THE LAND OF FLYING LAMAS & OTHER REAL TRAVEL STORIES FROM THE INDIAN HIMALAYA

by GAURAV PUNJ

  He was home on a rare vacation. A time he spent with his entire family reaping the crop of peas, the sweet-tasting matars that the whole of Spiti was harvesting at the moment.

  ‘Shouldn’t we do something about Dorje being sent to the monastery?’ A lot of us asked this question or at least thought about it. I guess what we need to understand is that this system has been going on for ages and is therefore something that has worked. A mixture of pragmatism and belief, it’s the way of life for them which of course we will not be able to comprehend. Dorje Phonchuk is a happy lama. He will be fine.

  Across the mountains southwest of Spiti is Kinnaur, the land of half god-half men, the mythical Kinnaras or the celestial musicians as per the scriptures. The culture here is a unique mix of Hinduism, nature-worship and Tibetan Buddhism. There are some unique festivals here that deserve a story of their own, but I’ll leave it for another time. The overwhelming quality of Kinnaur though is its greenery, from the ‘it’s so pretty it’s unreal’ Sangla valley to the mountain villages of Kalpa and Sarahan, it’s the hundreds of shades of green flanked by the snow-covered peaks and the blue skies which must have given it its mythical status. From the point of view of our story just note that it’s as different from Spiti as possible.

  The stage

  To travel from Kinnaur to Spiti, the shortest route till very recently was to cross over the Srikhand Mahadev range using any of the four or five accessible passes. Now there is a road that goes around the mountains, but trust me, you don’t want to miss what’s in store for you on any of these trails. Ask the locals, who still prefer walking over the passes than taking the road.

  Amongst the most accessible and prettiest trails is the one leading from Bhabha valley in Kinnaur to Pin valley in Spiti over the Wang khango (khango means pass in the local dialect), or more commonly used name, the Pin-Bhabha Pass. Now, I haven’t been on any of the other trails from Kinnaur to Spiti, but I can’t imagine anything being prettier than the Pin-Bhabha trail. Of course I am bound to be proved wrong, but let me be. It’s a four-day trek for mortals and a two, or max three-day one, for locals. And over each of these four days, the scenery changes so dramatically that for a long time after the trek is over you will catch yourself catching up with all that you have seen.

  The cast

  Gatuk, our guide, Lobzang, the cook, Tshering, the donkey man, four donkeys, the veterinarian of Kara, Rujuta and I. And a man, no a person, no a thing ... well, just read on.

  The act: The pastures of Kara and the friendly spirit phenomenon

  ‘Wait ... I am dying ... you are walking too fast ... what nonsense.’ It took me more than two minutes to say this sentence between long gasps for air.

  We had just begun the climb through the forest above Kafnu on the first day of the trek and I was complaining bitterly to Rujuta for not paying heed to her partner’s struggles. I was jealous of course, but I pretended to pity her for her inability to ‘feel’ what one is supposed to on a climb like this.

  The oak and fir forest was thick and therefore dark, and the zigzag trail climbed relentlessly through it. That we had been walking happily along the same trail just ten minutes back as it meandered along the Bhabha stream seemed like a distant memory. ‘The only way to not get tired is to keep climbing,’ she said, as if it was my choice to not climb. I just couldn’t. She also tried the ‘pet dog trick’ on me: ‘Climb till here and I will give you a kiss/biscuit.’

  The Himalaya though is kind and after every climb that kills you, there is a meadow/stream/view that revives you. In this case it was a beautiful straight path with the river flowing deep down below and a glimpse of the snow-covered peaks up front. But just the fact that the climb was over (for the time being) did the trick for me, and I replaced my stutter with a swagger which said: ‘See, how I climb these climbs, ha.’ The ‘oh-so-experienced’ Rujuta had a smirk on her face which I ignored.

  Meanwhile, Gatuk, our guide, who had stayed back at Kafnu to load the four donkeys, caught up with us (let’s not get into how much time he took to cover the same distance). ‘Woh peak kaun sa hai,’ Rujuta asked him. He smiled shyly and said in his characteristically low voice, ‘Pata nahin.’ ‘Aur woh tree?’ ‘Pata nahin, hehe.’ We looked at each other and decided that he was too sweet for us to feel bad about what he doesn’t know.

