India: Parvati Valley, Dharamshala, Delhi 4-16 Jul

Ido, Gayla and I left Manali for Kasol early in the morning in pouring monsoon rain. A friend of Ido was coming with us too, Lio who is French and an artist. We organised a tourist bus through an agency in Vishisht, Rs400 which was expensive for the four hour journey (only 76km, but in India that equals four hours) but it was supposed to be a more comfortable, fast and direct saving us around three buses, so okay. We got down to the bus station in New Manali and waded through the roads that were now rivers to find a daba for tea and chapatti before our bus. The minivan was quite comfortable, but stopped at a pashmina scarf shop where we all just stared at each other and didn’t get out, obviously they think tourists paying a bit more for a minivan instead of local bus would want to buy stuff but the minivan was full of Indian’s, we were the only tourists. It also stopped at a stupid place for a tea, ridiculously expensive with all kinds of added charges like tax and service added on in tiny print. It’s called Himalayan Village and it has a beautiful garden and luxury treehouses that you can stay in nestled in the forest. But a cup of black tea was Rs40 while everywhere else it’s around Rs6. One of the waiters told Gayla the price of the tea, then brought her something different that was more expensive without telling her. When she refused to pay the more expensive price the manager chased her outside and started yelling at her and would not let us leave until she paid the Rs10 difference, in front of all the other customers. Honestly a pathetic and aggressive way to behave, so avoid that horrible tourist trap at all costs. Himalayan Village Kasol.

We weaved and winded our way around the Parvati Valley through forest and rivers. I’d never heard of Parvati Valley so I don’t think it’s that well known to travellers, although it’s called little Israel because Israeli’s flock there. One person must have told their friend about it, and so on. I can’t believe it’s such a well kept secret. It’s a peaceful, beautiful, mountainous forest valley with friendly people and nice places to stay. Kasol is the main town in the valley, and from there you can take local buses to some of the surrounding villages. There are lots of signs in Hebrew and Israeli food in the restaurants, which is fine by me because it’s yum. The area has a big Tibetan / Nepali influence. We were still in Himachel Pradesh, North Western India where many Nepali’s work and live, and so there was Nepali dabas (local eateries) serving yummy momos and thukpa, lots of vegetarian and delicious food. 

Ido had been here before and was still showing Gayla and me around this part of the world. He went back to the same home he stayed in before, what he called his Indian Mom, Nebula, and she is a very sweet lady. She had really bad toothache when we arrived and had been chewing charas so she was a little dazed. She had two cosy wooden upstairs rooms that she let out, with an outside hot shower for only Rs100 a night (a little over £1) Downstairs she had a young Nepali family as tenants, and their little boy was cute but a tyrant, shy at first but after a while he grabbed onto my trousers with a nice gloopy ball of snot in his hand. We wandered around the town eating momos, drinking yum masala chai and looking at the Hebrew bookshops. I bought a really cool yak wool waistcoat. It was low season, the town was practically empty. Everyone had gone further north to Ledakh or Kashmir, where we had just come from. As I always say, low season is the only time to travel. Everything is cheaper, the locals have more time for you and aren’t so frantic and the weather is more interesting.

Kasol

The next morning we set off for Pulga after eating shakshouka, an Israeli breakfast of eggs cooked in tomato which I can now list as one of my favourite breakfasts, to one of the tiny villages in the surrounding mountains. The bus was Rs35 (£0.40) and took around two hours although it was probably only around 10km. The road winding through the valley was now so familiar to me. Gauged out like a ledge in the mountain side, it was more rocks and potholes than a road that had never even heard about tar. The retro rocking creaky bus flew over the jagged crevices and bounced us around like we were being rolled down a hill in a metal hamster ball with wheels and seats. The bus was nearly empty too with only a few locals, including a sweet little baby who sat up and was bounced around with a smile on his face throughout. There was a man with his young son, who every so often would discreetly stick his head out the window and vomit a little, and then go back to sitting obediently next to his father. Can you imagine that happening in the West? Apparently because these rural people hardly ever use transport they get car sick much easier than we do, although I was feeling a little woozy from the rocking bus. I have a video of us all bouncing around in a comical way.

Passing towns on the river in the valley

We got to the end of the line for the bus and had some chai and super fresh, melt in your mouth chapattis and dhal with the flies in the daba next to the bus stop and set off for the hour or so walk through the valley to Pulga. There are three small villages aligned on three hills in this part of the valley and there is no road to them, you need to climb through the valley to get there which makes them extra special. Unfortunately they are building a huge hydro electricity plant in the river that runs through the valley, and while it’s good that they’re using the natural resource of the powerful water for energy it will ultimately change the valley. But for now it’s still a beautiful secret spot in the middle of Himachel Pradesh, a true North Western Indian village in the valley surrounded by forests, rivers, and mountains.

School girls with red ribbons in their plaited hair walked along us on the path to their village, pointing out the way for us. Herds of small packhorses and their herdsmen also wound through the narrow path and as they passed we had to find a place to perch out the way, making sure we didn’t fall down the steep valley. (I did fall once like an idiot when a man carrying a hay bale walked pass, but luckily a bush caught me otherwise I’d be at the bottom of the ravine). 

It was a beautiful, sunny day so we arrived sweaty and happy to a place where Ido had stayed before, Devraj Guesthouse. It is a three story wooden house with eight rooms right at the edge of the village, surrounded by yellow wheat fields and looking out over two mountains converging into the valley between which the sun set, all surrounded by a fresh green pine forest and snow tipped mountains in the distance. There was a mouse quiet German guy in one room called Ben who had been there for a few weeks, and an even quieter, gentle, long haired Japanese hippy guy in the other room and then us. After a few days, two more Israeli girls arrived and painted a black and silver bird on the wall at the top of the house where the sun streamed in and there were hammocks to watch the sunset. Lio also set to work as soon as we got there to paint a cool design on another wall in the open upstairs sunset drenched spot.

