After a few more minutes of other people getting in and out, we were again peremptorily told to get out , with the same already booked line being trotted out. The combination of the abrupt nature of the demand with the transperency of the profiteering taking place led to a major dummy spit on my part. I at first jumped out and went to leaver then jumped back in and joined Julie in refusing to budge, issuing a string of expletives along the way. This seemed to work as not long after the full complement of 10 was loaded aboard and we were on our way.

After picking our way through crowded Silguri we headed into some pleasant flat farmland, at first green rice crops and then the start of the tea gardens. The road was paralleled by the (very) narrow gauge rail line which runs the 70 odd kms up to Darjeeling. There is still aregular passenger service hauled by a little diesel engine, but we were too late to catch it and wouldn’t have in any event as the trip takes about 9 hours as opposed to the 3.5 hrs by road. We later learnt that the service had in any case been suspended due to a landslide on the track. Whether for the same reason or in order to take a ‘shortcut’, our jeep also left the main road shortly after we began the climb up into the hills. This road was a real dog, not as scary as some we’d been on but still really rough. We climbed up through more tea gardens mixed with patches of rich forest with all manner of trees – real thick jungly stuff in places. The tea plants are not as high as I’d thoughtand although the pickers are women of small stature, the bushes would still not be much above the level of the thighs , so plenty of bending in the picking work. And while the grdens had started on the flatlands at the foot of the hills, many are on steep hillsides so this has got to be hard yakka.

Among my 3 companions in the back section was fellow who spoke reasonably good English. He had grown up in a small town near Darjeeling but had lived in Delhi many years and was making his first trip back in nearly 20 years. So as we got closer to his old stamping grounds he was excitedly pointing out his old house and school and other remembered haunts. When we first started to chat he engaged me in a series of topics about Israel until at last I twigged and told him I wasn’t Israeli, to which he expressed surprise. I neither look nor sound like any Israeli tourist I’ve encountered , but it couldn’t have been my earlier rude outburst that made him think so, surely?

We arrived in Darjeeling to be deposited at Clubside, a junction half way up the hill on which the town spreads itself. Darjeeling is like a small brother to Simla, with the same mix of leftover colonial hotels and large ghouses overlaid with the usual clutter of an Indian town. So as well as clubside , Darjeeling has its own ‘The Mall’, running up the hillside to an small plaza area from which one has commanding views of the surrounding hills and valleys. A couple of roads slope gradually along the hillsides, and following these is the easier but longer way to get up and down from the main bazaar at the bottom to the majority of hotels along the ridge top. These sloping roads are connected by shorter much steeper roads, paths and stairways- quicker but murder on the legs and lungs. The layout of the streets makes it difficult to map and so even though everything in town itself is reasonably close together , finding our way to the budget hotel road was no easy matter. We lobbed at a restaurant near the jeep stand to get directions. Thought the man said go up this road, turn right at the small fountain and go past the hospital on your left. Pronunciation of hosptital seemed odd so I repeated it back to him a couple of times before realizing he was saying to go past the horse stables. Yes there were a set of stables in the middle of town for the pony ride horses.

We settled ourselves at aptly named Tranquility Hotel, which had some view to the north west as well as to the east, if you looked past the telecom tower, satellite dish and electricity transformer. We did have some part of the view of the Khanggengjunga Massif, topped by Mt khanggengjunga at over 8500metres. , at least in the early morning bfore the clouds descended. Nice little place with very friendly owners- our room even had a 3 seater couch and armchairs. Just as well as being near the windows we could sit and read there during the regular power outages.Darjeeling is a pretty cruisy sort of place, well set up for tourists but with out being over the top . It is entirely a colonial construct as a hill station to get away from the heat of the plains so in a sense always a getaway place . A few of the old style hotels remain, mainly on the west slope with the best views toward the mountains. There are some nice restaurants and we found we could even order a roast and wine , and the climate just right for it. Even during the fine weather we had for our first 4 days it was cool enough for jumpers on during the day and decidedly chilly at night.

The are some very nice walking paths among the trees lwading round the hill lying at the north end of town, and again in the early morning some wonderful views of the Massif. By about 9.or 10 am , even on fine days, a tablecloth of cloud descends on the mountain. Supposedly on the clearest of days it is possible to see even further to Everest and its great outriders away in Nepal, but even we we went up for the dawn viewing from nearby Tiger Hill this sight was shrouded in thick cloud . We did get to see the first dawn light touching Khanggengjanga though. We had taken a jeep up of course, along with several thousand others so it was a real bunfight trying to get a viewing spot in the pavillion so we ended up opting for the rail in front of the carpark. We hopped off the jeep part way down and walked back through the forest to the village of Ghoom , about 8km from Darjeeling. There is an old monastary there which we visited though it was nothing spectacular and quite bereft of monks. We had seen the mini steam train puffing its way up the hill from Ghoom the day before but were too early to catch it back this morning.

Another day we visited the zoo , perched on a hilltop a couple of kms out of town . It shares its grounds with the Himalyan Mountaineering Institute which has a small and quite interesting museum. The zoo itself has a pleasant setting among tall stands of trees, mainly broadleafed evergreens in complete contrast to the massive conifers in the town itself, which I had thought native to the area but turned out to be some form of Japanese cypress. The animal enclosures themselves were spacious and leafy , and though there were only a small number of animals they seemed about as well off as a zoo animal can ever be. Beautiful Bengal tiger , Snow leopard and black panther as well as some attractive pheasants. On another walk round town , after looking at the old St Andrews church I was looking at a nearby old place when invited to have a look inside by a group of men . It was a venerable gentlemans club, the Gymkhana Club fro memory, and I received a guided tour. Now the haunt of leading professionals and business folf of Darjeeling, its origins lay more than a century ago. One could almost feel the presence of the ghosts of pukka sahibs in the dusty corridors, expansive ballroom, deserted billiard hall and the library crammed with tomes mainly printed before Independence.

Ahh, this rejigged wordpress site is driving me crazy, jumping all over the place so must hurry on. I’d decided to go down to Kolkarta to get my eye looked at by doctors at the renowned Bellevue Clinic. A travel agent here in town showed us a website where one can check online availability of tourist quota seats, and told us, accurately , that by marking the booking form with the tag ‘foreigner allocation’, we could book the seat at the tiny Darjeeling station- had always thought one can only access tourist quota seats at the special desks at a few major stations. This time I took the sleeper class, and it turned out to be scarcely less comfortable than 3 tier A/C- only difference is you need to make your own bedding which I did with 2 sarongs and a padded daypack. Arrived Kolkarta early morning where the taxi driver who grabbed me claimed the prepaid stand didn’t open til 9am. Couldn’t see it anywhere to verify this claim so more haggling- God forbid he should use his meter and in any case I’ve read almost every taxi meter in this city is rigged. The meter inspectorions were privatised and the inspectors are all bribed. Arriving at backpacker central , aka Chowringhee I was beseiged throughout my search for a room by flocks of touts, making the process of inspecting the dire, dingy selection of over priced accommadation an even more exasperating task. At last I forked over 700 Rps for something barely tolerable: a double but the cheaper single was too much like a prison cell or somewhere where one goes to slit one’s wrists. At least my selection had a TV and windows, albeit opening onto busy Mirza Ghalib Rd below.

The Kolkarta weather wasn’t too hot but traipsing round under both packs( I had brought both just in case the diagnosis required immediate return home) still worked me into a lather. Jules suggested I try the hospital immediately even though ot was Sunday so I set out armed with the handdrawn sketch map of Kolkarta derived from the Tranquility’s copy of Lonely Planet and such memory of the inner city layout as I retained from our visit 7 years ago. After wandering the streets of the mainly Muslim district just to the east of Mirza Ghalib Rd, keeping an eye out for more salubrious hotels, I found my way back via Royd st to the Metro. Closed. Ah well lets take a bus. Remarkably was able to get to the main road I wanted and 15 minutes of walking brought me to Minto Park and adjacent Bellevue Hospital. The eye clinic was closed but at least I knew where it was , how to get there and how long it would take on the morrow. I strolled back up to Park Street, one of Kolkarta’s top avenues , and the route took me through a relatively well off part of the city, site of embassies, banks, better quality restaurants and cafes and expensive clothing stores. I called in quickly to Maccas, as the A/c and toilets are usually reliable. A sign advised neither pork or beef products were sold- to do either would be to alienate a major proportion of potential clientele who would regard the premises as offensive even if the range of alternatives meant they themselves did not have to eat the offending product. After this I made my way west to the Maidan, a vast expanse of grassed public open space. There were a number of informal games of cricket taking place though much less than one would expect in such a large space in reputedly cricket-mad India. I watched a while, semi organised games with batting and bowling teams rather than just individuals taking turns. I had to walk away after a short time, repelled by the sight of so many blatant throwers among the bowlers. One lad knocked over the batsmen’s stumps 4 times in an over, no doubt going home to proudly tell Dad ” I clean bowled 4 today papa” . Sadly there was nothing clean and nothing bowled about any of them . Still it’s hardly surprising when the ICC allows flagrant chuckers to operate at Test level.

Kolkarta, or this section of it at least, is a pleasant place to stroll while your energy levels remain OK, though as the day became hotter I started to flag. The larger streets are lined with shade giving trees, and though crowded the smaller streets move at a more relaxed pace. People stroll down the middle of the road which they share with m/cycles, cars and hand drawn rickshaws. If a horn blast from the car behind sounds pedestrians don’t jump aside but slowly move to the side over about 10 metres distance. I strolled round ,before returning for a rest in front of my TV. The first ever F1 mIndian Grand Prix was on so that passed the afternoon. WEvening ZI discovered the very pleasant beer garden lounge of the nearby Fairlawn Hotel , and though the rooms are pricey the beer is quite fair.

I spent 5 hours next day at Bellevue, being seen by about 5 different Doctors before being sent on my way with some revised prescriptions . The diagnosis in Uveitis and I gather should respond to the drops and they are compatible with the new pressure reducing drops they gave me so hopefully all will be well. The fee for all this attention at a supposedly expensive private hosptial was 200 Rps, the meds cost 325 Rps. But in the course of moving through about 5 different rooms I’d lost my sunnies, and due to the pupil dilating drops used in the course of my examination going out without a new pair to shop elsewhere than the in house spectacle shop wasn’t an option. The cheapest pair here- 900 Rps. At least they seem to be polarised but the relativities here are peculiar to say the least.

Too late to get to the Railway Reservation Centre that afternoon but first thing next morning set off with my homemade map , annotated ater browsing a Google Map. I nearly got it right first time, just striking the road along the river to the north of Fairlie St , but of course turning right first when I should have gone left. Finding Fairlie St a bit later I immediately saw the Tourist Reservation Centre – all its doors with the roller shutters down! Next door I saw the general Computerised booking Centre so thinking if I can do it in Darjeeling I can do it here, bowled in . Pushing aside the would be queue -jumpers I handed my completed booking form with Foreigner Reservation written atop to the clerk. First he asked to see my passport, only after which he informed me to use the facility next door. Told him its closed . He sighed and looked at his computer and told me waitlist no 35, obviously in the general seating plan. I snatched my form back and went back next door to find the roller door open. Inside 3 white robed Muslims and a sole Korean were seated near the desk. The man at the desk curtly wrote something on my form and said “number”. I was getting testy but gathered he had written a waiting number on my form . Nothing happened for a while even though 4 men stood talking behind the counter- eventually realised this section only operated from 10 am although main office had commenced business at 8. Gathering my temper, I politely went yes Ji ,please Ji when my number was called and the man who served me was fine. Ticket for the same night , sleeper class again. Was departing at 10pm but had time to get back down to where the Sikkim tourist office is to get my Inner Line permit. Only trouble was to find it. The net and guide book gave about 3 different addresses , all luckily in the same area. Using only my handmade map, and given the local penchant for alternative street names and haphazard signage, I had a long search and had almost given up in exhaustion when it appeared. Anyway I now know that area pretty well and found a small bookshop with some great friendly people sitting round chatting asnd drinking tea.