  Gatuk, however, had a good idea of distances and he told us to have our packed lunch right there as it would give us the ‘energy’ to reach the campsite. I was in no mood to read between the lines and sat down with my lunch box. Poori and aloo sabzi, a tasty combination at any time, acquires another dimension at moments like these. It’s just the right kind of nutrients you need and it surely must rank as THE best option for a trek lunch. Anyway, good times don’t last forever and we were soon back on our feet and walking.

  The forest we were walking through was spectacular and incredibly diverse in the variety of trees, plants, shrubs and flowers, but the thing I remember most is that every single square inch oozed the colour green. I’d never realized before that there could be so many shades of just one colour: pale green, bright green, dark green ... my vocabulary is limited to these three only, but there were more than ten shades for sure.

  As I rounded a bend I saw Rujuta talking with a man. ‘You won’t believe who he is,’ she screamed, and without waiting for me to take a guess, continued: ‘He is a government-appointed veterinarian. He looks after the merino sheep in the pastures of Kara.’ You’ll never find a job description that starts off on such a bland note but ends with such flair. Merino sheep in the pastures of Kara. Just say it aloud. ‘So, you are from Mumbai too. I stayed there for two months while doing my internship and I hated it. You know why?’ He didn’t wait for me to guess either. ‘The number of trees you can see here, in Mumbai I could see more number of heads.’ We laughed weakly, realizing that ours could be two of the heads he despises. ‘You guys will pass through Kara tomorrow – you must stop at our hut for a cup of tea.’ Of course Rujuta agreed; she lives for such moments. And he sped away. This guy pretty much set the benchmark for ‘amusing people you meet while on a trek’ for us.

  The campsite at Mulling

  The fact that our mind was taken off the vet within no time must bear testimony to the spectacular landscape we were now entering. For starters, the valley had opened up and there were flat patches of meadows on both sides of the Bhabha stream. The stream itself was not only visible, it was now right next to us with its water aqua blue and its flow swift but not thunderous. The mountain chain on our right was typical of the greater Himalaya – cloud high and rocky. The real fun was on the other bank though. The lush green grass stretched all the way from the river bank to a thick jungle of birch. A few wild horses were grazing there, the way horses must have grazed there of their own free will from forever. There was an unmistakable ‘untouched’ air about the other side, a kind of place that one is instantly attracted to. ‘Udhar ja sakte hain?’ I asked Gatuk. To our surprise he didn’t say, ‘Pata nahin.’ He just said ‘Nahin.’ And added that there was no way to get to the other side.

  Even as we looked longingly at the other bank, we were not oblivious to the charms of our side of the river. The hillocks had given way to a flat patch of grass right by the stream, and Rujuta was quick to pronounce it as ‘a perfect camping spot’. Gatuk had a smile on his face as he declared, ‘Yeh campsite hi hai’ with a flourish, as if he had played a big role in turning the place into what it was. We could soon see our tiny two-man tent and the kitchen tent pitched up ahead and were already imagining Tshering brewing hot tea and perhaps even making some pakoras.

  Limitation alert: Now, I must request you to turn to page vi in the inserts to see the photograph of our campsite and the other bank of the river as I am facing major issues in describing this place and have written, deleted, rewritten this part many times already.

  Day 2 started early, for us at least, as we were up and abo
ut by 5:30 a.m. only to find all three guys still snuggled in their blankets in the kitchen-cum-sleeping tent. We decided to be nice and let them wake up by themselves. Wrong choice. When they had not woken up by 6.30, we had to do the honours. I opened the zip of the tent, stuck my head in and shouted for them to wake up. Obviously not very happy by this ‘itna subah’ wake-up call, they took their own sweet time to get up, do their ablutions and finally start the stove. By the time we had our omelette, toast and tea, put on our shoes, helped them with the tents and packing and waited for Lobzang to bring back the donkeys from the mountainside, it was well after 8 a.m. and we had arrived at a decision. No matter what, from tomorrow we would begin walking without waiting for them to wrap up. Anyway, they walk so fast that for them catching up is no big deal, but for us to start late exposes us to the sun for longer. Gatuk, feeling a bit guilty about making us wait, smiled and said, ‘Today is very beautiful, most beautiful.’