We spent five days there, watching the sunsets, playing chess with Devraj, going into the forest (nicknamed the Fairy Forest) and soaking up the magic spiritually of the valley. If you carried on walking up, you would walk into the Himalayas and not see another village and probably not stop until you reached the top of a 5000m snow tipped peak. One day when running around the forest, some nomadic looking mountain people with baskets on their backs held up with a strap over their heads in the typical way they carry heavy packs, came and sat with us just to have a look as no communication with words was possible. Village dogs in packs would bound up the mountain to sniff at us and hang out jostling and playing until they ran off in a frenzy back down the mountainside. 

We ate fresh yummy food at Devraj’s restaurant nearly every day. Fresh ginger and lemon tea, masala chai, vegetable thali’s, oats with apple, Israeli salad, spicy dhal and rice and sometimes even chocolate cake or quiche.

One Friday we decided to try cook in the small kitchen shack outside Devraj’s guesthouse, and bought all the ingredients from the tiny local shopkeeper. We made tomato soup, crumbed cauliflower; salad and Lio went to the kitchen at Devraj’s restaurant and made two really delicious quiches in the wood oven. It cost loads more than just eating at the restaurant where a whole meal is around £1, but made for a really fun day of activity as none of us had cooked for weeks or months and we missed it.

One afternoon we walked to one of the other villages on the opposite hill in the sweaty heat and had ice cold sprite and apple juice from a local shopkeeper, with his tiny granddaughter watching on. This really was low season, there were nobody around this village except a few local men sitting in groups under trees talking together. On returning to our village we each dumped a bucket of cold water over us (our shower) and sat against the wall of the house in the rays of the setting sun to dry off.  It was five days of living in a secluded, mountainous, fresh forested North Indian village, and I couldn’t have been more in tune with myself, relaxed and happy. Ido, Gayla and Lio were all such great people to spend time with too, they really made the experience.

The three of us decided to go to Dharamshala after Parvati, also in Himachel Pradesh. I needed to stick to the area between Leh and Delhi as I only had a month in total, so Dharamshala was a perfect place to end my trip. It’s where the Tibetan parliament now is and has been for the past 60 years. How grateful we should be to India for housing the exiled Tibetan government.

From Kasol it’s an hour and a half bus local bus ride to Bhuntar (Rs25) where I got lots of uninhibited stares from the local men. As usual, there were way more men everywhere, on the buses, on the streets. Bhuntar isn’t anything special, just another busy dirty town. I bought two juicy yellow peaches like the ones you get in South Africa at a fruit stand and munched those. We had to wait a couple of hours eating Indian sweets and drinking sweet chai in Bhuntar, and then got onto an overnight tourist bus to Dharamshala for Rs500. 

The bus was comfortable and packed with tourists coming from Manali, but we had to sit right at the back which always equalled the most bumpy and stomach lurching ride (I had learnt this all the way back in Vietnam).This was my first night bus in India and I was a little terrified, I’d seen the roads in the day and they didn’t fill me with confidence. The driving was absolutely mental too, but somehow it all worked and flowed and I hadn’t seen even one accident, I knew you just had to relax and meditate your anxiety away and trust Shiva that it would all be fine! We stopped for some chai around midnight and had some fresh ginger and lemon, and then got back on the bus for the night. I somehow managed to doze off but then was lurched awake in a cold sweat. The driver was careening down the mountainside and taking the twists and turns so fast that I’ve never felt such sickness, and had to stick my head out the window only to see the road and the cliffs and the bus lurching left and right. He was driving like a maniac, and this was the only time in all my travels that I felt genuinely afraid. Ido and I were bouncing up and down in our seats so much that our heads practically were touching the ceiling. He was my hero though, and as soon as he saw how terrible I felt he marched straight up to the front booth where the driver was. He walked inside, and I couldn’t see them but the driver was so surprised he screeched to a halt to hear what Ido had to say. I heard him say loudly in surprise: ‘SLOWER??’ But when he started up again he did actually go slower which totally amazed me, all the way to Dharamshala. Thanks God! Ido told me a few days later that he thinks the driver was drunk, but he didn’t tell me at the time which I was so grateful for.

Dharamshala is another pretty, green mountainous town in Himachel Pradesh. One thing it’s popular for is classes for tourists, like jewellery making, cooking, yoga, meditation and Indian instrument making or playing. There are a couple of areas to stay but the main ones are at the top on a hill, Bhagsu and Dharamkot. Bhagsu is described as a commercialised warren of concrete which I have to agree with, but is also where most of the classes are and is central and easy to get around. Dharamkot is a little further up the mountainside than Bhagsu, there are no roads there so you have to make a little walk through the rocky pathways but it’s worth it, its green and quieter and just nicer. I ended up staying in Bhagsu though, up the hill in a guesthouse with a really nice balcony and view of the valley for Rs250. It was a big clean room with a really nice bathroom which I’m sure in peak season would be more like Rs400 a night. They had nice food and coffee in Bhagsu, and it was a shorter walk to Mcleod Ganj down the hill which is home to the Tibetan community and the main tourist hub, and also some good local dabas. The Tibetan influence gives Dharamshala a feel of multiculturalism and is a perfect example of India’s tolerance. Hindus and Buddhists live harmoniously side by side which gives the city a peaceful, colourful serenity. We watch school children play from a balcony, running as soon as the bell rings to their classes and a stern looking teacher marches to the class holding some kind of instrument, while a monk reads on a rooftop nearby.