After dinner at the friendly cafe in Sudder Street in Chowringhee I collected my bags and went through the usual rubbish of trying to get a taxi at a sensible price. Futile of course , you’re a bunny when they see you have big bags. I tried doing the walkoff and did actually walk part way but in the end capitulated. The tain mercifully left on time. It was a really long train and of course my coach was at the very far end but when I saw the queues for the unreserved carriages was thankful I had a booking. These unreserved places must be a real free for all. There were a grou of 3 young Sydney siders in the next compartment so next morning we had the strength of numbers in getting a jeep and got a fair deal. Again we bumped up the roughest detour or shortcut road for 2 hours, 4 of us jammed in the rear bench seat. Semed comfortable at the outset, much less so when you haven’t been able to move your bum an inch for 3 hours.

Julie had warned me the weather in Darjeeling had taken a turn for the worse and so it proved. Thick cloud, mist , drizzle and penetrating cold. However as Thursday was my birthday we decided to leave Friday for Sikkim rather than the Thursay even though we both had permits reay to go. Had a very nice roast dinner with a glass of red at the rather upmarket Glenarys Restaurant. This place has white table cloths, wood paneeled walls, uniformed waiters and good if not great food. Also a lovely patisserie and cafe downstairs- lovely for breakfast, particularly when conditions allow a view. Even had Bacon with the eggs at breakfast and drinkable coffee. So Friday we’re off to Sikkim, hopefully for a closer view of the mountains.

I have to admit I came pretty close to pulling the pin in Varanasi, as the continuation of my dodgy eye vision, and the associated anxiety about when/ whether it would recover started to sap all energy . Worse than the physical discomfort is the loss of enthusiasm to undertake outings, so my excursions tended to be short and not very imaginative and before long just felt like lying down again. Not to mention becoming a rather , no very grumpy old bugger and a long way from the ideal travel companion. Poor Julie was forever wondering what she could say or suggest without getting her head bitten off. Still , it is necessary to try to find some perspective and Varanasi isn’t a bad place to do it. This is the most advantageous place to come to die as if you are cremated and then set adrift on the Ganga your sins are forgiven. This attracts a lot of pilgrims as well as relatives of the dead and dying, and along with them a host of mendicants, both able bodied, crippled and deformed, whose condition does give some pause fto one’s own feelings of self- pity. For a while anyway.

Pulled into Varanasi Jn , middle of the day and staggered into the maelstrom that is downtown varanasi. The pre-paid rickshaw stand makes it slightly easier as no need to bargain down the ridiculous asking prices , but after swirling through the massive sensory overload of the vehicle streets we reached a barrier beyond which no motorised vehicles are supposedly permitted . Here we alighted among the throngs,and negotiated a cycle rickshaw before being deposited near a bazaar just close to Dassasswamedh Ghat, Varanasi’s most important. We knew from our previous visit that numerous small guesthouses and hotels lie near the ghats beside Mother Ganga and in the labyrinth of tiny alleys between the ghats and the main road further to the west. But knowing they exist , and locating them are 2 entirely different matters. Touts swarm like bushflies offering to take you to one of the numerous hotels whose cards they clutch in a thick wad. You know going with them will add a fat commission to the price of your room but shedding them is no easy matter and at last I sort of let a guy lead me to various places. I found a place , near the main burning ghat , Manikanita Ghat, with a view of sorts and not too depressing. 500 Rps and we’ll see how we go with just a fan. My ‘friend’ led me back to where Julie waited with the bags at a chai store. Miraculously managed to find our way back to the hotel, to be informed that ‘ been a mix up’: our 500 fan room was previously booked but we have the 800 Rp A/c. Nearly lost it, as we were almost dead, the final approach to the hotel being up a flight of about 70 steps. Sweat was pouring off us, which was to become a familiar motif when exercising for any time in Varanasi other than early morning and evening. A bit of huffing and puffing secured a discount and we ended up quite well out of it as we had better views and A/c for only a modest extras.

Our window and balcony looked down over some temple spires just above the river, and though one access alley led past the burning ghat and its piles of firewood, the actual cremations were hidden from view, much to Julie’s relief. But each morning and evening we would hear the clanging of bells and chanting accompanying cremations and the preliminary ceremonies. A small family of monkeys inhabited the nearby rooves, so hanging out any washing can be a tricky business. Most of the fascination in Varanasi lies in people watching, whether it be walking along the ghats, or through the network of small alleys which are crammed with shops stalls and workshops offering all manner of goods and services. Every purveyor will wish of course to engage you in some kind of chat as a prelude to an invitation to enter their premises. The alleys were of course built to accomodate pedestrians and perhaps handcarts, but now along with these, squatting beggars, cows and bulls ranging from medium to giant size compete for space with numerous honking motorbikes and ringing cycles.And don’t don’t forget to look where you put those feet. The alleys are endleessly fascinating but when it all gets a bit much a retreat to a cafe is called for. Whilke many of the alleys are purely catering for local people and pilgrims, there is one long and uncomplicated lane which is very much set up for foreigners. Here and in a couple of other locations one finds some cafes serving proper coffee and some nice continental food, and a couple of places have aspirations to a degree of cool. We also found a restaurant with an open terrace overlooking the Ganga which was a lovely spot to relax. It would have been tricky, not to mention tiring returning via the alleys so we spoiled ourselves and took a boat up and down the Ganga . The trip to dinner was upstream, and though I know we were paying much more than the’going rate’ , I still felt guilty watching the the fellow labouring at the oars into the current for half an hour for $4. It is nearly Diwali, a most auspicious time to be here and lots of evening ceremonies were taking place at the main Ghat which we passed along the way so we had a view from the waterfront, at least when we could see past the other boats.

We made on excursion to Ramnagar Fort, which lies on the opposite bank and about 10 km upstream. It still belongs to the family of the old Maharaja, and contains a museum , but the latter was in a sorry state of repair and we wondered whether it had been a wothwhile exercise as it took quite a bit of getting to through a shocking road and through the noise and pollution which characterises Varanasis main roads. We also did some walks along the ghats , which is normally shorter and quicker than taking the maze and one doesn’t get lost. However as the monsoon high water has been more recent than was the case on our previous visit, many of the ghats still hold the thick banks of silt / mud deposited by the waters which this year rose right to the top of the ghats. The primary method of removal is to pump water from the river up large hoses to where the mud is and flush it off with 2 jets from these hoses. The river is hideously polluted so this mud is not very pure,so walking the ghats one is faced first by the stench and second by having to avoid the actual hosing sites and the ensuing streams of filthy water flowing down the steps below. Hard to negotiate and particularly so at night, when one would most like to avoid the unlit twisting maze of the laneways.The river can be a bit whiffy when you are out on a boat too, more so after dark when a mist settles on the river surface locking the miasma near boat level. Julie was somewhat more active than I , and regularly rose early to walk the ghats and ride a boat just after first light when many of the more interesting activity is to be seen.

On Saturday I decided had to do something about my eye and set out for the well reputed Heritage Hospital. We didn’t really know where to find it and ended up coming across another eye hospital . Here I experienced the good and bad of Indian medicine. The good , i saw a doctor for 20 Rp consultation fee, and received the prescribed drops for about 100 Rps- total cost about $3. However next day after commencing on the drops I read on the packaging for one lot a list of contra-indications against use by people with my history, which I had described to the Dr. Went back and mentioned this to her on Monday- she remained adamant I should use these elevated dosages . I sent off a query to my specialist in Melbourne and resolved nmot to use them for the present but anxiety levels shot up again as my vision became even more blurry after starting to use them.

So wasn’t feeling too flash when we headed for the station Monday night to take the train to Darjeeling. We had to go to a more distant station , Mughal Sakar, so went a little early to make sure were there on time. Arrived 2 hours early, train was too hours late, PA announcements incomprehensible so we well browned off. Off course when the train arrived we had to scramble for miles along the platform. desparately searching for our carriage. They weren’t well marked, the guard didn’t seem to be able to confirm whether it was even the right train let along carriage. We were in the more expensive @AC as #A/c had been booked out but found the standard of facilities no better other than having a little more headroom. To top it off, next morning there wasn’t even any water in the handbasins or toilets taps- forget about the flushing or washing hands. Just when I was stewing over this litany of woes , a man with badly deformed spine and leg crawled past on 2 hands and a foot, propping his bowl in one hand. His life is to earn enough to eat this way, no doubt having to sling a cut to the conductor who lets him on the train. Makes one take pause for a bit in dwelling too long on your own troubles.. People here still bear the ravages of those vanquished diseases polio and TB.

Strange to say I had actually felt better during the days’ bus trip than I had when first woken. We stopped enroute for a flat tyre, at which time I felt at the worst and felt this the final straw.After the driver disappeared to get a spare I had lain down on a flat bit of grass a couple of metres wide between the roadside and the edge of the hill, ignoring the olfactory evidence that this ground was regularly used as a toilet stop by passing buses. After all my pants hadn’t been washed for 2 weeks , my coat was stained and dusty and my head was propped on the aircushion, why worry more. Wanting only to be left in peace, i felt tugging at my sleeve and faintly heard childrens voices , which i tried to ignore. However when a man’s voice joined the chorus I had to rise and be sociable, whereupon various kids entangled themselves round me demanding photos be taken and then of course having admitted to the existence of a spousely travelmate, she too must be summonsed to participate. So followed numerous photos of groups of women, groups of boys, us, them on it went. The man who spoke most had some kind of priestly role at haridwar and was doing a part of the Cham yatra. Didn’t stop him giving a sharp cuff to the side of the head of one of the boys who tried to jump into the photo with the girls. This stuff can send you mad or lift your spirits- take your pick. In the end I felt better which lasted nearly as far as Gwaldam, despite us having to make 3 changes of transport along the way.

A sign in Gwaldam bills it as a ‘tourist paradise’. The reality: apart from the aforementioned luxury hotel and ours, there was a big government rest house above the road, a couple of other hotels even less pre-possessing than ours, and 3 or 4 hole in the wall style eateries. Restaurants is stretching the use of language. The one recommended by our hotelier offered only dhal, rice and chappatis when we attended , but we did find a tiny little place which sold us a very tasty little spicy vegie burger. Next morning we walked back along the road to open up the full view of the Himalaya, which looked brilliant in the clear morning air A little further along a metal sign listed 7 or 8 attractions of this tourist paradise, but neither the signage or the several men laying about near the sign shed any light on the whereabouts of these marvels. Moving beyond an army training base one comes at length on a small Buddhist temple below the main road. Nothing particularly notable about the building but at least 3 or 4 monks were actually using it.