  The pastures of Kara

  He wasn’t wrong. For an hour we walked along the stream, jumping over many smaller ones flowing down from the mountains on our right. Then we climbed steeply through thick bushes (shortcut) for another hour before reaching the most stunning pastures in the Himalaya. The pastures of Kara. So green, so wide, with so many flowers, so many sheep on the mountains on both sides, a small stream flowing in the middle and snow on the peaks all around. The trail also takes a break in Kara and you can walk as you wish. Looking up, then left, then right, then walking backwards, fumbling for your camera without taking your eyes off what they can see (photo on page vi in the inserts), and finally sending a signal to your brain to stop walking. Time may stand still at many places, but in the pastures of Kara it waits for you. It lets you make as many attempts as you want at grasping all the beauty of the Himalaya filtered into this one place. And then suggests you stay a bit longer by reminding you to have your lunch.

  In a daze we ate, and then rambled on. An hour at Kara and we were still looking at it with the same amazement as when we first saw it. Our three guys were in their own world too, and so were the donkeys I guess as they were spread all over the pasture grazing on grass so nutritious, Lobzang told us later that shepherds walk from as far as 300 km so their sheep can graze here. Also, the government of Himachal has chosen this place to rear their Merino sheep in summer.

  The mention of Merino sheep made us remember the vet and his invitation. Gatuk told us their hut was a bit off the route and we had already walked a kilometre ahead. ‘Next time I guess,’ I consoled Rujuta, and we continued on. But it wasn’t going to be that easy to escape the vet now, was it. We soon heard some shouts and looked back to see the vet sprinting towards us, his arms flailing above his head, the king of Kara. And when the king himself runs behind you to invite you for a cup of tea, you walk an extra couple of kilometres. No questions asked. The hut was a temporary shelter made of blocks of stone and covered with plastic sheets, wooden logs and more stones. A fire had been lit inside, and it was warm. His orderlies brewed tea as he spoke and spoke.

  I don’t drink tea and at no time have I been happier about this choice. The tea they offered Rujuta was the typical mountain chai: so much sugar that the spoon stands on its own. Of course she couldn’t drink it and tried to act smart by pushing the glass and exclaiming, ‘Oho, gir gaya.’ ‘We have endless tea, don’t worry,’ and he poured out more for her. There was only one way to get out of the hut and that was to finish the tea. Heroically she did, and before he could download his three-month quota of talking on us, we were out, and waved our byes mid-way between his tenth story. I am sure he wouldn’t have minded. We walked quickly till the hut was out of sight, and only the fact that it was Kara could slow us down after that. As we reached Gatuk, he was standing by a stream with his pants rolled up, sign for ‘it’s time to get wet’. The water was beyond freezing but luckily it numbed our legs in no time. Two more streams, then some vigorous rubbing of our legs and feet and we were up and about. Just take care of the occasional sharp stones and stream crossings can be a lot of fun. Or perhaps anything you do at Kara is.

  We were now deep in the greater Himalayan range and quite high too, almost 3600m, and all the elements present at this altitude marked their attendance. Snow bridges, snow eagles, rhododendron bushes, windswept plateaus, all these and more accompanied us for two hours till we reached the high altitude meadow of Phushtriang, our campsite. At 4000m, it’s amongst the highest campsites on a trek and presents a surreal scene. Huge glaciers flowing down from mountains on all sides, the stream flowing wildly through a rocky bed and green summer grass dotted with stones all around. You are never sure it’s night at this height, as even the slimmest moon lights up the whole place. You want to stay out and stare, but the cold forces you inside. The mountains seem to say, ‘You shouldn’t have too much of a good thing’. So we obeyed and were in our sleeping bags by 7 p.m., ready to wake up early the next morning and climb the Bhabha Pass and cross over to Spiti.

  This is what we discussed with Gatuk and Tshering before dinner.

  Us: We want to leave latest by 6 a.m.

  Them: Blank looks.

  Us: Give us something to eat before that and we will start walking. You catch up later.

  Them: Slight hint of a smile and a nod.

  Us: Show us which direction to walk.

  Both of them enthusiastically: See, over there, that mountain. That’s the one we will be climbing. There is a path don’t worry. Just walk towards it and you will see the path.