The traffic is nuts, with cars, bikes, rickshaws, tourists all trying to squeeze down the same tiny roads, with Tibetan ladies selling their jewellery all along the sides. Every afternoon a downpour of fat heavy droplets would tumble out the sky drenching everyone, making the traffic thicker and the people wider with their umbrellas, which they use for the sun as well as the rain. Tourists are very common here, but even so a Sheikh man held up his baby to look at me as I pass. I wave at the baby and his little face contorted into an expression I couldn’t make out. 

We walk down the hill to try find the Tibetan museum, which is actually in Mcleod Ganj and not hard to find but somehow we missed it. We walked down and down into the valley, and came across a restaurant and book shop that looked like it could be in Primrose Hill, London. It couldn’t be more different to its surroundings, but it was a welcome place to step into. Called Cafe Illiterati, it was decorated by heavy stone floors and wooden furniture, walls of rare and interesting books along with classics, and books on every subject. A small but delicious menu, on the expensive side but the food was so good. And musical instruments dotted around the place with couches to read on and fresh mint lemonade to drink. We walked around, touching the books and looking at everything that was so different to where we were. The owner was from Belgium but spoke fluent Hindi, books was his passion and he spent his free time in markets searching for them. We decided to go back there for dinner, and continued the search for the Tibetan museum. When we did go back I bought two books, Kafka and a really cool book on Victorian trades, with Victorian illustrations. He said it took him ages to find that one, and was sad to see it go.

On continuing we realised we had gone too far, we found ourselves in the Tibetan Parliamentary houses. There was the Department of Information and International Relations, Library of Tibetan Works and Archives and many more. The people were in traditional Tibetan formal clothing, walking purposefully around during their working day. The older generation of Tibetans sat on the steps of the buildings, talking and the women looking after grandchildren.

 In Bhagsu, I really wanted to learn how to make Henna tattoos, learn Bollywood dancing and to cook some Indian food. It was down season, and so not many classes to choose from. Bollywood dancing, I was told, was in Mumbai where Westerners were coveted as extras in those big colourful Bollywood productions. I’d have to leave that to another time. I found Rita’s cooking school, where one morning she taught me how to make spicy dhal and samosas, simple delicious vegetarian food which I’m hooked on. Ingredients like chilli, garlic, potato, coriander seeds, lentils, onion. YUM. It cost Rs300 and you get to eat for lunch what you just made. Rita was a ‘no nonsense’ Hindu lady, a clever businesswomen and a busy mom, she sang mantras while she cooked.

After four days it was time to make my way back to Delhi to leave India. I bought an expensive overnight bus ticket, I wanted to make sure the horrible night bus experience wasn’t repeated. And this time I sat in the front. It cost Rs1100 from Dharamshala to Delhi, leaving at 6pm and was twelve hours. We were still up in the mountains and had to wind down to the low lying Delhi, so the roads were windy and twisty along green rocky valleys for the first part, and then flat and straight towards the end. The bus driver drove sanely, although stopped every hour for unknown reasons (to smoke, pee, chat to a friend?) and played music and Bollywood movies all night with the lights blaring. I’m not sure India has got the hang of the meaning ‘sleeper bus’. I got to Delhi at 5am where the bus dropped us off somewhere outside of town on a dark highway. There were rickshaws and taxi’s waiting, I felt more confident this time in Delhi after my four weeks in India. I negotiated the rickshaw’s price and we drove through the already hot, still dark early morning streets of Delhi. I wondered what the piles were on every street corner or just dotted around the highways, and realised they were sleeping bodies which looked like they were dead. Just sprawled out everywhere and anywhere, no covers, half naked, distorted into strange positions and not even lying on newspaper or cardboard, as if they had just collapsed where they were standing. My rickshaw couldn’t find the guesthouse I wanted for ages, and drove me round and round the Main Bazaar so I could watch the sun and people rise, showing up the dark piles to be either rubbish, cows or more sleeping bodies. Within minutes it felt like, everything was awake and humming with people, cars, heat, animals, stalls, fruit, rubbish, smells, smoke, pushing, sweating.

Eventually we found Hare Rama Guesthouse in the Main Bazaar down an alleyway off the main street. It’s Rs500 for an air-conditioned room with a bathroom. I’d recommend it too, its central and good value for Delhi and the staff are friendly. There is another guesthouse opposite with a restaurant and wifi. Delhi was hot, a heavy compressed heat that sticks and weighs you down, air-con is a must although usually I hate it. The only window in the room is tiny and painted black, when I open it a group of pigeons squawk and flurry and I look out at an air-con unit humming and a poky alleyway, and the dirty air pours in. I close the window, and go to sleep. My flight is the next morning so I have one full day and night in Delhi so I decide to go out to look at the Main Bazaar and Connaught Square. Its low season now and a Sunday, so while there are still some shops open in the Main Bazaar, Connaught Square is dead, most of the shops are boarded up anyway and look deserted. Every ten minutes a man approaches...’where are from, can I help you, let’s chat’ and won’t leave me alone until I get angry. These aren’t just friendly locals, I’ve been warned to avoid people wanting to ‘practice their English’ especially if they approach in a tourist area and aggressively won’t leave you alone. I get tired of this, I like to trust people and I do in towns and villages but not in the main tourist area in Delhi. After walking for a couple of hours the heat, dirt and attention became too much for me and I get a rickshaw back to the hotel. In the Main Bazaar, shopkeepers lazily call out to me as I pass, in low season they don’t have the urgency for you to visit their shop. Some even ignore me, which is a welcome break. I buy a scarf, an anklet and a really nice leather jacket from Sheikh’s Leather Shop after trying on about a hundred, it cost me £40 with a leather wallet. I spend the rest of the hot afternoon writing and sweltering in the guesthouse, and then took an evening stroll through the winding tiny alleyways of the Main Bazaar, no peeking necessary into the lives of the people there as they live so openly in the gutters and alleys. Washing, eating, sleeping, scratching, children doing homework, men watching their shop wares squashed into their tiny spaces. I get some stares, but they are used to tourists so not too many. I eat my last delicious spicy vegetable thali in a daba. Cheap, fresh, I’ve forgotten European hygiene requirements; these are the best places to eat. Forget restaurants for tourists with old food and empty seats.

