McLeod Ganj - Home Of H.H.
Trip Start
Mar 03, 2005
1
30
235
Trip End
Ongoing
McLeod Ganj,
India
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Probably mid to high 20's, which feels absolutely fantastic after the roaring 40's of Rajasthan. It is a small town in the initial mountains of the Great Himalaya Range. In the valley below is the city of Dharmasala, and in the distance above are the snow capped mountains of Dhaula Dar, while to the sides are other mountain villages and towns. The town itself is only has five or so main 'streets', which are really only larger alleyways, congregating in the main square. In the middle of town there is an air of noise and chaos, but it only takes a few seconds walk away from the square to find some peace.
McLeod Ganj's best known resident is the 14th Dalai Lama, or His Holiness to his closest friends. Back in 1959 the Dalai Lama fled to India in exile from the Chinese, with McLeod Ganj being his designated home. It means an enormous Tibetan influence in the area, which is a positive, because they are peace loving and super-friendly folk.
I immediately feel at home here, at it doesn't actually feel like India. And that is a good thing because I do need a little rest from India, even though I've only been here a few weeks. Its a grating place in many ways, though probably not as confronting as I thought it would be. I've only really seen one dead body, and that was only half a glimpse.
Mcleod Ganj is ridiculously cheap. The guesthouse I have moved into charges 165 Rupees for a room. That is a crazy AUD$5. The power does regularly stop and start but that is more to do with the town and its location, and not specifically a guesthouse issue. However I do suspect they wait until I'm in the shower in the dark before they switch it off.
After a brief initiation walk around the town to familiarise myself with the place, my trusty sidekick (ok I'm yet to come up for a decent description of her) Denise and I headed out of town towards the village of Bhag Su. There are pine trees, mountains and friendly monkeys along side the roadway. It feels more like Switzerland than India, if Switzerland had monkeys.
An uphill walk out of the village of Bhag Su takes you to the Bhag Su waterfall. The waters are crystal clear as they are running straight from their source in the Himalayas above. They are also bloody freezing because its basically melted snow, but its still refreshing on the tootsies. A number of cafe's sit half way up the hill near the waterfall. Its an relaxing place to spend a while before ambling back through Bhag Su and round the mountain to McLeod Ganj.
Once you are on a good thing, you need to stick to it. Nick's Italian Kitchen on the Bhag Su road is authentic. Although my stomache appears to be struggling after my ice cream from a few nights ago, my taste buds were screaming out "Pasta!". Even though I'm in a Tibetan community in the mountains of Northern India, the Gnocchi and Spinach Ravioli is sensational. So good that lunch and dinner at the same place doesn't seem to be a silly decision.
His Holiness's home temple, a short walk away in outer McLeod Ganj is surprisingly humble and simple. I had been to an extensive Monastry in western China, and I expected something of the same stature. However I suspect given the Tibetan spiritual leader is here 'in exile' and thus a welcome guest rather than at home, the complex is relatively simple. It is still a peaceful and interesting place, with chanting monks the main focus of my attention. It must be the similar hair-do's.
While in Pushkar I had been speaking to a couple who had spent some time up here and suggested that a walk to the snowline was "easy". Thus it was my suggestion to take to the mountains and spend a day walking to touch the cold white stuff.
We leisuely set out at 10am, stocked up very professionally - one litre of water each and no food.... Snacks for the journey were contemplated until I spotted a youngster coughing all over the biscuits and peanuts, with spots all over his face. Thus water it is and off we go! We also have a $1.20 map and guide book to lead the way.
A trek to the snowline involves an initial hike to Triund, a plateau at 2800 metres where you can camp for the night if required. We understand there are two ways of getting there. After consulting an autorickshaw driver, who seemed to want to overcharge us for the priviledge of driving us to the first option for the hike, we seal the deal with him to take us to Bhang Su for the second option.
The walk takes you past the same waterfall and cafes from the previous Himalayan expedition, and the cafe owner points us in the correct direction across the stream, and says "path to Triund". The path is a thin dusty track in the scrub, winding its way upwards. After a few minutes its already difficult to tell which way is previously travelled path and which isn't. The cafe owner yells at us from way below, pointing us in the opposite direction. Hmmmm, maybe this isn't as easy at it seems.
It soon becomes apparent that the map is useless. We'd only really just started out and already we've walked off the page. Still we're cheerful that we're on the right track. A local woman appears coming down from the mountain above, smiling and pointing, "Triund". It is also soon apparent that Denise is better at this climbing and trekking biz than me, and leads the way enthusiastically. "I've got legs like a goat!" she says. Thus she is christened 'Goatgirl' and I become the trusty sidekick, with no superpowers.
"Who's Your Nanny?" becomes the inspirational motto of choice.
There really is no way you can tell tht you are on a path most of the time, but we can see a couple of buildings far higher up a mountain and across a ridge. Two or so hours in we stumble across a slate roofed village and temple which appears empty. We hear a whistle from above and see a teenage boy waving to us.