We later ascertained there is an interesting hike down into the valley below , but even had we known the trail the requirement to climb back up the steep path for 2km would have been beyond me. Weak as a kitten, I was gasping after a climb of about 200metres above the road into the forest. The most interesting part of this walk was we stumbled onto a path containing an army style training track, with rope bridges, tunnels, mud holes, ramps and swings obviously used by the recruits from the training camp near town. Above this we rested gratefuly in a grassy clearing among the trees , apparently invisible to groups of rather noisy soldiers in the surrounding forest. At least no one chastised us for being where we shouldn’t.
We could have moved on after one night but the rather easy paced style of the place attracted us sufficiently to take things easy and spend an extra night. Next day we took a morning jeep hoping to get all the way to Kausoli, a pretty well known tourist hill town about 2 hours south. Having negotiated a share jeep, we are told after we under way that it goes only as far as Garu. That’s how it sounded though never having heard of it can’t vouch for the spelling. We were dropped in Garu’s main street, a lengthy strip as it is a large smalltown, as distinct say from a small large town. Shades of Jack Dyer’s good ordinary footballer description eh? We trudged as directed uphill (of course) along the street asking after jeeps to Kausoli. Always , a little further/ 20 metres on. You’d like to buy land from these people! One chap generously offered to take us for 400 Rps p/person, which seemed absurd even before we ascertained from the Planet’s map on the Kindle that Garu- Kausoli appeared a significantly shorter trip than that we’d just made for 35Rps ea. We’d had the map all along of course, just couldn’t read the tiny print until Julie found a shop that sold us a magnifying glass. So there’s a reason to call into Garu. Eventually found a bus , which deigned to leave about 35 minutes after we climbed aboard.

Kausali perches itself on a ridge, which we mounted after a long climb up from Garu. In fairness the many twists in the road made it a longer trip than a crow would make by a factor of about 3, but still not worth 800 Rps even in a jeep to yourself. Kausoli , while bigger than Gwaldam is very walkable , about 15 minutes from one end to the other and we had no trouble finding a nice hotel, very reasonable at 500Rps with glorious views to The Himalaya from both bedroom window and balcony. Though more distant from the mountains than Gwaldam, they appeared both clearer and higher, and the view as the first light of morning touched the snowy peaks was magical. There was a pleasant restaurant directly above the hotel and though it had no views it had a fine menu – the first decent meat for well over a week went down well.The town is very much a tourist stop with much of it given over to small hotels and restaurants, and there a few shops selling clotes, handicrafts and the local tea, but it’s not a sell , sell sell type place and is quite relaxing. And to walk out of town into the surrounding farmlands and villages takes only a few minutes so is no chore.

Julie had met an Englishman, Ian, a little older than us who has made numerous trips to India and is reasonably familiar with the Kausani region. He leads small guided trips , mainly friends , relatives and acquaintances pf same. He showed us a short walk through the fields outside town. He was rather modest regarding his accomplishments in Hindi ,and was able to conduct short chats with people in the villages we passed through and some women working in the fields. The hills descend from Kausani, with much terracing for fields on the hillsides and larger expanses of cropland nearer the valley floor. Its very green and fertile and looks particularly nice now just following the monsoon. Mornings were clear and sunny , with a bit of cloud coming over late afternoon but the rains appear to have finished. We even got to try our hands at cutting millet with a hand scythe to give the ladies a break and I can tell you that though cutting the thin stalks looks easy , it aint. Everywhere we went here, as elsewhere the fieldwork of planting , harvesting and carting is done almost exclusively by women. Save only that just as men in third world countries draw the line at letting the sisterhood get their hands on the public transport keys, so the village men hold the buffalo reins when it comes to ploughing. With Ian able to exchange pleasantries, if only at a basic level, we didn’t feel so intrusive within the villages, where often the path seems to be inside peoples yards where they are at work threshing, drying , pounding and sewing. Interestingly the latter is an occupation that at commercial level in town, and even at times in the villages , is done by older men. A day or so later Julie and I alone went on an extended version of this walk, crossing a ridge into the next valley and ending at a small temple in a village across a small river. it feels a little more awkward walking through these tiny settlements when you can’t say anything beyond ‘namaste’ but nobody seemed too offended by our presence.

In all we were in Kausoli for 4 days which was very relaxing. Others clearly find it so too, as although there were only a handful of foreign tourists in town, there were several long-stayers who had put down roots and were stating for years rather than days or weeks. An American fellow I spoke to explained that when people asked what there is to do in Kausoli, he happily replies” Nothing’ , stating this to be one of its chief attractions. Helps of course if you are into spending long hours meditating, but equally one can study the language and help in classes at schools in the town and surrounding villages. You can certainly live economically – a small nest egg would keep you going for years at a time here.

We has been able to book online rail tickets ,through a site called Cleartrip ,from Haldwani, the first town south in the plains to Lucknow and then on to Varanasi. However as the Diwali holiday season will soon be upon us Julie was anxious to try to book tickets for a train from Varanasi to Silguri, the jumping off point for Darjeeling and Sikkim. All our online searches only produced wait-listed tickets so we thought to try to book using the tourist quota system. Foolishly failing to visit India Rails website, I punted on some advice received in Joshimuth that a tourist quota office was available in the next town down the line, Almora. So Saturday morning (15 october) we took the bus to Almora , planning to arrive and book our tickets before the office closed between 12noon and 2 pm, and then take another bus down to Nainatal and spend 2 nights there.

Best laid plans. The bus dropped us in a crowded street in Almora, after winding round ridge tops and up and down hillsides. Almora was quite a large place and like a mini Simla spread all over several hills. We had only the most basic map, and were handicapped by having no idea of just where the bus had dropped us. If any street signs exist in Indian towns of this size( popn c 50,000) they’re all in Hindi. Few passers by spoke sufficient English to assist orientation, so taking a punt that the main road lay to the north we headed uphill( and boy do I mean uphill) We found our way into a crowded bazaar, which ran east- west when I wanted to head north. It seemed to go forever and as one continues in a direction one doesn’t really want to take every step seems to be leading to further into the wilderness. Eventually leaving Julie and the bags by the wayside inja tiny tea stall I staggered on, cursing Lon Planets maps, India , life in general. Eventually finding the main road I walked back and forward following conflicting directions from those in the street to the whereabouts of the Govt Tourist Rest Home, supposedly the location of the railway booking office. Finaaly a helpful man in a car took me, though by now it was well after 12. The bored lady in the typically somnolent Govt Rest home then informed me there was no train booking office there, it had closed a year or more ago but I could make bookings at the post Office. This would clearly have no tourist quota so our visit to Almora was a waste of time.

After recovering Julie we panted down to the place where buses left for Nainatal- different of course from the place we’d been dropped off. We left Almora with few regrets, though the brevity and circumstances of our visit meant we may not have done it justice. It did have some nice views of the surrounding hills, some old colonial buildings( decaying of course) and under different circumstances a leisurely stroll through the old cobblestone bazaar may have proved interesting. Not on my greatest hits list though. The trip to Nainatal again involved a combination of bus and share jeep. These 4WDs, holding 6-8 when used for foreign tourist trips, wait round until a minimum of 10 passengers are aboard in share taxi mode. 2 beside the driver, 4 in the middle and 4 in the back. However the driver will try to get at 12 or more if possible, though at least they have roof racks for the bigger luggage.

Nainatal is very much the biggest tourist venue of the 3 towns. It owes its popularity to its location round a pretty little lake , with steep hillsides on all sides stacked with hotels. The place was very busy with domestic tourists, but the supply of hotels is so great that finding a room was no drama. The lake itself is about a kilometre long so strolling right round it does not take too long. We took a boat trip on the lake on Sunday afternoon and a trip up to the hilltop on the cable car Monday morning , which pretty much amounted to the most excitement you get in Nainatal. The local tourists mainly perambulate around thew lakeside roads and go out on the rowboats- you get a boatman unless you want to take a pedalo. There was a sort of amusement park at the top of the chairlift but at 11am it was all but deserted and a pretty sad and forlorn sort of place.

So at lunchtime we were happy enough to get the bus down to Haldwani from where our train was due to depart. We arrived about 3 hours earlier than necessary , preferring not to be rushed given the vagaries of the transport system. We each had a separate stroll round the streets near the station. Haldwani is quite a large town and has a significant Muslim population and the stroll through the bazaar area and around the mosque was interesting, with shops run by Muslims Hindus and Sikhs all intermingled. It is difficult however to judge the nature of the interactions among these groups. Obviously you won’t see Muslims shopping in a shop stocking Hindu religious iconography or Hindus shopping for Islamic calligraphy.

Eventually we climbed aboard our train and chuffed off into the night. Although we had an A/C coach it was still pretty sticky and only a sheet sufficed – certainly the heat was again noticeable after a week and a half in the hills. We arrived in Lucknow about 2.30am and retired to the lounge where we able to lie on a couch, which was better than sitting up but not really conducive to sleep. The train to Varanasi was due to leave at 7.00am , and fortunately I checked my ticket about 6 to see that we were actually to depart from a different station. Panic!!!. How long to get to the other station ? Luckily it turned out to be walking distance, and as we exited station 1 we saw station 2 lying across a huge plaza cum taxi/rickshaw park away to our right 500 metres away. Both station are built with quite attractive Indo-Islamic style with towers topped by domes. Both are quite modern inside and reasonably well organised with digital display screens and PA announcements you can hear. In most stations the English version of announcements is no more comprehensible to us than the Hindi. Ascertaining our train was to leave from platform 9 , and seeing platform 1 was the nearest to the entrance, we climbed up onto the crossover bridge and crossed to….platform 8 , the last. Turns out platform 9 lay beyond the very far end of platform 1. Panting and sweating we at last clambered aboard our train, which was a Chair Class A/c . This means airplane type seats but with more legroom and capacious overhead luggage racks, so we had a very comfortable trip to Varanasi. Now we are back in the flatlands, the great N Indian plains spreading into the distance without the hint of a hill to be seen. Everywhere the recent monsoon has left abundant water and the crops looking thick and healthy , the rivers all flowing strongly. A restful interlude before the hurly- burly of Varanasi

We followed the valley of the Ganga for an hour or 2 , up to the point where it divided. Above this point each arm has a separate name , though one is recognised as coming from the ‘true source’ at Gangotri. Gangotri, along with Yamunotri, Kedenarth and Badrinath are the 4 holy sites which make up the Cham Yatra, which draw hundreds of thousands if not millions of tourists each year and must be a handy fillip to the economy of the state of Uttarakhand. What with hotels, buses, taxis, horse and porter hire and food sales, lots of people are making their living from these pilgrimages. The trip , lasting as it did for 10 hours was something of an ordeal and having an inside seat and with my eye half closed from an infection I wasn’t that much into sightseeing. The Ganga and subsequently its tributaries cut a deep gorge and the towns and villages we passed through or near to clung to hillsides with buildings standing seemingly atop oe another or perched on the rare small areas of flat ground

The road started as a fairly good blacktop, but as we progressed further upward into the valleys the toll of monsoon landslides became greater and the road accordingly rougher, so the usual lurching progress seemed to go on forever. Though we must have gained considerable altitude , climbing as we were up river valleys, the sun seemed to lose little of its warmth throughout the afternoon so it was hot and sweaty as well as rough. Eventually we pulled into , and then through Josimath, our day’s destination, a little after 5pm. Of course had we known the town we’d have asked to be dropped as soon as we saw a hotel sign. As we didn’t we remained aboard until we reached the very end of town and realised ‘ that’s all she wrote’ and clambered off the bus. This enabled us to have the pleasure of retracing our path, uphill and fully laden, for several hundred metres into the centre where we located a room. From outside I expected it to be a dump, located right on the busy main road thru town and in an undressed concrete tenement. The walk through the shops on the ground floor corridor, or rather their closed roller doors didn’t do a lot for me either, but the room itself was passable and at 250Rps you don’t hope for a lot. In this case your own b/room and toilet and a decent pillow were the high points along with with 2 external windows don’t ask about views though.

