Manali - There's No Business Like Snow Business...
Trip Start
Mar 03, 2005
1
31
235
Trip End
Ongoing
Manali,
India
Friday, May 27, 2005
It is intimidating to say the least facing a ten hour bus journey to the town of Manali, with the trots. Sorry for my honesty. Actually I'm not - shit happens as they say.
We departed in the early evening, an Immodium and some cracker biscuits the only items left in my gizzard. Unfortunately I had to break my golden rule as to visiting bus stop toilet, though technically I had only made that rule for bus stop toilets in China. By the light of the maglite I could see the lizards and cobwebs. It was another "What The Fuck Am I Doing Here?" moment.
Murray's Law Of Travel #14 = In Times of Delhi Belly (or The 'Kullu Valley Clench' in this case) and Bus Rides, sometime one Immodium just isn't enough....
I will remember this for the rest of my life. I awoke at 3am, looking from the front seat of the bus over the driver's shoulders. The only light was from the headlights. The rest of the passengers around me were asleep. I was looking through a rectangular windscreen into the light of the high beams, as the driver worked overtime flying down hill, turning the (non-power steered) wheel overtime round the corners, cliffs everywhere. It was unbelievably nerve-wracking as you just couldn't believe he'd make every corner. Terrifying is a good word. And it was icy-cold.
It was like watching a video game, only I couldn't find the controller. Thus, when we pulled into Manali 6am, I hadn't had a great deal of sleep.
The guest house is in old Manali, which is a few clicks from the main part of town. Manali is a snow-village, except for this time of year, and it also doesn't feel like India. The views of the Himalayas are exceptional. After an hour or so kipping in recovery from the bus ride, I wandered through old Manali into the main town. There are skinny roads and flying autorickshaws everywhere. For some reason 90% of the tourists are Israelis, who spend most of their time completely stoned - and for some reason as pointed out to me, they ironically all seem to hang out at the German Bakery.
Although my stomache problems continue, I'm prepared to risk all by consuming decent food. Sundried tomatoes, olives, pasta and bruschetta at Pizza Olive in old Manali. I miss having them every few days....
With a continuing high-proportion of time spent in the 'little room', two magnificent minds and a Lonely Planet health section make the decision to hit the chemist - it appears I have the Bacterial Trots, and they won't go away. I suspect it was my meal of Lime-ripple Ice Cream in Jaipur. The chemist is most helpful, suggesting a new germ killing drug, a mix of the one mentioned in the LP ("Cureyourshitszine") and some other whizzbang medication. Literally within an hour I feel tremendous.
Mental Note #7 - When I return home, remember to contact the Indian Embassey to suggest a new slogan for their forthcoming Tourist advertising campaign. "India - Happiness Is Only A Dry Fart Away....."
Vashist is a village across the river, pine forests and apple orchards from old Manali. After looking around town, Goatgirl (the name has stuck) and I wandered out into the valley views past temples, cow trails, cow pats and women carrying large baskets of grass on their heads, to an impressive waterfall. The cool waters rush straight over a cliff from thew mountains above.
After a lunch in the village, we decide to find Beer.
This is not such as easy task in India, as the Hindi's (main religion) don't drink. We ran into an English guy who we met on the bus, and his friend - Amil (a Pom of Indian heritage who's main pickup line is "Amil, not a snack, get it?") and Matt. Our search for a brew takes us to the other end of town, but finally a Beer Bar is found. Beer is found as well, a one year old (thanks to the labelling efficiencies of the Indians) Kingfisher longneck. I suspect it is Foster's with a different label, because it tastes like cat's piss.
The autorickshaw back to old Manali is nothing short of hilarious. Its a three wheel vehicle, with four passengers and a driver squished in. Amil sits at the front hugging the driver, tooting the horn expertly and stopping the traffic. As he looks Indian, the locals take his hand signals seriously and stop, as we fly by giddy with laughter and award-losing brew.
We make the decision to leave Manali and old Manali, on the evening bus. With most of a day to kill, the Solang Nullah valley looks like an appropriate half day journey. Solang Nullah is the Aspen/Mt Buller/Whatever that funky French Ski Resort place is, of the north of India. And it is only a short taxivan ride away. As I rarely see snow, it seems to good an opportunity to be true.
Our arrival at the valley is nothing short of disappointing. It is the crappest ski resort in the world. No snow is visible, except on the high peaks surrounding the area. The driver kicks us out at the carpark, telling us to "take a horse, or walk three kilometres".
The thought of riding the horse is not appealing. Perhaps it is the drizzling rain. Perhaps it is the wet horse, smelling similar to a wet dog. Perhaps it is the wet hessian blanket on the wet horse, smelling similar ro a wet hessian blanket on a wet dog. We decide that we will walk for a while and see if things improve.
Perhaps it was the walk along an uphill road, flowing with a river of water, horse urine and shit, but it wasn't enjoyable. We made it a few hundred metres to the first of the ski runs. Actually it is hard to tell it is a ski run, as there was no snow. There is a short towline, with locals huddled under its building, chatting away. But there is no snow, and no skiing.
Soon after we gave up and returned to Vashist for a lazy lunch before packing our bags.
India's premiere ski resort was a little bit of a let down. At least the horses are the only ones who now can't control their bowels, as I feel as fit as a fiddle. Its the drugs man, the drugs.....