Deserted Connaught Place

A full day and night in Delhi is enough for me, I’m glad to take the taxi to the airport the next morning. There was a festival on, I think Maha Shivaratri, and the roads are packed. There is a Mahasivarathri procession on the highway, men all dressed in orange carrying huge colourful pyramids which they will burn later. 

I make it to the airport with just enough time to check in and get to my gate (as usual, not leaving time to spare) and start reading about Nepal. This is my time usually to open my guidebook for the next country, waiting for the plane. It’s exciting, I don’t know much about the place, where I’m headed exactly or what I’m going to do there, only just before the plane leaves discovering and deciding for the first time. I look up the key phrases, hello, thank you. I can’t wait for Nepal and more Himalayas, mountains are always where I’m happiest, and I’ve only heard wonderful things about the place.

I was only in India for four weeks. I didn’t see the Taj Mahal, Varanasi, or even the Ganges River. I went straight up into the North Western Indian Himalayas and found exactly what I was hoping for when I planned to go to Tibet, although I probably wouldn’t have found it there in the China-choked dictatorship of the region. I saw epic, staggeringly vast desert mountain ranges and beautiful, secluded Buddhist mountain villages where I could drink fresh mountain water straight out the streams. I had more mountains than I could devour huge valleys of powerful rivers, dense green forests that went on forever to the top of snow tipped mountains. I met hippies, Buddhists, Sheikhs, Hindu’s, travellers, the poorest people without even a rag to cover their backs, middle class families and the rich shopping in designer shops in Delhi. I ate in restaurants, dabas, food stalls, corn on the cob covered in lime and salt from shrivelled old ladies roasting them over a fire on the floor on the street. I was on buses, cars, planes, staying in guesthouses, on mats on the floor, with families in the rooms they let out. I got stared at, but with a smile and confidence everyone is your friend and will help you with anything. I saw a religious broth, temples, festivals, rituals all performed in harmonious tolerance of each other. India is modern, ancient, colourful... religious, friendly, otherworldly... happy, heart wrenching, fragrant, forgiving and unforgiving.  I loved it and I will definitely be back there again. And all of this I wouldn’t have seen if I had originally gone to Tibet as planned so let’s hear it for Plan B.

Here are the pics. 

India: Ledakh 20-30 Jun

The decision to go to India was really last minute. My overland trip organised by Dragoman (from Kathmandu, through Tibet and into China ending in Xian) had been cancelled. The Chinese government closed the borders to foreigners apparently because of a self burning protest by some monks in Lhasa. The trip had been organised at least 10 months ago, and was the middle, and I felt pinnacle, of my trip so I was really devastated about it being cancelled at the last minute (six days before flying to Kathmandu) and made me want to spend time in China even less. I had a six month visa for India which I got back in January when I was still in London (why didn't I get it en route when I knew when I was going to be there exactly is one of the big fails of the trip) so as it turned out I only had one month left on the visa when I went there. I thought I’d spend a month there, then a month in Nepal and a couple of weeks in China before my Trans Siberian train to Moscow.

India was one of the only places that I was a little scared of going to. It was midsummer and on the brink of monsoon being June, and so would either be scorching hot or intensely wet, or both. I was going to be alone again and I’d heard that it was strange to some Indians to be a women travelling on her own, and so treated them weirdly. Besides all the amazing things I'd heard, and knowing deep down inside that I'd love it, I’d heard stories of staring, groping and just general uncomfortable behaviour from men there so I did have that in the back of my mind. But I was still dead excited to be going overall.

It’s such a vast place, I had to think about where on earth should I go and what to do. I met a really cute couple in Pai Thailand, Micky and his girlfriend, and they had been to North West India and told me about Manali and Leh up in the mountains where it’s cool away from the mid summer heat. I’d heard about North West India from a few other people too, Dharamshala, Shimla, all up in the mountains which is what I craved. So I made plans to go straight to Leh Ledakh from Delhi. I was nervous, excited and felt exhilarated to be going to the Himalayas and to do some ‘real’ travelling, leaving the Western comforts of SE Asia behind.

I overstayed my Thailand visa by three days and had to pay 500 Baht a day fine (£30 in total). I think you can overstay up to three weeks and they hardly bat an eyelid, after all it’s a comfortable money maker and all you get is a tsk and something to sign. I had already raced to the airport from the Mongolian Embassy after getting my visa and really cut it fine with dealing with the overstay paperwork, but somehow I got through it all without much hassle (always take the Skytrain to the airport in Bangkok, it’s a tenth of the price of a cab and is so much quicker and more comfortable) and was at my terminal in time to study all the people boarding the flight. They were all Indian, and it was interesting to see this little microcosm of India in a pocket of Bangkok airport. Starkly different from their environment, emanating their own strong culture. I got a few ‘western girl on her own’ stares, and sighed as I hadn’t even left Bangkok but thought it was good practice anyway. I flew with Indigo Airlines, an Indian budget airline which have new shiny planes, competent pilots and are probably one of the best budget airlines I’ve flown with, I can recommend them. The flight was only four hours, so short I couldn’t believe it. Delhi and Bangkok, separated by a thousand differences and only four hours of sky.

