. The horizon appears blue as if it were the ocean. In reality, it is just land and more land. The ground that stood still to the antics of Man over the millennia. ©FG

The picturesque view of the Indian sunset belied the trouble that was awaiting us as darkness fell. "It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us," said Mandela. On the contrary, the temperature plummeted our anxiety of the cold raised. In the war between Man versus Nature, Mother Nature must have bowled him over many times. When looking up at the emptiness of the sky and counting stars became a seriously numbing business, we had to curl up to the comforts of the tent which housed the kitchen. With the warmth provided by the burning stove, the steamy soups, bread, accompaniments and the inhibitory input from the Devil's brew, we were in high spirits!

Fig. 12: It is the heat and the cold at extremes we despair ©FG.
The ability of humans to live through exceptional temperatures must be the reason we have become the most dominant species on Earth surpassing more prominent and stronger animals.

#Day 3

The experience of the night before humbled us. We thought that with our state of the art sleeping bags which could withstand temperatures down to +5º C, thick thermals and the tired bodies of the activities of the day, we would be sleeping like babies. Little did we realise it was a lesson in thermodynamics. Cold winds have the nasty habit of sneaking through tiny cracks and crannies to play games with our cold receptors! We came to realise the temperature on the night before must have dipped to subzeroº C levels as the ground, the following was distinctly frosty.

This must be the most anticipated day of our tour. That was the day that we were to make a beeline to the snow line. Anxiety was high. The route had frequently been closed when the weather did not permit. Our leader could not make it, even to Triund, the previous year due to thick snow. After all the preparations and all, we thought it would be like icing on the cake if it could end our trip with a memorable happy ending. The thrill of scaling the thick snow and the natural landscape of the Himalaya made us forget that we could have lost more than 3000kCal that day alone.

Fig. 16: Can you imagine manning a cafe to service that occasional hiker that passes your way?
We saw such many of such establishments - stalls with the bare minimum to quench the thirst and caffeine (or tea) fix. Perhaps the owners are there not to make money, as the prices are just marginally higher, but to fulfil specific karmic duties. Maybe they had been enlightened to realise that it is their dharma to serve their speciality tea, ginger-lemon-honey tea, to mountaineers. ©BobSingh

Even though we were cursing through our trail with full confidence placed in the reliable hands of our capable guide, the journey may have harrowing for the unprepared. In some places, melting snow made it very slippery, especially when manoeuvring through steep paths. Once or twice, we accidentally stepped full-length into hollow spaces when we had accidentally misjudged the depth of the snow. We soon learnt that a pole preceding our step was life-saving.

Of all the things one could encounter, one of our members, for the first time in his adult life, despite having scaled many tropical hills before, discovered that he has acrophobia (irrational fear of heights)! Somehow, he managed to scale down back to our tents at the end of the day. His greatest concern, however, was how he was going to descend the next day as we had planned to take a steeper way back.

In our previous home ground training, the thick vegetations must have had concealed the extent our climbs. In the open space of the Snow Line, the inner demons must have unleashed.

In the background is the path leading to Moon Peak. Our guide advised stopping at this level as walking conditions became harsh. As we were resting and enjoying the fruit of our expedition, four Russian punks in the summer T-shirts and basketball shoes were rushing off to the Peak with no guide, food or supplies. Despite our guide’s advice of the danger of their foolhardy, they pursued without any inhibitions. Many recalcitrant travellers have lost in these mountains, and some do not even make it to the statistics. They are never found, or their trip is never recorded.

#Day 4

It was time to leave, bringing home memories and the rejuvenated unwound bodies to face the challenges of the modern world. For the mountains, it is just another day with another set of tourists. It must have been her experience that all her visitors returned awed by the splendour of Nature. It is indeed a humbling experience. We realise the minuscule of our existence and that we do not really matter to the grander scheme of things. It is only our delusional point of reference that wants to destroy the environment that we scarcely understand to satisfy our bottomless needs.

Fig. 18: Mission accomplished. ©FG.

Word of appreciation goes to Mr Manu Hiyunri of Manu Adventure, Bhagsu Nag, Dharamsala for his meticulous planning and extreme care for our safety and comfort.
We are grateful to the chef Mr Subhash and his helper, Mr Suresh and the pony man, Mr. Nandu. Kudos to our slave-driver fitness coach Mr Bhupinder Singh without whom we would be just another couch potato. Thanks to our spouses for the support and trust that our time is spent in a worthwhile manner.

https://asok22.wixsite.com/real-lesson

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.

Gory historic details or gore fest?

Razakar: The Silent Genocide Of Hyderabad (Telegu, 2024) Director: Yata Satyanarayana In her last major speech before her disposition, Sheikh Hasina accused those who opposed her rule in Bangladesh of being Razakars. The opposition took offence to this term and soon widespread mob throughout the land. Of course, it is not that that single incident brought down an elected government but a culmination of joblessness and unjust reservations for a select population group. In the Bengali psyche, Razakar is a pejorative term meaning traitor or Judas. It was first used during the 1971 Pakistan Civil War. The paramilitary group who were against the then-East Pakistani leader, Majibur Rehman, were pro-West Pakistan. After establishing independence in Bangladesh, Razakars were disbanded, and many ran off to Pakistan. Around the time of Indian independence, turmoil brewed in the princely state of Hyderabad, which had been a province deputed by the Mughals from 1794. The rule of N...

RIFLE RANGE BOY

Search This Blog