In Rishikesh I’d been to a Doc at a fair sort of hospital/ clinic and he’d examined me and said headaches were typical ‘ cluster headaches’ I don’t dare Google medical matters anymore it just leads to anxiety , but I’d taken the pills he prescribed without notable result. The day after visiting this clinic I’d been persuaded to also enlist the services of a practitioner of Ayurvedic medicine, who had advised a wide range of treatments , pills and potions. Some of these I didn’t have the necessary time to spend on, but had been encouraged to make use of almond oil , to be applied to the scalp in conjunction with a head massage. I hadn’t got as far as this, but had rubbed some on the right temple near where I was experiencing pain, having been told my complaint was one of ‘the nervous system’ Within 24 hours the skin in this area erupted in pustules and I think bacteria from these entered my eye causing swellings to break out on upper and lower lids. NOT HAPPY JAN ! Waking on Friday morning I could barely open my right eye and still having headaches I was effectively hors de combat for the day.

Julie did some exploration of the town in the morning but Joshimath is not a place many come to stay It is mainly a transit spot for yatri heading up to Badrinath , and adventure tourists planning treks up to the Valley of Flowers or into the surrounding mountains. On the bus we’d sat among 5 young blokes form Kolkarta who were sporting team jackets Howrah Sensation Group, who were embarking on a 7 day high level trek. By lunchtime Julie had largely exhausted Joshimath’s scenic and cultural attractions and retired alongside me with the Kindle for the afternoon. That evening we struggled along the mainstreet to the nearby restaurant, which though it was brightly lit and offered a wide menu , failed to honour many of the promises contained in that document. At least it did deliver on the chicken, the first meat for 13 days. No sign of a beer though.

Next day, i feeling a little better, we decided to take the chairlift up to Auli, a winter ski resort about 800 metres above Joshimath. It of course was closed for maintenance. Julie had the day before met a man with a tour business and we negotiated with him to drive us to the resort area near the summit, from where we took a skiers chairlift to the top. From here we had a glorious view to the east to Nanda Devi, at over 7800 metres the highest peak in north western India.Looking across the valley over Joshimath itself we could see other snow mountains which were obscured from Joshimath itself due to its location right down n in the valley We spent a couple of hours sitting admiring the view and drinking chai with Vivek(Vick) . He has done quite a lot of mountaineering and trekking , as well as speaking excellent English and though of course we were in no condition to undertake any long treks, he gave the impression of being someone you would trust to take you on a trek. So , if you find yourself in Joshimath talk to Vick at XtremeTours.

Later in the day I felt up to making a walk round the town. LP harshly calls Joshimath a one street town. We noticed the area we stayed in, along side the road through town was called Upper Bazaar, so figured there must also be a Lower Bazaar. Climbing down the hillside I did locate same, and found the town does in fact have 2 streets. Progress between, and to the houses and hotels perched on the hillside above the main street is by torturous footpaths. From the road up to Auli looking down, Joshimath looked to be perched on a flat ledge on the mountainside, but within town itself any flatness except going along the face of the hill seemed non existent. I was intrigued looking across the valley to see a road on the valley floor disappearing into a defile in the opposite mountainside. This I presumed was the road to badrinath , where we had decided to head next day.

Sadly next morning my eye had puffed right up again and felt as bad as ever. I could not bring myself to undertake a trip which would take me even further from good medical facilities, nor to remain longer in Joshimath, so reluctantly we turned our backs on Badrinath and the Valley of Flowers and took a bus back to the south. I had no stomach for a further 10 hour ordeal back to Rishikesh, so decided to go in stages back to the railhead south at Haldwani. Our first day was aimed to get as far as the town of Gwaldam , about which we knew almost nothing but was supposedly reachable in a little over 6 hours . We left at 9am, arrived Gwaldam 8 hours , a puncture and 3 bus/taxi changes later just after 5pm. As compensation, the gods gave us from just short of Gwaldam glorious views of a spread of peaks of the Greater Himalaya arrayed along the north eastern horizon and we were able to see a rosy evening glow on their snow covered tops. Hopefully an omen of better things.

In one way at least we are looking forward to a return to the mountains as although it in now autumn we have still found the warmth and humidity here quite oppressive after so long in the high altitude country. After weeks of wearing clothes for 2 days and attending satisfactorily to personal hygiene with a shower a day and soap, we now find ourselves changing clothes twice a day and showering at least that where possible. We haven’t been doing long walks but even an hour or so leaves the shirt dripping wet.It is mainly the humidity as it’s not hot in absolute terms. Not much rain , except for a downpour last night , but a few spectacular thunderstorms.

Haridwar we enjoyed a lot. On first blush the town itself looked a bit down at heel, and it does have many of the less attractive features of the Indian urban landscape, but peel back the surface a bit and it has its own charm. It is an important centre for pilgrimage by devout Hindus, largely due to its location on the Ganga combined with a legend that nectar spilled by the god Lord Vishnu spilled to earth here and left a footprint. Each 12 years millions of devotees gather here for a festival, Haridwar being one of 4 cities in which it is held on a rotating basis. What it must be like then is hard to comprehend , as even now the place is swarming with swami, pilgrims left right and centre. The town has a plethora of hotels both large and modern and small and dingy. In addition, many stay in the numerous dharamshalas, pilgrim rest houses, and in tented encampments lying across the canal which borders the towns eastern side . Some of the dharamsalas have quite ornate facades and entrances, and usually consist of a quadrangular building surrounding a garden courtyard, rather in the style of the mid eastern caravanserai.Many of these seem to have been built in the 1920s and 30s and although commissioned by wealthy and/or noble Indians perhaps designed by british architects in an Anglo-Indian style. So some have aspects similar to the commercial buildings of that era one might see in Melbourne , but with Indian flourishes. Many buildings have decorative balustrades ornamenting verandas and balconies, sadly sometimes despoiled by being enclosed by wire caging or glass.

Though the town receives many thousands of visitors it is a pilgrim town rather than a tourist town , and the streets reflect this. Instead of the usual tourist artefacts and frippery, shops not selling the everyday needs items are catering to a market for religious memorabilia and the items taken to the temples and the Ganga for offerings to the Gods made by all these pilgrims.Well I suppose there are postcard sellers, though usually these are really more posters , and there is your religious kitsch as well. But everywhere the streets are lined with stalls and shops selling Prasad, small bags of white beads, flowers, nuts and other smallgoods intended for tasking to the temples .

Pilgrims come from all parts of the country and are arrayed in a wide variety of dress. Here almost every woman one sees ids dressed in either a sari, many brilliantly coloured, or Salwar Kameez. Now even Julie has one of the latter having purchased the material in Haridwar and having it made up in Rishikesh. Although many men wear typical modern Indian wear, being long trousers and long sleeved shirt, there are much larger numbers dressed in more traditional garb , such as the white cotton trousers and over shirt or the dhoti, Everywhere there are also men dressed in what I would in my ignorance term holy clothing, though which are really sadhu and which simply more dedicated pilgrims is sometimes difficult to say. The town is full of mendicants and beggars, many of the former being either real or pretend sadhu . As I understand the term a true sadhu is one who has forsaken worldly goods and comforts and gone on the road to strive for enlightenment ,with voluntary physical deprivation a large part of this. They traditionally have survived on charity provided by the more worldly , but it is notorious that in places like Haridwar there are those who pose as sadhu to make some money. How to tell a fakir from a faker? Anyway one does tend to harden the heart a little as one is continually faced with the outstretched hand or the tug at the elbow and soon learns to feign deafness and avoid eye contact to some degree.

The town lies along the west side of a canal which carries part of the flow of the Ganges River( or Ganga as it is usually known here) , the main channel of the river lying a kilometre or so to the east. Flow is controlled by a system of dams north of the town and the flow down the canal is very strong. On the main town side many of the buildings stand right beside the water, and a few small ghats are located alongside the several bridges across the canal. So to travel up to Har-Ki -Pairi , the main ghat, one either traverses the narrow streets winding through a series of bazaars or crosses to the island dividing canal and river and walks up the broad promenade on the canal’s eastern side. This is really a wide flat paved area, descending on the waterside by a series of steps into the canal and backed by several of the campsite area extending into the island. All along the paved area sit large groups of people who have gathered , often in family areas to attend to their holy rituals and in between time to socialize. At the foot of the steps people perform ritual bathing or set small leaf boats laden with small offerings onto the swift current. To safeguard more infirm bathers, a series of metal spikes are erected parallel to the bank about 2 metres out and these are connected by metal rails and chains. At the main ghat, the canal divides round a small artificial island , on which stands a clocktower and small temples. The narrow channel closest to the west bank becomes even more swift in its confined course but people still bathe here and the young bloods even swim across – thee bridges do have ropes and chains suspended from them so anyone whose ambition exceeds their swimming ability has a get out of jail free card.

The main ghat is thronged with people, particularly during morning and evening puja. Julie thought to buy a little leaf boat and candle to make an offering and we were taken in hand as it were by a young guy who purported to take us through some kind of catechism recital which was supposed to give long and bountiful life. At the end he solicited a donation, and helpfully suggested an amount , say 1000 Rps. One doesn’t know how genuine these people are but one doesn’t like to be ungracious just in case so we settled on 100Rps. Likewise the first time we visited Har-Ki Pairi a uniformed man armed with clipboard and tickets had tried to take our names and get money from us. Sensing a scam we ignored him but later ascertained that a donation to the ghat’s upkeep is the done thing so forked out on our next visit. It is a constant act of balance between not being a boorish skinflint on one hand and not being a pigeon for the plucking on the other.

On one night we had the treat of a wonderful procession down the street just near our hotel. It stretched for a couple of kilometers and took about 3/4 hour to pass. Lead by men on carapasioned horses, with brass bands at intervals, dancers, floats with either statues or humans depicting religious figures and icons, the whole thing was augmented by brilliant arc lights and music and chanting amplified to a level that would o credit to an AC/DC concert. The lights and speakers and the generators powering them were mounted on small carts pushed along by manpower, and the power lines linking them w carried suspended on long iron poles also borne aloft by human hands. Men on stilts, large bullocks drawing floats and more marching bands continued the picture. Every so often the parade or a part thereof would halt for a dance performance or a burst of music or chanting, all delivered in an ear-splitting cacophony. I seldom use the much abused word surreal, but this was it- I think , or may be phantasmagorical.