Arriving in a new country is always a little jarring and unnerving, especially if it’s by air as you aren’t allowed the comforts of the gradual change of landscape and people. You’re plucked from one almost familiar place (which you’re more apprehensive to see behind you because of the effort and time it took to get the feeling of familiarity) and plopped in new strange land. Arriving in Delhi airport was the only time I felt properly nervous, and had no idea what to expect. I knew not to look baffled, to find out all the details of transport or accommodation slowly and calmly so as not to get scammed or mobbed by touts. I wasn’t in the new terminal 3 of Delhi airport, which could be in Singapore or Hong Kong with comfortable seating and floors of shops and places to relax and eat. I was in old terminal 1, which had musty carpets and felt like one long corridor with one coffee shop, and I could see guards ready to poke anyone with a stick who decided to have a snooze on the floor waiting for their next flight. I arrived at around 4pm and my flight to Leh was at 5am the next day. I decided to treat myself to an airport transfer hotel, much more expensive than a hostel but much closer to the airport and easier to arrange. The city centre was really far away, and getting a taxi there and back, finding a guesthouse in crazy Delhi central and then having to wake up at 3am didn’t appeal to me one bit. I went to the hotel desk and spoke to the two men there, who assured me of a very good hotel, 2000 Rupees (Rs) £22 but I had to pay for my own taxi there for Rs 450. (They insisted, it must be air conditioned, you can’t go in a local taxi it’s too hot. Of course you can go in a taxi with no aircon, just open the windows. It won’t kill you) It was so steep, much more than I’ve ever paid for any hotel on my entire trip, but I just wanted somewhere safe and clean to get my head around the place.

It was scorching in Delhi, around 38 degrees. The taxi drove through the big, dusty butthole streets of the areas surrounding the airport, and dropped me at my hotel which looked crumbling and uninspiring; I couldn’t believe I had spent so much money on it. There were only men around. Men working at the counters at the airport, men driving taxis, men travelling, men in the hotel reception, male porters, male receptionists. It made me stand out even more and made me so uncomfortable, where the heck were all the women? But I held my ground and had a chat to the receptionist and the only other Western person there, a German. I thought about taking the metro into central Delhi but I was still coming to grips with this dusty hot place. I was shown to my room which was fancy with a TV, the only nice thing about the hotel. There wasn’t even any little local places to eat or shops to look at outside, just a big concrete flyover and dusty, loud streets leading off the main highway to the airport. So I decided to eat in the hotel, with the German I met named Harold. We were the only two people in the hotel I think, well the only ones who ate in the overheated restaurant. It was my first Indian curry in India (I really love Indian food) and it was yum. I was a little nervous of my tummy and all the scary things that I heard could happen to it in India, but I ate everything anyway. One big plus about North India, its mainly vegetarian. We had a warm beer that the waiter had to fetch from somewhere hidden (there isn’t any alcohol in the restaurants in India, another good thing) and talked about Harold being the head chef in posh hotel in Germany and how he quit to travel in India.

It was a weird night of loud air-conditioning, people knocking at my door really late (why I don’t know, I didn’t answer) and shouts from some late arriving guests. I had to turn the air con on and off as it was too loud to sleep, and the tap dripped so loudly that my earplugs didn’t block them out. I was happy to get out of there at 4.30am and get the cab back to the airport. When booking the hotel room, after a very lengthy negotiation they said the return cab to the airport was included but when I got to the desk the new guy asked me to pay for it. If you’ve ever seen Blackadder II with Queenie, you’ll understand what I mean when I raised an eyebrow, swung on my heel and said a high pitched and unequivocal ‘NO’ and climbed in the taxi. It felt like everyone is trying to make a little extra cash from confused and overwhelmed foreigners, so hold your ground.

The flight to Leh was truly spectacular. It was on a clear, breathless morning arriving at around 6:30am. Around Delhi it’s completely flat, and then the hills start appearing and the ground looking more knobbly. And then, after around 40min, so suddenly it makes you catch your breath, the Himalayas begin. They are so high (some 7km high) that it feels like the plane has dropped a few thousand feet as the ground seems so much closer, but its only because the mountains are almost (it feels like) touching the bottom of the plane. Honestly one of the most exciting moments of my trip. Mountains! My heart leapt out my chest. 

The plane did so many turns as it came down to land after only an hour, and it was thrilling to see it weaving in and out of the mountains. It was a perfectly crisp, clear day in June and everything was visible... the lakes, the houses, the trees and every crease and fold of the mountains. The landscape was very arid with brown/grey rock, and it looked like we were landing on the moon. Many people refer to Ledakh as a ‘moonscape’. The towns were green with trees though, thanks to the hundreds of years of manmade irrigation that these industrious mountain people have cultivated. 

I got out the plane and it was crisp, a bit cold (so relieving after Delhi! ­) and the air thin and pure. The airport is tiny and looks like the waiting room of a small local bus station. There were armed police or soldiers patrolling, a reminder of some of the conflict in the area. There is a big army base here.

I had been dropped smack in the middle of the Indian Himalayas which I reminded myself of when walking out the airport. The mountains in this part of the world are majestic, immense, all absorbing, and they’re laid out all around you like a landscape painting conjured up in a dream. The highest road pass in the world is in here (5600m) around 1000m than the highest mountain in the Alps, Mont Blanc. If there’s any bad weather like fog or clouds, which there is a lot of, planes can’t access it as they can’t see the huge mountains that they could potentially slam into while making all the hair raising twists and turns when landing. The roads are practically cut into the side of the mountains and some are paved, but mainly it’s a carpet of rocks and ditches and boulders and insane twists and bends complimented by sheerest cliff drops on one side you’ve ever seen. They are often closed because of rain/snow/landslides. (More on the road to Manali to come later).