Sunil is the son of a goat shepherd. While he lives in Dharmasala ("next to the Cricket stadium, India played Pakistan there") some ten kilometres from McLeod Ganj, his father lives up in the mountains and he makes the monthly journey up to see him. The walk home must be nearing twenty kilometres in total.
"Why way to Triund, Sunil?"
Sunil turns around, points at the steepest part directly above us.
"Straight up".
The views are already spectacular high above the valley, and the mountain above is steep with some scrub and lots of silvery slate rocks. Although we think Sunil is slightly nuts in suggesting the direction, we shrug and take his advice, heading straight up.
Soon enough we were climbing at a 60 degree angle, grabbing tufts of grass and rocks. It wasn't dangerous, but it was disconcerting because we were so high.
"STRAIGHT UP."
"NEARLY THERE"
Goatgirl is inspirationally climbing like a goat. Adrian is climbing on behind wondering how the hell she can scamper up so easily.
"STRAIGHT UP"
We would climb over a peak, only to find another peak on the other side. Still we continued on in a direction that could only be described as straight up. Suddenly over one hill arrives an older man wearing a scarf over his head, wispy white beard, thongs, floppy pants and no top, carrying a walking stick. He looked like St Peter, although with a German accent. I suspected we had walked to the pearly gates we'd gone so high. We were four hours in and he suggested we had another 90 minutes to go, even though we could see Triund above us to the left. "You can't miss the path" he said as he headed down towards the bottom.
"STRAIGHT UP"
Finally we reached a plateau, which revealed stunning views of the snow peaks of the Himalayas. We stopped to take in the surroundings. Blue skies, snowy mountains, giddy heights and Hindi temples. And no path. It seems that St Peter was wrong as no path was visible. Unless he was thinking that we would find the path to enlightenment rather than the path to Triund.
"STRAIGHT UP. WELL STRAIGHT ACROSS THEN..... NEARLY THERE"
Goatgirl was off once more, leading me onwards to food, water and potential shelter if required. Soon we were in a forest, thinking we were following a path, but it only lead us to a deadend. A little more backtracking and we were above the forest, climbing over boulders and grassy plains, with cute baby goats to keep us company. Denise seemed to be able to talk to them, only as a true Goatgirl could. My underwear was not on the outside of my trousers, I held no superpowers. I found the baby goats cute, but not informative as to directions.
Triund was within ten minutes. We had been on the move for over five hours, straight up.
Somewhere near 2,800 metres we stumbled into the tarpoline covered shacks that were the two cafes on the plateau of Triund. Some Chapati bread, Dal and gallons of Apple Juice and water awaited us. Other travellers told us we must be mad coming from that direction up. They indicated an easier path from the other direction of only two and a half hours, which required no crawling on all fours. But they wouldn't have seen what we'd seen, experienced what we'd experienced, nor had the opportunity to use the words "Who's Your Nanny?" so often as ourselves. I was a proud trusty sidekick. Slightly exhausted and begging that my stomache would not turn over as it had early in the morning. I've been sufering a dodgy gizzard for the past day or so, but clench-inducing altitude climbing appears to alleviate it.
After an hour or so of taking in the stunning views, food and sunshine, we decided that it was time to head back to McLeod Ganj. By the easy road.
If you think the adventure finishes here, you are sadly sadly mistaken.
It didn't take long for the clouds to gather. They rolled in through the valley over Dharmasala and up the mountain. The rain was expected within ten minutes, but the rolling thunder, nearby lightening and coin-sized hail wasn't. The atmosphere was electric, but 100,000 volts from above will do that to you. There was a short huddle under a rocky outcrop for a couple of minutes because of the stinging hail, but we didn't stay long as the hail subsided.
As the rain slowed to a drizzle and the sun set over the hills, the conversation turned elsewhere in order to keep ourselves occupied in the sopping wet. Currently I was leading the wet t-shirt contest by a smigdeon.
Goatgirl - "So how do you like your Martini's?"
Non-Goatboy - "Er, dry...."
Non-Goatboy - "I reckon there is a film in this. Julianne Moore's daughter would play you. Who would play me?"
Goatgirl - "A young Sean Connery"
I like the girl.
The thunder, lightening and hail recommenced. After a short consideration of our predicament (half way up a mountain track, dangerous conditions, unrelenting precipitation), it appeared we had no choice but to continue on in order to avoid hyperthermia. We were soldiers, we were soldiering on.
We continued to "run, Forrest run". Down the track, avoiding the slippery rocks, avoiding the lightening rods. A two and a half hour walk turned into a 90 minute jog, but we did make it to the base of the mountain, and of all things a book store, where the owner told us that the village of Daramakot and its autorickshaws were a good twenty minutes walk away still. It was already beyond dusk. Luckily only a minute later, one rounded the corner and happily took us aboard for the remaining journey back to McLeod Ganj. We were riding high on adrenalin, flying in a three-wheeled taxi, soaking wet, listening to loud Hindi pop-music. The decision was made to drink those Martini's.
I was shaken, but not stirred.