We also visited a couple of temples Mansa Devi and Chandra Devi. One is on a hill just above the town , the other on the eastern bank of the main channel of the Ganges. One can walk up a steep path to Mansa Devi leading off Railway Road, the towns main street. We elected to take the easy way by purchasing a package which provided cable car lifts up the hills to both temples as well as bus ride over the Ganga to Chandra Devi and back. Armed with our prasad we trooped through the corridors of both temples along with thousands of devotees. Though the site’s significance is ancient I don’t think either of the temples is particularly so and neither appealed as having great architectural beauty the charm lies in the human involvement. I must say by the end of the second visit, feeling rather hot and tired from standing in long queues even this charm had begun to fade.

Rishikesh we have found less interesting. One arrives in the main town at the usual crowded dusty bus station and as soon as possible negotiates an auto ride the 2-4 km up river to either Ram Jhula or Lakshman Jhula. Jhula I think means bridge and the Ganga is crossed by 2 large pedestrian suspension bridges at these points. I say pedestrian, though one is continually dodging motorbikes and large handcarts, not to mention the odd cow. We opted to stay at Lakshman Jhula, and have a pleasant hotel with easily the finest lawn I’ve seen in India. It looks up the valley of the Ganga into the hills. Though the guidebook says the Ganga emerges from the hills at Haridwar it seems to me that it does so here . We have walked a few kilometres above Lakshman Jhula which was pleasant as the hillsides are lined with thick lush monsoon forest and we saw a few troops of monkeys actually swinging through the trees and not just hanging about the town streets like delinquents. These are long tailed langur monkeys, large grey critturs with metre long tails rather than the macaque that we saw earlier in and around Simla- the latter are the one s with the red bottoms.

The village of Lakshman Jhula has a lot more western tourists than we saw in Haridwar , where they were uncommon enough to seem odd. Here they are everywhere, often dressed in hippy attire or purporting to go native. The shops are accordingly filled with tourist knick nacks- otherwise every second business seems to offer Rafting and Adventure Travel, whatever that means. Further back down toward Ram Jhula and across the river there are a large group of substantial ashrams, where one can stay and study and no doubt it is a great place for those seriously into yoga and meditation. Probably I’m a little unfair to Rishikesh having been not in the best health so have spent a bit of time lying down in the room watching TV and trying to read. Have found a copy of English translations of the Ramayaana and the Maharabhatra so am learning a little of these 2 Indian legendary texts.

The other blow we’ve suffered , or rather our laptop has suffered is seemingly going to be a real problem. I think it took a hit on the bus somewhere but the screen is damaged and seems to be leaking its lines and there is an increasing blank spot, right in the top left corner where it hides the most important things. So future blogging may be irregular – perhaps I’ll acquire the skill of brevity.

We made our connection without drama and set off south toward Simla. .After retracing our steps of the week before to Mandi, we headed off down another road, mainly following the Beas River. A month earlier it had been in flood and cut roads, but now it was being well behaved and gave us no problem. By now we had descended quite a way, probably to about or below 1000m and the vegetation had taken on a more sub tropical look with rainforest trees and even some roadside monkeys In some areas there were quite extensive plantings of eucalypts and with the hills not quite so big there were times when the landscape reminded me of northern NSW or SE Queensland. I think I even saw some silky oaks.

We’d been told we’d get to Simla about 5.00pm but as ever the trip went over time. Even on a so called tourist bus, on which theoretically seats are allocated, the practice is to stop and pick up passengers whenever the driver and conductor feel inclined to do so. And of course to stop for meal and other breaks from time to time. Not being so mountainous the road was sealed for virtually its entire length, but still bumpy enough to make reading difficult. Getting closer to Simla the road started to climb back up to the hilltops. Thee roadside itself is fairly much built up , and though there’d been some dams and a large cement plant down in the valley, back up in the hills it was almost jungle behind the roadside strip of buildings. Within about 20km of Simla various hotels perch on the hillsides and up on ridge tops, so it was difficult to say when we actually arrived there, as the town, or rather small city spreads itself like Rome over seven hills. Dusk was setting in by the time we could be sure we had entered the town rather than outlying settlements, and it was dark by the time we wound our way through snaking roads choked with traffic to the large new bus station.

Now a new bus stations is all fine and good except where: (a) it isn’t marked on the map you have and you thus have no idea of your orientation with the surrounding city, now just a collection of lights spread around the surrounding hillsides ;(b) the powers- that- be haven’t yet got round to providing any information or map re Simla;(c) there doesn’t appear to be any form of transport visible other than buses bound for distant destinations so how to get into town and (d) about 2 percent of the thousands of passengers in the building speak sufficient English to understand or answer your queries. The only official counter, equipped with a fine digital board of bus departures, dealt only in out of town bus services. Sighting a group of Western tourists we thought “Ah they might know something”, but alas they were transitting, and though having been at the station 5 hours had gleaned no information about getting into Simla.
We did a little better, finding out after 20 stressful minutes that there was a local bus to the town centre and from where it left. As we exited a door to head for the spot we were besieged by a group of taxi men, whom I presume from their earlier invisibility must be banned from the arrival area. They offered to take us for 250 Rps which of course we rejected out of hand and countered 100Rps. They wouldn’t budge so we proceeded to the bus. Now 250Rps is about six bucks. On any rational basis we should have pulled out the necessary and been on our way in relative comfort and bound for a hotel at least marked on our map, even if they had no rooms or were outside budget. But 250Rps seemed in Indian terms an exorbitant sum for what we believed (correctly as it transpired) to be about a 15 minute ride. And pride enters into the equation- it isn’t merely that you think you’re being ripped off as a tourist paying 3 times the local rate, there is resentment that you feel you’re being taken for a newbie chump, and after all you see yourself by now as an experienced hand.

So instead we jammed selves and luggage aboard the local town bus. The large pack went in the aisle, to the great amusement (not) of the conductor trying to climb over it as he moved up and down the bus to collect fares. We reached the (old) bus station where we were expelled into the clamour of a busy Indian town, trying to move among dozens of buses trying to get into and out of the station, itself just a smallish parking lot jammed also with scooters and pedestrians. We trudged along a busy crowded road, past a Sikh gurudawa, looking with some dismay at the grungy looking buildings along the way and the nicer looking hotels perched on the hillsides on streets much higher up. We barely had the energy to keep going on the level we were much less climb any further. We pretty much went for the first reasonable place we came to, which was actually quite alright even though on this busy road- at least it was located on the low side of the road, and our room reached down a step flight of steps. No way could I have made it up stairs and the room was well below street level and facing over the valley so the noise was cut out and we even found next morning we had a nice view over the lower town from the bay window in the corridor outside our room.

Our hotel was in Cart Road and according to our map there was an elevator connecting it to The Mall, a road on the upper part of the ridge on which old Shimla was established by the British. We couldn’t find it, so the alternatives to make the ascent were some very steep narrow steps among the buildings or a series of road ramps. We chose the latter which was a little like climbing the ramps to the top level of the MCG Southern stand only 3 times as high. They were about as crowded as if on grand final day, as well as being lined with market stalls and shops though many of the latter were still closed it being still before 10am. We were hoping to find somewhere for brekkie , an ATM and somewhere to book a bus to Haridwar or Dehra Dun but even after reaching the top , crowned by an English style church and a large plaza area could find little but hotels. We walked back down along what looked like the main road and did find some more shops but no banks and no open restaurants. Eventually we discovered all the facilities we were after and indeed the heart of the old town after retracing our steps to the church and going a little further beyond to the delightfully named Scandal Point. There is a group of old colonial style buildings at the top of the hill, set around a small square and all looking a little like an English town square with an overlay of India and modern international commercial signage.

The civic authorities have made genuine efforts to keep things nice, so plastic bottles and smoking in public are banned, and proper street cleaning procedures in place, at least in this part of town. So the promenade along The Ridge, from which one has panoramic views over the city spreading on all sides below, is clean by any standards and spectacularly so by those of an Indian city. There are no cars motos buses or trucks other than a few service vehicles and lots of people were now out and about for a stroll, or being led on horses. These horses were quite striking, being finely built but tall, mostly grey and with the curious trait of having their long upright ears facing completely towards the rear rather than the front or sides. Don’t know whether they were a special breed or had been trained to do this- I’ve never seen horses do this before. Shimla is very much a tourist town, but the tourists are overwhelmingly from the domestic market and we saw only a few westerners. A travel agent I spoke with said that it wasn’t particularly busy at present but that October would see a peak period with many people coming to HP and neighbouring Uttarakhand as it is time of special religious significance.

Wandering back down the Mall we had at least found the Lift, which rather than being some kind of funicular as I had expected was just 2 connected normal lifts but enabled us to get up and down between our hotel level and the Ridge during the day. Although there are various signs trumpeting the value of heritage, there are quite a few of the older buildings, which could have great charm if restored properly, which are being allowed to completely decay. I suppose like anywhere developers who aren’t permitted to demolish heritage buildings sometimes simply allow them to fall down through neglect until they have so little remaining value that they can persuade the authorities to let them put up a brand new building on the site, The 2 most dilapidated buildings were located in absolutely prime positions on the very top of the hill, just the place you’d want to put that new hotel with 100 rooms rather than the 20 or so you’d get with a tasteful renovation of the existing structure. In the distance we could see some quite large older buildings that did seem to have aged more gracefully.

Shimla being so spread out and hilly, one really needs wheels to get around to more distant parts of the city so we confined ourselves to a limited area. At between 2000 and 2400m altitude it is clearly cooler than the plains below but warmer than we’d been used to .After having spent weeks among brilliant clear air, we were now back in that familiar Indian haze which cloaked the city below and the surrounding hills and valleys though it was still OK to breathe except in the busy street outside the hotels.. The city also has a fair population of resident monkeys, which sit atop the walls lining the roadway as well as scampering among the houses. Like foxes, pigeons and seagulls they seem to have adapted well enough to the urban environment.

We’d located a booking office of the HP Road Transport Corp in town and booked to leave at 7.20pm , so at 6.00 it was back into the city bus , another squeeze but only for 15 minutes or so and we were at least booked onto the “deluxe” bus to Dehra Dun, from where we would get a bus to Haridwar.. Now the word deluxe can mean many things in Asia, though often it just means it’s a bit better than the basic level. In this case it meant we had slightly better padding on our vinyl seats, that our luggage went into a compartment, that we had slightly more leg room, that the seats reclined and there was a TV. The latter 2 aspects were very much mixed blessings. As ever the person in front reclines their seat to the max into your lap, while the person behind complains the moment you start to put your own back. The TV is always set to maximum volume and the films were in Hindi, although perversely in one they would introduce a couple of sentences in English every now and then to make you prick up your ears. Worse they showed 3 films, each lasting nearly 3 hours, which maintained a constant theme of virulent antipathy to Muslims in general and Pakistanis in particular. Made Rambo films look like balanced documentaries. And went on all night long at a volume that made them impossible to ignore. So not much sleep was had and we weren’t feeling at the top of our game when we pulled into the large new Dehra Dun bus station. Despite being large and new with numbered bays, this place managed to be dirty disorganized and difficult. There was little English signage and no one in any apparent official office from whom to seek information about where Haridwar buses could be found. Julie went off trying to find info and I could hear her yelling in frustration from half the length of the bus station away. At last we managed to find one and a little after 6am pulled out in a mercifully uncrowded local bus.