Leh is a town amongst all the moonscape, the biggest in this huge area. It was just starting to fill up with the foreign and Indian tourists wanting to escape the heat down South. I got there just before the heaving tourist season, and I was glad as usual because places off season are quieter, cheaper and more natural. I found a cute place called Peace Guesthouse which was smack in the centre but tucked away with a nice quiet garden. I decided to treat myself to a nice room with my own bathroom to help acclimatise to this brand new place and very high altitude. It cost Rs400 a night. 

Leh

Leh high street

They say you can’t do anything the first couple of days when you go straight up to high altitude (3500m) and they’re right, try running up the stairs or even walking up a hill it’s very difficult. I went straight to sleep when I got there at around 7am, got up and had something to eat and explored a bit, went back to sleep, got up again for another walk, then went back to sleep again. The first day I was there, it felt like four days because I kept on sleeping.  It was cold in the shade and nice and hot in the sun, and the light was very bright and crisp and the air just, well just glorious. I was in India but didn’t feel like ‘real’ India as it’s more similar to Nepal or Tibet in culture, scenery and religion.

Toward evening I was sitting in a cafe and saw a girl sitting alone at a table who looked interesting and I felt like a chat, so I went over to her. Her name is Tamar, from Isreal and just out the army where she worked as a journalist. I was soon to find out that there were thousands of Isreali’s travelling in India, especially in this area. I had no idea that so many of them travelled here, I was told that after the army it’s where the mostly travel to. Tamar was doing some seriously hardcore travelling (way more hardcore than me) exploring villages in remote India where she didn’t come across another English speaker or foreigner for days at a time on her own, and hitching rides from the crazy Indian trucks, she hitch hiked with two friends from Kashmir to Leh way up North. I was really glad I decided to talk to her, cool chick like mad! We had dinner at the Chinese Bowl on Changspa Road (good, cheap food and the place I ended up eating at the most in Leh) and she explained to me the Indian dishes and teas, it was still only my second day in India although because of lack of sleep and how long it took to get there it felt like ten. Her friends that she was travelling with joined us; Max from Germany and Jim from New Zealand.

Tamar, Jim, Max

I wanted to go on a trek for a few days into the mountains, but didn’t want an organised tour or to pay for an expensive guide (ballpark charge for them around Rs2000 a day). I wanted to go off with some good people who kind of had a good idea on the area and were confident just heading into the mountains, and who knew the practical stuff we needed and stuff like transport. I felt like going a proper adventure into the wilderness. I asked Tamar and her friends if they knew anyone doing something like that in the coming days, and she told me about Avi, also Isreali, who was planning something. I met him that night, he seemed pretty hazy about his plans but I really wanted the adventure so decided to go along, but had to wait a few days to get used to the altitude. So I spent the next couple of days with Tamar going to some morning yoga classes, climbing up to the monuments dotted around the mountains and having some walks around town.

Walking up to the fort

Kids playing football

Lots of spiritual books at the yoga centre

Leh really was different to everywhere else I’d been. I don’t know if it was being in India, being in such high mountains, the air being so different and the culture but I felt renewed, my head felt clearer and I felt very calm there. Alcohol isn’t widely available, you can get it but it’s very expensive. So you just drink tea, yum masala chai or fresh mint or fresh ginger and lemon. 

It really cleans you out. And the food is so good, Indian food has always been a favourite and you can walk into any local dabba (food stand or small room with chairs and a stove) and eat like a king for nothing, less than £1. All vegetarian, all fresh. Soft floury roti’s made over a hot stove straight on the heat that melt in your mouth, vegetable thali’s with delicious healthy dahl, spicy potato curry, juicy flavoursome samosas.  You can still find Western style restaurants that aren’t that expensive, but the best food is where the locals are. Just ignore everything that you wouldn’t see eating out in the West (dirt is your friend) and tuck in. I ate at plenty of dabbas and didn’t get sick once, besides also drinking out of rivers and river pipes in the Ledakh Himalayas, the water there must be cleaner than in London although I think I was lucky with a hardened stomach not to get at all sick.

After around four days I was very ready to go on a trek. I had acclimatised and felt really good, super healthy and energetic and anxious to get out into the mountains. Tamar told me she remembered another Israeli friend of hers, Ido, talking about a remote village that he’d seen briefly a few days before and that he was going again soon. It sounded more than perfect for me, so she sent him a message. I had met another traveller, Vincent who was French Canadian, who wanted to go on a trek too so that night we went out for some food. When Tamar arrived she walked up to us, but walked straight past us to the next table and laughed, Ido was sitting there with his father the whole time while we had been talking excitedly about the possibility of the trek and wondering if he would get back to me. So we joined tables and made the plans. I couldn’t have been happier, going to a remote village in the mountains a few hours trek from any road for a few days and not having to worry about anything as he had been there before and knew the way, and knew it was somewhere very beautiful and special. Lucky me!

The next day we met up and he introduced us to Gayla, a girl he had been volunteering with in Nepal who he had bumped into randomly and who wanted to come with us too. We bought some supplies like cashew nuts, dried fruit, a pot for making coffee. Ido had some real ground coffee that his dad had brought from Israel that was such a treat. It was fun to wander around the local markets looking for stuff. Even though Leh is quite touristic we still got some stares having tea with the local dudes at a chai shop in the local market area. We had a hearty breakfast the next morning, salty beans with thick chunky brown bread and coffee, and then set off in the rain to find the local bus station. It wasn’t hard, and we were straight on a friendly bumpy bus wet from rain but excited for an adventure.

