P.A.R.S.
Trip Start
May 25, 2003
1
7
13
Trip End
Aug 21, 2003
Parvati Valley,
India
Sunday, June 29, 2003
H felt the skin-tingling onset of her second bout of the plague around the time her pizza was delivered (Italian, Chinese and of course Israeli food are popular on just about all the menus around here, and contrary to popular belief, they don't just call it food here, they call it Indian food!) in the tiny incense-filled restaurant where we dined with another American couple, and she managed to put up a good front until we arrived back at the castle, where she began to sweat profusely and continued to do so as Mike helped the men from the land of the Golden Temple put back another round of gin, lemonade and malt liquor. Ouch.
Both feeling a lot less than perfect, for their respective reasons, the dynamic duo headed out early the next day, further up the Parvati Valley to Kasol and our last Indian Himalayan hike. The only incident worth noting during the three-hour journey occurred when H attempted to board the bus as Mike was the midst of purchasing some bananas. Mike felt a soft tap on his calf, and turned to see H's bag resting on his leg. A crowd had gathered and their wide-eyed stares guided Mike's eyes past the bag to the bewildered woman still strapped to it, laying on the ground. Oops - H had managed once again to prove Newton's theory on the mark, falling from the bus to the street below, her fall nicely broken by her trusty bag. Unscathed, she hopped on the bus and endured the three-jour trip to Kasol, still feeling a bit under the weather.
In Manali, we were invited to a huge Israeli party in the woods near the sleepy mountain village of Kasol, but we decided to do a hike further up the valley instead. We found Kasol deserted, everyone having vacated their rooms here to head into the woods to rage. H was feeling good enough to hike the next morning, so we left some extra stuff with our inn-keeper and headed into the hills. Our bus broke down (shocking!) about 2 hours walk from our trailhead, so in a light mountain mist we started walking the road. We arrived in a muddy village, had a chai and some pb&j and commenced a' strollin'.
Wow! This valley is unbelievably lush, with sheer cliffs flanking the raging Parvati River. Our trail climbed steadily past a couple villages and finally to the pinnacle of Khir Ganga. Khit is a well-known Indian desert, like tapioca, and this place got its name for the hot springs that flow through some kind of mineral that fills the water with floaties that look (on a good day) like this pudding. H was a mess by the time we arrived, so we rested a while before heading for the healing waters. Our siesta was interrupted by a now-familiar but nonetheless hideous hacking, indicative of yet another case of PARS.
As we said in our last missive, this entire region is famous for the marijuana that grows everywhere and the locals and visitors who smoke in unimaginable quantities in the name of Lord Shiva (and whatever else). They pack their ceremonial chillums (hollow conical pipes) with a combo of hash and tobacco, chant a little and chuff like there's no tomorrow. This is conspicuous charas (hash) consumption - for a new twist on tipping, the other night our teenage waiter handed me a hunk of the stuff and suggested it might finish off the meal perfectly, gesturing to the other diners who had all apparently seen the light of this post-prandial puff. I mean these guys SMOKE, morning noon and night in every imaginable locale and after some time, they inevitably contract the dread Parvati Acute Respiratory Syndrome (PARS). An Israeli we met in Khir Ganga (who, by the way, managed to skip his country's compulsory military service by pretending that he was crazy - "It was so easy, really" - told us between hacks that when he arrived in India he found this disease as disgusting as we did, and chuckled as he admitted that he would now bear the burden of its symptoms bravely, and please pass the pipe. We spent a wonderful evening by the campfire with this guy and his Russian mountain man buddy, who didn't say much but did some pretty impressive yoga and smoked more than anyone reading this can possible imagine (and I know who's reading this). A mountain storm filled the starry sky during the night, releasing a torrential downpour that tossed our "room" (a couple tarps tied to some trees) to and fro. The place held tight and we awoke the next morning warm and dry, luxuriated in the hot baths under the kind of sky that only a storm in the Himal can provide, white-washed and aglow with crisp light that renders every detail in extra-sharp relief. We sipped warm drinks, ate eggs, "watched" more of this smoking and gradually gathered our gear for the hike down the hill.
Soon we came upon the incongruous party in the woods. Each time we rounded a bend, the thumping grew louder until we caught our first glimpse of the colorful crowd, undulating in the trees to the tribal beat. We pulled over for a snack in the beautiful village of Kalga, 10 minutes beyond the bash, and made the final push back to the bus stand and, eventually Kasol, where we cleaned up, stuffed our faces (H finally found an authentic veggie pizza sans cheese) and got ready for the trip back to Delhi.
You must understand, Delhi did a number on H last time, but she is different now - stronger, wiser, not as wet behind the ears. Some other parts of her may be a little off (we told you, no details), but all in all she is in fine form to face her former nemesis, if only that damn bus would show...
You see, after a relaxed morning, we got on the local bus for Bhuntar (which is another tale for another time), where we were to meet the over-night coach to Delhi. This bus we had to meet had originated in Manali, where we purchased reserved seats the week before (reservations being a novel concept for buses in these parts, nearly guaranteeing that only one person will occupy each seat - perhaps less culturally interesting, but a big improvement in the comfort department). Anyway, we waited in the rain for our 5:00pm chariot to appear in its very clearly-described and mutually agreed-upon location (you get the picture). Each time a bus rolled up we congratulated each other on our good fortune and moved toward the open door, only to find that the door was not open for us. So we would sit again, trying to ignore the gut feeling H had (we said don't ask) that we were in the wrong place. The rain having ceased its falling while the clock kept up its incessant ticking, we agreed something was amiss, as every other traveler had successfully boarded a bus and there we sat. A couple calls later and we learned that we had indeed been standing in the wrong spot. It was at this moment that we witnessed one of those differences between our culture and the Indian way - to us, this meant possibly missing our Delhi connection to Vietnam and then, and then...! But to the kind if maddeningly calm folks who took it upon themselves to help us out, this was, well, nothing. A guy walked us up a hill saying something about maybe it will come soon, and shrugging off Mike's rhetorical questions about what if we missed and, and then what are we supposed to do. We crested this little hill and as if by magic that bus rounded the bend, nearly an hour and a half late and far from where we had sat only seconds before, paused poetically, just long enough for us to get on, and carried us off into the dusk. You just gotta love it.
Anyway, we are sitting in Delhi now, a relaxing day behind us (that's right, relaxing in Delhi - but as for the behind part, once and for all - don't ask). We are looking forward to an Indian feast, a short nap and a cab to the airport tomorrow at 5:00 am. Goodbye India...hello Vietnam!
Hope all's well...
Xoxo,
Us