After nearly 2 hours travel through the outskirts of Dehra Dun city, then monsoon forest mixed with the odd town along roads lined with troops of monkeys we reached Haridwar. I was a little worried as the bus crossed a bridge and started driving along the opposite side of the river from the town and seemed to be going past the main part. But after stopping a couple of times and dropping off most of the other passengers we recrossed the channel and turned back in the direction we’d come until pulling into the bus station. Two parking lots either side of the shelter were crammed with the veteran battle wagons of the various State’s Road transport companies. Between these a concrete floor with a bare concrete roof housed several hundred waiting passenger sat on the bare floor except for the lucky ones with a spot on one of the 4 benches . At least the floors are swept regularly. A cow wandered among the waiting patrons. Fortunately the rickshaw drivers are kept outside so we weren’t besieged emerging from the door of the bus but they awaited in hordes just beyond the gates.

At least we knew the bus station was on the main road, Railway Road, and estimated it was about 500 metres to a side street where budget hotels were to be found . We set off on foot and it quickly became obvious that if until now we could be said to have done “India Lite”, we had moved right back into the real thing. Here there was frantic traffic, no footpaths, heat, dirt, smells aplenty, beggars, the works. The road was crammed with scooters, cycle and auto rickshaws and masses of pedestrians, the sides of the roads jammed with stalls selling drinks and snacks. Plenty of wandering cows of course, so watch where you step . Luckily trucks and buses seemed to be prohibited once beyond the bus station

Although still only just after 8am, a few climbs up the stairs to look at rooms soon had me in a lather of sweat. Probably would have helped to remove my coat which I wear on the bus to avoid stuffing it into the pack- won’t do it again for a while.We had expected that hotels would be more expensive here and it was so, with the rooms I looked at often being quite gloomy as well. Feeling so hot also made them feel less attractive and for my part I was resigned to the need to take A/C but the memsahib vetoed the extra 200Rps and said a fan would be fine. In the end that’s what we did and given the electricity tends to be off a fair bit of the time anyway was probably a fair call. We were so tired that we slept away the afternoon before setting out to explore town .

When we did come to Barshaini, I was a bit disconcerted to find that it was the site of another hydro dam project. Barshaini itself sits on the hillside above the north bank of the Pavarti R. and overlooks the partly built dam wall as well as all the associated construction equipment sheds huts etc which put together make up an ugly scene. We were told Pulga lay across the river and up the far hillside and could see a couple of villages which might be it, both of them seemingly overlooking the dam site. Of the 10 or so other tourists who got off with us only 2 seemed headed for Pulga, the others being intent on heading for the village of Tosh which lay further up the road the same side as the bus stop.

Following the directions of passers by, the other couple and we headed down the switchback road to the bridge which crosses the river just below the dam wall. The dam is only partly constructed, but the rivers natural flow is already diverted, though most still seems to be coming through but now via a tunnel from above the dam. We had to dodge various trucks coming down the hill and while walking through the construction camp on the far side. We then followed a lady’s directions and started to clamber up a muddy track rising from the roadside. The first 100 metres or so were rather dirty and unpleasant, but shortly we were gratified to find that , while steep the track soon removed us from the noise and dust below into wooded hillsides which turned and twisted ever
upwards. It was fairly tough going, but at least we were only toting our small bags and we were compensated by realising that the dam site was now lost from view. From time to time we were obliged to stand aside to allow passage of horses and cows being driven down the hillside.

After an hour or so of climbing we came to some signs welcoming us to Pulga and touting the names of a couple of places to stay. We had received a recommendation to stay at the Marylands or Merri gold guesthouse so went looking for that, but could only find a series of signs and arrows pointing to a Forest View GH. We followed these reasoning that guesthouses might be grouped together. The path took us through the village, but often it was difficult to distinguish the main path from narrower tracks which in some cases merely lead to a house or yard .The village, which is motor vehicle free having no access road, is built mainly in wood, though here there was some evidence of paint brushes having been employed to brighten some of the houses. The central part consists mainly of older looking buildings, but on the outskirts a number of larger 2 and 3 story houses are dotted among the surrounding fields. Some of these have been either built as or converted to guesthouses, and it was in one of these that we finally located the Marigold Guest House. By following the arrows to forest View we had inadvertently strayed from the “main” village thoroughfare, along which a little further we would have seen about 4 signs directing us to our destination. The Marigold fully justified its recommendation in all respects save that the food available in the restaurant was very limited. As we are now much higher, the forested hills lining the valley no longer completely shut out the higher peaks , and we again can catch sight of snow capped rocky heights through the vees formed by various intersecting hillsides. So from our light and airy upper room we have views from one window to the river and from another a large mountain lying up the valley above the dam. Immediately below us fields and apple orchards lead down to the village school. The path past our front gate continues up into the forest, and each morning herders drive groups of cattle and horses up into the hills to graze, returning in the late afternoon. Like those in Kasol the horses here are a better stamp, though they appear to be used solely as pack animals rather than for riding, save that I saw a couple of guys driving a mob down to Barshaini and practising trick riding on the way.

For 2 days we alternated between resting and reading and taking walks in the surrounding hills. The forests here are very lush, with ferns and lots of shrubs in the understorey, and a variety of oaks and other deciduous and evergreen broadleaves growing wherever they can find some sunlight in competition with the towering conifers. Numerous small streams have cut gullies into the hillsides and the sides of these are where these other trees get their best chance. Further up the cedars give way to a forest of mainly pine trees, which grow to prodigious dimensions. There are few real waterfalls, but the streams tumble down slopes of 60 deg or so in a series of small be ale to find grazing from the shrubs. We also came on an elevated meadowland where 20 or 30 or so cows were in paradise. The soil up here was heavy clay and becomes very boggy where the cows have been and gone so you have to be careful where you put a shoe if you don’t want it sucked off your foot. So unlike the thin sandy soil of Ladakh and Spiti.

We did make a visit to Tosh one day, which meant descending down to the river and climbing up the hillside on the far side. We were late setting off so had to do the very stiff climb up to Tosh in the hottest part of the day, most of it in full sun as part of the climb was up the vehicle road. Although the nights here are quite cool, the days are still warm in the direct sun. Tosh was rather a disappointment to us, not nearly as quiet or unaffected as Pulga. It must be said that it had benefited from liberal application of paint, so that from a distance it looked like every building in town was new, but closer up many were older wooden places that had been spruced up. However it seemed every second place was now a tourist guesthouse offering Israeli and continental food, and there wasn’t nearly as much sign of people going about life’s regular routines

We asked a guy where was good to eat – of course he recommended a place at the very far end of the village and at its highest point. We did have a good meal although maybe not as good as the horse which wandered into the yard of the restaurant and munched happily on a couple of large cannabis plants, the supply of other types of grass being a little sparse. Can’t say it appeared to have much effect on him either. We didn’t stay long, Tosh’s main attraction being a slightly closer view of the higher mountains at the top of the valley as it is at considerably greater altitude than Pulga. However the loud music blaring at various restaurants rather spoiled the ambience and we had no regrets we hadn’t opted to come up here to stay.

Both Pulga and Tosh did seem to have a thriving cottage industry in ganja production. It was quite common to see men and women carrying armful sized bundles of plants down the paths within the villages, and to see bunches of plants hung on verandas drying along side the hay. With plenty of tourists arriving each day at least one can see where the market is. Unlike with the cows which seem to be in great abundance in a place where of course none are killed for meat, and there doesn’t seem to be a great deal of dairy produce on offer. Somewhat contrarily there are always plenty of eggs to be had yet very little poultry to be seen.

I had a game of cricket in the village one afternoon for about an hour or so. I was careful to avoid the match in the school yard where some 20something guys were playing using a hard composition ball. Playing on a smooth concrete surface they were bowling quite quick and didn’t seem fussed about rapping the padless legs of the batsman, in fact regarding it as rather a hoot. So I first watched some younger lads in a patch of open ground across the way, first being invited to field then have a bowl and a bat. They were using a proper leather ball but nor bowling so fast , so it didn’t matter so much that with my close bat/pad technique I took a few on the shins. Some were pretty adjacent I think but with the ball turning square off the stones I wasn’t about to give myself out. I did notice some quizzical looks from the lads though: I think it’s regarded as rather poor form to get your leg in the way as often as I was doing. There was a bit of shrubbery in the field and I soon learned it wasn’t such a good idea to thrust your hands into some plants to field or retrieve the ball- those nettles smart and for a few hours too.

All in all we had a most relaxing 4 days before making the return trip to Kasol , where we looked forward to a return to extravagant diet before moving on Sunday to Simla.

We set off Thursday morning (15 September) from Sangla on the journey we hoped to take us to Jari in the Parvati Valley, back in the middle area of Himachal Pradesh. Our information was gleaned by word of mouth as the guidebook was silent on bus options heading in that direction other than going to Simla – Lonely Planet always seems to contemplate travel in the opposite direction to what we undertake. We were told to take the 6.30 for 7.00 am bus from the street outside which was bound for Rampur, a transport hub from where many buses could be found heading for all sorts of destinations. The bus actually left within the advised timeframe, something in itself and all proceeded smoothly enough for the first couple of hours.

The first hitch in our day occurred as we rounded another bend on the road high above the main Sutlej valley and found a taxi coming in the opposite direction. No real cause for alarm, and our driver, a cautiously competent pilot had brought the bus to a halt and I assumed the other driver would do likewise as had happened on numerous like encounters. But no, he must have been going too fast or not paying attention and the two front right corners came into contact. Not a big shunt, and the bus, built as it is like an armoured personnel carrier and with the chassis jacked a metre high suffered only a minor dent. The taxi took a bigger hit so we had to stop while various formalities were attended to and numerous mobile phone calls made. At least it gave us the chance to get some more leisurely photos of a picturesque old village on a shelf of land half way down the drop between road and river. Still we were now 20 or 30 minutes off the pace and things got worse when we pulled up next to a tyre service centre – apparently we had a flat, though given it was the left rear not related to the accident.

Of course all we men gathered round to watch the repairs. Even though the bus carries a spare we didn’t simply change the tyre. Instead the guy from the garage did a repair, which was pretty much straight out of the bicycle puncture repair manual as these things have an inner tube. Of course getting the outer tyre off, held in by 2 steel bands round the wheel rim was heavy duty stuff, but the man knew his onions and it was a pleasure to watch his work. Still he had to heat up the glue and rasp the patch area clean so it all took time, what with starting and shutting off air compressor etc and then redoing 8 wheel nuts, so another half hour slipped away.

Although we were back on the main Indo Tibet Hwy it was still a pretty rough old thing and we still winding along very steep hillsides all the way to Rampur, and all up we occupied over 5 hours covering the 95 km to Rampur. We passed quite a bit of hydro electric scheme architecture along the way, as well as various army camps and construction depots and machinery cemeteries a little like the one near Rekong Peo. But in amongst this the Sutlej River was for the most part still boiling and tumbling along at a great rate, scrambling itself amid endless rapids to make a rafter or kayaker delirious. As we travelled further down the valley it became noticeably greener and more lush, with more undergrowth and with broadleaved and deciduous trees now mingling with the previously dominant pine and cedar forest. Proof that we getting back toward mainstream India came when we sighted auto rickshaws just outside Rampur, the first we’d seen since Srinigar. This also indicated that the hills, though still large weren’t quite as steep, as I think one reason why the autos aren’t used in Ladakh and eastern Him Pradesh is that their little engines struggle under load on the steep roads.