Buying nuts

Hanging in the local marketplace

Gayla and Ido with chai

I’ve heard a few people refer to Ledakh as a ‘moonscape’ and it really is. Its mountain desert, huge valleys and tall mountains and steep cliff faces with a river, and everything covered in stones a whole spectrum of greys and browns and even greens and blues. The vastness and scale of the place is something I’ve never seen before, just a continuous stretch of rock and river. The bus went on its windy route, going up and up and then twisting round and round, sticking to the river. Every village passed was a small green oasis made possible by century old irrigation canals, water that climbed up hills and around corners to feed the small rice paddies. In some places the road disappearing and becoming rocky ditches that the bus ploughed through. It made a short stop for chai drinking, and then it was off again along the mountain road, screeching to a halt every now again to let someone off into the rocky wilderness (where were they going? Not a house to be seen) or to pick people up. All the instructions to stop or go given by a secret language of whistles by the ‘conductor’ to the driver.

We bumped and twisted for a few hours, ogling at the desert mountain scenery. Eventually Ido saw the bridge we had to go across and so we got the guy to whistle, and piled out onto the road excitedly. There were workers all along the road, painstakingly breaking up the big rocks fallen on the road from landslides. The bridge didn’t look like it was leading anywhere except towards a mountain side, but there was a small crack that we made our way towards, and there was a barely noticeable rocky path, with another tiny bamboo bridge over a fast flowing mountain river. We waved goodbye to civilisation and began our trek to the village.

The path was used by the village people and so was well maintained, with bridges old and new over all the furious little streams that were flowing towards the big river behind us. The snow was melting now, and it was starting to be raining season so this was the time for them to really flow. It was a beautiful walk, in between the multicoloured rocky cliffs. It was all rock and river except every now and again there was a bright green glade with summer flowers blooming. Every step took us away from the road, and it felt great. There was no road through here; the path of a couple of hours was the only way there. You could imagine the village people in this area carrying absolutely everything they needed a few hours on their backs. 

While walking we saw a small stooped granny in the distance, but she caught up to us in no time. She was dressed traditionally but had trainers on, and offered to carry our bags for us when she saw us huffing! She went on in front and called out to us every so often to make sure we were okay and could keep up. After climbing a few stone stairs we found what we were looking for, a valley opened up and we were in honestly the most beautiful place I had ever seen in my life.

First view of the village and house we would stay in

The granny invited us in for tea, she had done the same thing in for Ido when he came with his father a few days before. She was a feisty bright spark, strong and bustling around. She gave us some tea and homemade chunks of bread and biscuits, and even though she couldn’t speak hardly any English she entertained us until she clearly had enough, and told us abruptly but sweetly that it was time for us to go. So funny. 

The wonderful granny who invited us for tea - Ido's pic

We knew there was one house in the village that had been trained or certified to host guests, and we set off to find it. It had started to rain by this time and it had been a long journey, so when we saw the house and a small elderly man standing outside it we couldn’t wait to get inside. He ushered us in to this beautifully simple, comfortable, traditional mountain home, into a room with four mats along the walls, some small tables and some thick comfy blankets. We could not have been happier to go into this cosy small room in this home in a village in the middle of the mountains. He smiled at us and came to investigate us even though he couldn’t speak English, and when his daughter came home she stuck her head in the door, ‘Julay Julay!’ (Welcome), and quickly went out in a bustle to pick veggies from the garden while her elderly (who I named Papa) father went out to chop wood for the stove.

The house

Papa cutting wood

Investigating my ukulele

I’m not sure how many people just turn up out of the blue like we did, but from what we could find out with limited English is that it was around ten people that year. There had been a woman there called Cynthia who was a bit of a legend. From what we could glean, she had showed up on her own in winter and had stayed a few weeks, in a tent on the mountain side. I’m not sure what she did there for a few weeks, but it seemed that all the villagers knew her and spoke of her. She had brought small gifts for them like thick socks, and every now again we’d point at something and they’d say ‘Cynthia!’. We spent that first afternoon huddled in the room away from the cold and rain, and then were called into the main living room for supper. They had made us an delicious meal of momos, freshly made. The room was big and warm and on one side there were shelves of shiny cooking pots, and a wood stove that warmed everything up and was the main cooking area. Along the sides there was a seating ledge, and Papa had made himself a comfortable corner with a table, his book and glasses and prayer wheel, which he concentrated on after we ate.

Pulma cooking in the main room, with old fireplace

Sitting, Papa in the left corner

They were so sweet and friendly with the small amount of English they knew. They welcomed us into their home with no reservations, and even though this was clearly an income source for them there was no discussion of money, charges, or any other questions at all for that matter. It was the most trusting, inviting thing I had witnessed yet on my travels. The daughter (I think her name was Pulma) was always busy with cooking or making chibattis (flat round bread) or doing something in the garden, and Papa was learning English from a battered ‘English/Ledakhi book which I read a few passages out of, and tried to communicate through the book by pointing at the translations of phrases like ‘you have a very nice home’ or trying to speak the phonetic translations of the Ledakhi. That night we went to our cosy room, all very happy to be in such a special place. When each of us went up to use the toilet, we all came down with the same happy exclamations. It was a traditionally Ledakhi toilet, in the open air on the roof. Just a hole in the floor, a spade and some composting dirt all in the open air, getting some fresh breeze on your bits!