  Us: Okay, good night.

  The pass to Spiti

  The next morning was frosty but clear and absolutely still. It was bitterly cold and brushing, going for potty, etc. became herculean tasks. We somehow managed to do all that, ate something and were off by 6 a.m. as planned. In our minds, we were the two most determined people at that point, not realizing that just the scale of the mountains around us made us no more than two insignificant specks in the scheme of things. As we walked for about 30 minutes towards the mountain they showed us last night, fog started drifting in from whatever factories it’s produced in the Himalaya. I mean, it’s crystal clear one moment, then the first glimpse of the fog and before you can finish a sentence it’s all around you. You feel that dampness against your skin, you can still see but you have lost the sense of where you are, your sense of direction. We walked like this for a further fifteen minutes and ‘plonk’ stepped right through the grass into chilled water almost till the shin. ‘Wait, wait,’ we both shouted together and stepped back. Water had gone right through to our feet and numbed them even before we could react. ‘Arre, what is this?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Try that side.’ ‘You try.’ Silence.

  Eventually we did try and realized that it’s the same everywhere. ‘We are walking in the wrong direction ya, let’s step back and walk towards the right. The mountain was on the right, right?’ ‘Umm, not sure, I think so. Let’s try.’ And we walked towards what we thought was to our right. ‘But why is it so wet here?’ ‘Must be a snow patch which has recently melted.’ ‘Or the tip of a glacier.’ ‘No idea.’ Plonk. We were shin deep again. ‘What ya, I told you it’s not this side.’ ‘No, you said, “you think so”.’ ‘Let’s go back to where we were and rethink.’ ‘But I don’t know where we were.’ ‘That side.’ ‘You’re sure?’ ‘I think so.’ ‘Please don’t think.’ ‘Then you tell me, since you are the smart one.’ ‘Ya right, who got us here?’ We fought as we walked in God knows which direction.

  Let’s do a quick check on the time. It was thirty + fifteen + five = fifty minutes since we’d left the campsite. Even if we knew how to retrace our path, it would have meant losing two to three hours on a day when the pass needed to be crossed. And we had no idea which direction we’d come from, which direction we had to go and where exactly we were. Once in a while we could glimpse the mountains through the fog but there was nothing we could make from that sighting. In fact, it only added to our confusion, with com
ments like, ‘I remember seeing that peak last night. It was to the left of the pass.’ We lost trust in each other’s judgment, then in our own memories and finally in our instincts. We knew we had to calm down and just figure out what was happening, but we were not able to do that. Too busy feeling surprised, amused and scared that something like this could happen to smart cookies like us.

  And then suddenly, ‘There, there, look at that man over there,’ we shouted almost at the same time. He was barely 50m away and was walking up a mountain. ‘That has to be the trail,’ we figured, and without thinking sped straight towards him. Was it to our right, left, straight or back, we didn’t care, we just knew it had to be the trail. And sure enough, in less than ten minutes we saw a narrow trail winding its way up a slope. ‘Wow,’ we exhaled, relieved finally of the confusion. Rujuta was the first one to get her bearings and quickly took off her shoes and her socks to squeeze dry them. I did the same. We sat there for about five to seven minutes, and then started walking up. I mention the timing because I feel it’s important to the story and not because I’m obsessed with it. Anyway, you be the judge.

  It was a relentless climb now all the way to the top, as we’d been told, and the small zigzags built in the path were a great help to get our breath back momentarily. A couple of times I tried climbing straight up the slope, lost more time in catching my breath than what I’d saved, and thereon kept to the trail. It might be slightly longer but was surely the best way to climb. Turn diagonally left, walk four steps, stop, turn diagonally right, walk four steps, stop, repeat. Like two zombies we fell into this pattern and it was at least an hour before I turned back to see how far we had climbed. The fog had dissipated by now and we could see our campsite far below and even the tiny tents. It was a fantastic scene and worth taking a look at on page vii in the inserts, and also worth overlooking the fact that the team had still not left. Must be busy catching the donkeys we figured. It’s good to look back once in a while when you are climbing up such crazy slopes to feel good about just how far you have climbed. Massage your ego and get back to the job.