Arriving at Rampur we fronted the ticket counter and asked about buses to Bhuntar, the place to change for buses heading up the Parvati Valley. After asking me to step into the back room to check where I was asking about (amazingly my pronunciation of Bhuntar confused him) , the ticket clerk said there was a problem as heavy rain had caused closure of the shorter route across the mountains. The ‘good news’ was that we could proceed to Bhuntar by taking the 4.00pm bus to a town called Mandi, from where many buses ran to Bhuntar. How long would the trip to Mandi take? – oh, about 8 hours. Meaning arriving about midnight. But no problem, there’d be a bus leaving some time round then to Bhuntar, a trip of another 3 hours or so. The only choices were to take a later bus, leaving around 7-8pm, arriving Mandi at 3am but at least getting to Bhuntar as daylight was breaking, or getting a 6.30am bus next morning. Not wishing to spend a night in Rampur or to spend 2 entire days on the trip we decided to get the 4pm, passing some of the time by getting an auto into town for some lunch. Faced with an all night journey we toyed with taking a room for even a few hours for a lie-down but as they wanted full rates we opted instead for lunch with in a nice restaurant with a great view over the river. It was good to have a wide choice of dishes for a change and we feasted up, not knowing just when we might get to eat again.

Which proved a good decision , as returning to the bus station we waited as first 4pm arrived and passed and then the new ETA kept getting pushed back each time we asked. Luckily this was a brand new bus station which at least had covered areas, seating and modern toilets, even if the dedicated waiting rooms and restaurant had signs but no substance. The bus was coming from Sangla from where it left about 1.30, so as it turns out we could have had a comfortable sleep-in and breakfast and still been on the same schedule. What’s more we could have had our choice of seats- as it was when the bus roared in at 5.30 it was nearly full and we were lucky to get any seat. The driver was in a rush and I’d just put one of the big packs on the roof and was coming down the ladder for the other when the bus started moving. So we slung the other inside- no problem at this stage the ticket man just told the blokes on the back bench to make room for it. As we pulled out there were one or 2 people standing didn’t feel too bad about taking up extra room, particularly as we hadn’t really had a choice.

Now as I did, you might think that a bus leaving for a distant destination which was going to arrive at midnight wouldn’t be picking up too many more passengers. And like me you’d be wrong. Seemingly every time we stopped, if one of the people from Sangla got off, 4 more would get on. So soon the aisle and the areas near both front and rear doors were jammed with standing passengers, their hips and bottoms jammed against the shoulders and faces of we fortunate seated passengers. And of course my seat was loose, and both of the grab handles on the top and rear of the seat in front of me wee missing, so each time we rounded a corner or bounced I was thrown against the person next to me or the standing passengers. Soon it became dark and nothing much could be seen outside, and only this continual tossing about told us that the way continued to be on
winding mountain roads. I’m convinced that in the whole of Himachal Pradesh one can’t go for 50 metres without a sharp change of direction and altitude.

It was as well we’d lunched handsomely as, perhaps seeking to make up lost time, the driver showed no sign of stopping for a meal break. We did have a couple of toilet/ smoke length stops, but by the time everyone was off we were being whistled to get back aboard. Then, in tune with the pattern of the day, we pulled up and a man got under the bus with a jack. I thought we were in for another tyre repair, this time by torchlight, but instead he got to work with a mallet and heavy chisel, bashing away at the springs .Come to think of it there had been some awful grinding noises when the breaks were applied but one becomes so used to these noises that they fade into the background.

Back on the bus the crowd showed no sign of thinning out. On the contrary people kept coming aboard in the most improbable spots. After the first couple of hours we didn’t even seem to be going through any towns, as best I could see just passing the odd isolated house. Even in Spiti we seemed to pass more regularly even though we were now in what I thought to be a more populous region. Of course without a map or being able to see anything we had no real means of knowing where we where. So just staring in front of oneself, or closing one’s eyes, time seemed to pass exceedingly slowly, what with the discomfort and increasing fatigue. I simply can’t sleep sitting up, but as midnight neared even I found myself in a sort of delirious no man’s land between sleep and wakefulness.

We eventually came to a large town which at first we thought to be Mandi but it wasn’t. By this time mercifully the crowd had thinned slightly so the press from the aisle eased and we were able to grab seats side by side and so lean on each other rather than have strangers leaning on us .We noticed some bizarre behaviour, despite the shortage of space. A man a couple of rows in front of us was sprawled across 2 seats while another man right next to him continued to have to stand. Amazingly the latter made no complaint but simply accepted it- perhaps there was some kind of caste implication. The other side of the coin was that despite the shocking overcrowding, with many people having to stand for hours under the most uncomfortable conditions, I was not aware of a single harsh word being exchanged among the passengers. The Indian people, or at least those whom one sees on local transport, have both a huge level of tolerance of physical hardship and a capacity for co-operation.

At last, almost sick with exhaustion, we reached Mandi. It was nearly 3am. I had briefly revived with a burst of music but just after “Long Way to the Top” the I-Pod’s battery died. It had been raining for some time though hard to say how heavy it was from near the rear of the bus. Luckily the bag on the roof wasn’t too wet, but it continued to drizzle. Insofar as we had expected Mandi, quite a large centre, to have a bus station like that at Rampur, we were sadly disappointed. Essentially it was the street, and the waiting passengers huddled beneath shop awnings as it drizzled down outside. There was a tiny one room office. Is there a bus for Bhuntar leaving soon? Oh yes, over there on the road in about 10 minutes. At about 3.45 a further enquiry after several buses going to all sorts of places but none to Bhuntar had been and gone. Oh yes about 4. By about 4.30 we getting giddy with fatigue and thinking and saying all sorts of things. We were actively considering jumping onto a bus heading back to Simla and giving the whole Parvati thing a miss , when the driver of that bus, in an unusual display of helpfulness, asked where we were going and then pointed me down the road to where he said a grey Bhuntar bus was to be found. This was actually wrong, but the delay in getting on the Simla bus meant we were by the roadside when the right bus did come along a minute later. To our relief it had plenty of spare seats, and we took off along a sealed road at a great rate of knots. In fact given the rain at a frightening speed so I had put my head down and actually managed to sleep an hour or so. The trip to Bhuntar was actually accompanied in an hour and a half, and miraculously in the light of the previous 24 hours we connected almost immediately with a bus heading up the valley to Jari.

Our latest driver was a young bloke and obviously full of the spirit of early morning for we careered along with him giving the horn a good workout on each corner. It was one of those shrieking musical type horns which did rather jangle on the nerves. The valley was still shrouded in cloud and mist but was green and lush, with the steep hillsides covered with a cool climate rainforest dominated by the tall straight trunks of the Deodars. Just to show nothing is ever perfect, the valley scenery is marred by lines of pylons and high tension wires linking with some more hydro projects further up the valley.

We’d decided on Jari because it was said to be less affected by the influx of the young hippie crowd attracted by the valleys reputation for top grade cannabis than Kasol further up the valley. However when the bus dropped us in the village just before 7am we were rather underwhelmed. The grotty main street was standard Indian urban streetscape, the couple of guesthouses on the street fading and decrepit. True it was that the guide said that we should head ‘up the steep 1.5km track to the hamlet of Mateura Jari’, but one look up the hill, combined with the promise of rustic shared toilet accomm when/if we struggled to the top failed to inspire. We had a basic breakfast while deciding, then opted to move to Kasol for one day and if it was too awful move to another village. We hadn’t seen any sign of another Western tourist during the entire trip from Sangla to Bhuntar, and none had been on our bus up to Jari, so it just didn’t seem likely there were going to be hordes in Kasol. We did see a few in taxis heading up the hill while we were waiting- what kind of hippie takes a taxi ?

Despite being told a bus would be along in ‘about ten minutes’ and a steady procession of buses heading back down the valley, we had another one hour roadside vigil until at last cramming in to the uphill bus. We hit Kasol to be pleasantly surprised. No doubt it has the string of guesthouses, travel agents, cafes clothing/artefact shops typical of a touristed town, but at least on the downhill side of the river dividing the town the guesthouses were set pleasantly among the trees and the scale of the place was quite small- in backpacker terms a sort of Noosa rather than a Gold Coast. We had another breakfast in a so called German bakery where we had a delicious cinnamon scroll bun and tea before locating a guesthouse. A quick walk before a noon checkin, then collapsed onto the bed and slept away the afternoon. Then another stroll down toward a restaurant we’d seen earlier that offered moussaka. But we were distracted by another place named “Little Italy” which had an open second floor eating area which seemed well patronised. We had a great pizza, salad beer, a great babaganouch and ice-cream salad to ease our travel weary palates.

Next morning we explored the town a little more. The older part of Kasol lies on the far side of the bridge, with a side street running off the main road alongside a tributary stream of the Pavarti River. A collection of older and more modest guesthouses mingles with the usual run of restaurants, souvenir shops and general stores. The street and buildings were pretty drab and we didn’t feel we wanted to exchange our position among the trees for this, but no doubt those on tighter budgets would find something here to suit. The main road passed among some similar places but on the far side of town there are some more attractive places as you move back into fields and trees. It quickly became apparent that the overwhelming majority of the tourist clientele in Kasol are young Israelis, and a number of guesthouses have signage in Hebrew only so can be hard to identify if you read only English. Indeed in 2 days in Kasol we encountered only 3 other non Israeli travellers. It is difficult to understand why this should be so. Not difficult to see why Israelis come here by why there are so few other nationalities given what a beautiful location it is, and not an obscure one either. Granted many Europeans have gone back to work and study but we’ve still met quite a few who are travelling long term.

Later we walked up to the next village, manikaran, which is another of these places known for its hot springs, although I can never get too excited about these as an attraction. We found it rather an unappealing place, with a heap of concrete buildings crowding up the far hillside, though it had an interesting looking temple with a large tank or swimming pool attached. Perhaps these were the hot springs, we didn’t jump in to find out. We had walked up along the vehicle road, but after lunching at a restaurant decided to cross the footbridge and descend down the far bank which was a footpath only. For most of the way we wandered among the trees and a few small overgrown orchards, but there were few houses and it had the air of a place once cultivated but now being left for nature to reclaim. This hillside faced the south and was thus warmer than the opposite bank and the vegetation was much less dominated by the tall conifers. A wide variety of trees and bushes gave it an almost sub tropical flavour. We did notice that the cannabis plants which were again common along the road and paths near Kasol were here entirely absent, suggesting perhaps they weren’t native at all but had been sown and then gone wild. But about 3/4 of the way down we noticed them sprouting abundantly again, not right by the track but in enclosed areas behind walls. Then after a couple of hundred yards we came upon a village and it became apparent that here the cultivation was going on in almost industrial manner. People were to be seen carrying large bunches of cut stalks, and houses had plants hanging to dry alongside the usual hay, and large growing plants seemed to be in most household gardens.