Our toilet

The next morning on waking up we were able to view the full beauty of the village in the bright sunlight. There were only around thirty residents, and we counted about ten houses. They were set in the valley up slopes, each with their own patch of bright green barley growing on rice paddy ledges, with the beautiful sparkling clean mountain river flowing through. We explored the place, waving and shouting ‘Julay’ to anyone we saw. They were very interested in us, and the only two small children we saw in the whole place were too scared to come out the front door to inspect us. It felt as if we had wandered into a time machine and come out in a Himalayan village of 200 years ago. There was no electricity, no running water, no roads or machines at all that we could see. The farming was done by hand, as was any other labouring, including carrying heavy rocks to make irrigation channels and build walls. We saw old ladies carrying huge loads of rocks in baskets held by ropes across their forehead. We wandered around the village in bliss, in awe. No sign of modern civilisation to be seen. It was like we had found Shangri La.

We spent four wonderful days there, climbing the surrounding mountains and walking into the deserted valley, where every now and again we’d bump into a cattle herder or little old ladies outside their mountain houses, tending to the tiny goats. The valley was a green oasis, surrounded by big brown rocky mountains. At night we’d sit on the roof of the house, staring at the immense number of bright starts, it was like stars had been spray painted across the sky, making it a silver blanket instead of the sparse hazy specks you get in cities and towns. All the village people popped their heads in to inspect us; it was clearly an event to have four foreigners in their tiny community. They all tried to talk to us as much as they could with small amounts of English, although it usually ended up as ‘Julay Julay!’ from both sides.

Village neighbour sticking his head in the window to investigate the foreigners

I drank water straight out of the pipe coming from the stream, and it was delicious and clean and I didn’t feel the faintest bit ill. The other’s had purification tablets which is usually a good idea. I also had my filtering straw which meant that when we went for walks I could drink straight out the river, although I’m not sure I needed it.

One afternoon Ido, Vincent and I climbed to up one of the mountains overlooking the village and the view nearly almost brought tears of joy to my eyes. We did a bit of slightly hair raising climbing too, actual Spiderman moves up vertical rocks until we got to a point where we couldn’t really carry on, plus the way down looked slightly more scary (it’s easier to go up than down when its near vertical) and so we reluctantly climbed back down again. It was such exhilarating fun, I will never forget it.

The best view of the village after our big climb

Every day Pulma made us a totally different, absolutely fresh and delicious vegetarian meal for breakfast lunch and dinner, I wish I could remember the names but after those four days I felt healthier than I had in years. Gayla also had a ukulele with her almost exactly like mine, and we learnt some songs together like The Fleet Foxes which have been stuck in my head ever since. We had to bath in the river one hot afternoon, the water was freezing and clean and makes you feel more fresh and awake than you’ve ever felt. One night after dinner, Pulma put some music on her phone and we did some dancing around the candlelit room, Pulma and I and then Vince breaking out his ballroom moves. They had friends staying with them one night too, a Nepali couple that had come to Ledakh to work. Papa would always sit in his corner, spinning his prayer wheel and learning English out his book. Every now and again I’d read along with him and tried communicating small bits of conversation through the book, and he would always break out in his cute chuckles, grinning serenely at us all.

Walking in the amazing valley, reading, playing music, going outside in the pitch blackness to look at the stars and feeling lost from the modern world and detached from civilisation completely, words cannot describe the happiness. When it was time to leave, they still didn’t even mention money. We ended up giving them Rs1000 each, which I think was quite a lot for them but really was hardly anything for us. The experience and what they gave us was worth ten times more than any five star hotel in any resort in the world as far as I’m concerned. The granny we met on the first day insisted we went to her house on the way out the village for some tea, and even gave us a little goodbye dance with some music she put on. Her son worked in a company in Africa I think, and had a new wife and baby. She told us he was going to visit very soon.

We were all very sad to leave, and I definitely left a big chunk of my heart there. A pure, beautiful place. I’ll never, ever forget it. On the way walking back, we stopped in a glade for some coffee out Ido’s pot, and the valley filled with goats, cows and sheep. The family shepherding them waved us goodbye. Getting to the bridge where we saw the road was hard... people! Civilisation! We waited for a bus in a small cafe on the roadside, drinking sugar laced Mountain Dew. Then, who do you think appeared waiting for the same bus? Papa! He was heading to Leh a few hours away to go to the doctor for his bad knee. We sat with him until a packed bus appeared, and he bustled inside followed by Gayla, while three of us were told to go on top of the roof of the bus with all the bags and packages and teenage boys. Okay! Such a crazy awesome ride back, the bus twisting and winding around the epic mountain passes with fresh wind in our faces and a brilliant view of the mountain scenery. The boys there all thought it was hilarious that I was on the top bus, and eventually stopped looking and settled down to get as comfortable as they could amongst all the packages. At one point, some villagers hailed the bus and started hurtling huge baskets and packages on top, as well as a big metal ladder with a huge metal spike sticking out the bottom, inches from our heads. We had to clutch onto the ladder and put my bag under the spike in case it jolted over a pothole and speared us. In this way we went the few hours to Leh, and just outside the town the conductor made us get off the top ( I guess it was illegal) and squeeze, literally squeeze all our internal organs, into an already packed bus. The top is definitely the better place to be.

Top of the bus

Papa got off and gave one more handshake and chuckle, and then was gone. He really did touch my heart, the sweet man.

Papa and I

Back in Leh, we found that the place was filling up with more tourists because it was getting to high season. We searched and found a guesthouse with a balcony view, and stayed there two nights. The plan was to go south to Manali, and Ido, Gayla and I were going to splash out and get a private jeep. It was a long journey through the second highest mountain pass in the world, and we really didn’t have time for the arduous local bus ride of more than twenty three hours.  

Thank you Ledakh and the Himalayas for one of the most memorable and inspiring experiences of my trip. The people, the landscape, the food, the altitude, the air, all of it sublime. Time for one of the most epic, overland road mountain journeys ever. To Manali...

Here are the pictures, they are really worth looking at.