I had read that it is regarded as unwise to go wandering in these hills alone, as the disappearance of a dozen or so tourists in recent years is attributed to them having fallen foul of the local drug mafia. It’s not difficult to believe that people may have got themselves into trouble by helping themselves to what they saw as ‘ free dope’ growing , as they saw wild and for the taking, but rather having harvested what someone regarded as their cash crop . I’m not so sure how much of a real mafia there is, as many farmers and householders seem to be growing it on a small scale but who really knows. In any event it would seem wise policy to keep your hands to yourself.

On Sunday we took a morning walk up into the forest along the tributary river. It was a lovely walk among the tall cedars and pines, whose great column trunks here grow 50- 60 metres in height. Though they are the dominant tress in the canopy smaller deciduous and broadleaf trees find a place below, particularly where a gap in the taller trees admits extra sunlight. We came on a grassy area among the trees where a herd of horses were grazing. Most of the horses we’ve seen in India so far have really been just ponies, seldom much larger than their donkey cousins, but these were real horses, some quite beautiful specimens and I wondered whether they were descended from army cavalry horses from days gone by .They were also in much better condition than the poor skinny pack animals seen in Ladakh , Spiti and Kinnaur, reflecting the much more fertile conditions in Pavarti

After lunch I took a short walk downstream on the other side of the main river. I came upon a very pleasant guesthouse and restaurant perched well up the hillside. A bit of a climb but very quiet and with just a couple of other buildings nearby. I stopped for a chai, but I felt a little on the outer as the other guests lounging on cushions in the restaurant all seemed to be sucking on joints and bongs and I had the feeling of being an intruder. Returning down to the river I continued and noticed music coming from further down the valley. I say music, and here I show my age in saying that it was really that dreadful stuff that indicates a rave or ‘trance party’, which was what was happening. Never having observed a trance party I was curious to have a look see as it didn’t seem far. However despite walking another half hour , it seemed to be still a fair way to go so eventually I turned back .Quite a few people were heading down that way and the Indians among them kept asking why I was going back- it was still only just after 4 in the afternoon.. Quite a few of them looked like tourists in their 40s, not the sort you’d expect to see heading for such a scene. Perhaps they thought they’d get to see young girls taking their clothes off.!

Sunday night we again took advantage of the corresponding better feed available to humans, downing another large meal at the Little Italy along with 2, yes 2, bottles of beer. Tomorrow we are heading further up the valley to a place called Pulga, which has been recommended to us by the very nice young bloke at the book shop. At last we had the chance to replenish our reading material, and with WiFi also available Julie is able to download some additional material onto the Kindle, so we will be able to kick back and do total relaxation up in the hills

Kalpa itself is still a very small place in spite of the obvious expansion of the guesthouse scene, most of which caters for the domestic tourist market. We had been led to think right now was peak season, with Kinnaur crammed with , variously, Bengalis visiting for some kind of puja season, and newlyweds ,this supposedly being the honeymoon season in India. But there was scant evidence of such an influx, with just a few groups evident at the adjoining hotel and our place almost vacant. Overall occupancy and tariff rates appeared to be low, much lower than we had expected. Even though there were only a few restaurants in the village, most were deserted and for the most part we took our meals as the only diners, or at least with minimal company. Our own hotel wanted to take our dinner order mid afternoon in order to get in the necessary ingredients, and it was normal to find your first or even second choice of dish ruled off the menu. We did find one place that served most of what the menu promised so took our dinners there.

A small section of the original village remains. The houses have some resemblance to those in the Spiti area, with walls based on stone, but there is more timber used in construction reflecting the forest resources nearby. The major difference is that here most places have pitched roofs, some of slate but many now sheet iron. Most of these old places are small: larger wooden bungalows in what I tend to think of as colonial style are mainly found on the slopes above the village. The local Kinnaur people commonly wear a round woollen or felt flat topped cap, brown on top and one side, green and orange on the other side. As ever women wear various manner of traditional garb, the men Western pants and shirts. In deference to the cool of morning, quite a few men wear tweedy looking sports coats, much as they do in Turkey.

We took the short bus trip down to Rekong Peo late morning, mainly to check emails as we had been out of internet range for a week. R. Peo was a typical Indian small/ mid size town, with busy rather grubby streets with the usual array of ugly shopfronts with metal roller doors mixed in with a few more interesting food shops. The town has obviously seen an explosion of hotel development, which seems to spill over one another as they scramble for space above the main street. It really isn’t a place that tempts one to stay in town though, like Kalpa, and indeed almost parts of this side of the valley, it does have a wonderful view of the Kailash Kinnaur massif on the far side. Much though not all of yesterday evening’s cloud had cleared so we were able to piece together more of the peaks, if never quite able to take in the full panorama. We had lunch at a place with a rooftop which also had a couple of computers below and then got the hell out of town. The bus down had been comfortably full but not crowded, but going back up was a different story, so full you had to hold in your breath so tightly was your neighbour pressed against you. Most people didn’t seem to have bundles of shopping or anything to indicate why they’d been down to the big smoke. Perhaps they just wanted do anything that wasn’t staying home in the village- it probably gets a bit claustrophobic at times. While we were peering out the windows, crawling and lurching up the hill home, Julie mentioned some plants growing by the road side and said “ You know they look like cannabis plants” . And guess what folks? That’s just what they were, and once we’d noticed them, we realized they were one of Kalpa’s commonest weeds. Walking back up to the hotel we found plants growing all along the edges of the footpath, so that those so inclined could simply break off as much as they wanted while out strolling and stuff it into pockets or bags.

The next day being sunnier we decided to walk up into the hills above the village and all the guesthouses. From the hotel we could see the upper slopes were covered in forest with just a few small cleared sections, although it looked a long way to the top of the ridges. We found the going quite a struggle as the path became quite rugged, with smooth bits punctuated by scrambles over high rock steps and sections of loose sliding rocks. One gains altitude quite quickly as well- even though Rekong Peo was only at 2200m, the half hour trip on the slow bus to Kalpa gained another 700m, so our climb was taking us well into the 3000+ range. Not surprising then that a bit of gasping was happening not too far into the climb. The rocks along the path here, as in Spiti, are flecked with mica or some similar silicate, and when you pick them up or rub against them you find you find it rubs off. Likewise the dust which originated from these rocks is full of these flecks, and at times on the bus after resting an arm out an open window I’d look down and see a sleeve covered in glitter. It doesn’t last though so the glistening rock you put in your pocket, or that disco sleeve is reduced to a drab grey or black a couple of hours later.

After about 15 minutes we were past anything that looked like a guesthouse but still among lots of apple trees and scattered farm houses. Despite our slowness a quick look back soon revealed the village now far below, although Kailash Kinnaur across the way remained stubbornly shrouded by cloud. Even after we passed beyond nearly all houses, the path remained flanked by the drystone walls, and made drains and pipes ran alongside showing that people came this way. Soon we started to climb into pine forest, yet even here the stone walls in some parts enclosed areas that looked like they had been cleared for fields which now seemed abandoned and were being recolonised by the trees. We didn’t quite reach the top as when we paused to rest it still seemed at least another hour off and we had started out a little late. It looked pretty much more of the same anyway. Just near the rest spot was a steel tank, about a 4 foot cube. There being no vehicle road above the level of our guesthouse , anything here must have been carried up and I couldn’t believe people could have lugged this thing up the track we’d just taken. Although closer inspection showed that the side plates had raised flanges at the edge and had been assembled by being bolting together, even these individual 4 feet square plates must have been hell to carry up the hill. Still it has to be said that although there is a lot of very hard manual labour done in these parts, it is generally done at a ‘sensible’ pace, with much resting and talking between bouts of effort.

While Julie had a snooze I went just a little higher. Although the village was now hidden from sight and just the top of the roof of a large new guesthouse above our own could be seen, the little walled enclosures, concrete drainage channels and pipes remained, but no sign of current presence was to be seen. In the reception of our guesthouse, the collection of photos of supposed local attractions included one of a leopard. When I saw this at check –in I’d thought “yeah, right”, but now up in the lonely forest, among some big piles of granite boulders near the path, I recalled having read a number of stories of leopards in India attacking people quite close to even major cities and towns. A fortnight ago a ‘panther’ as they are often called here was sighted near the home of the Chief Minister of a state near the city of Bhopal. But I could hear a goat bleating in the distance and a cow bellowing back along the path below so figured any sensible leopard would prefer easier prey, but still carried a large rock with me.

One would think that in the middle of a forest it would be no problem to find a strong stick, both for leopard defence and more probably to ease the strain on the legs in descending back down the mountainside. But pine trees don’t easily shed their larger branches so anything on the ground is small and brittle, and the lower strong branches still on the growing tree cannot be snapped off- they’re way too flexible and full of resin. So we had to descend the big steps and slippery bits sans sticks which didn’t do much for the old knees, but was accomplished at last.

We asked back at Apple Pie about buses next morning to go to Sangla, in a valley on the other side of the Sutlej. A timetable posted in a nearby café had suggested a direct from Kalpa at 7.30am which went via Sangla to Chitkul, a town further up the valley beyond Sangla, but it looked old. The fellow at reception told us there was a bus from R. Peo at 9.00 to which we could connect by getting the 8.30 bus down from Kalpa, and that thereafter buses for Sangla left hourly. So we thought getting down a bit later would be fine and arrived at R Peo bus station a little before 10.30. Next bus to Sangla was leaving at 1pm. A bus to Chitkul had left at 9,30. Now let me tell you, 2 1/2 hours at Rekong Peo bus station is not an attractive proposition even if you have a good book. It’s rather dirty, decidedly smelly and it’s only good point was that like pretty much everywhere here it has a great view to Kailash K., and this morning the clouds had at last cleared so the full range was in view. Fortunately I was able to find among the nearby shops a tiny “Cyber Café”. On entering the deserted room, I could see 2 old TVs, which are rented to Playstation addicts, and an old PC monitor, all with dead screens and was to give it away when a woman entered and opened up a nice new laptop. I was able to kill an hour or so checking the In box, and being Monday (12th Sept) looking up the weekends sports results. Ouch, sometimes it’s better not to know, though at least emails form Dave and Ambrose had better news from the WAFL.

We went back down to the floor of the Sutlej valley and turned west onto the main highway. Just at the turnoff to R Peo, the side of the highway is a massive graveyard of dead trucks, other earthmoving machines and disused oil drums. In this setting, the words ‘and only man is vile’ necessarily come to mind. We drove down river for a few kms before coming to the massive concrete works of the Kashgar hydro electric project which churns the waters of the Sutlej through massive turbines to create 1000MW of power. At this point the Baspa River comes in from the south, and another dam is in place just above its junction with the Sutlej. Sangla lies up the Baspa Valley, so we crossed a bridge just below the dam and headed upstream. My 2003 version of lonely Planet suggested this valley to have the reputation as ‘the most beautiful valley in the Indian Himalaya’, whereas the latest kindle edition , read after we drafted our plan, suggested hydro schemes had rendered the whole valley and the formerly charming village of Sangla ugly. We found both assertions to be greatly exaggerated, save that as to Sangla we concurred. For 10 kms above the entrance to the Baspa Valley, once past the limited concreting of the banks at the start there was little visible evidence of major disturbance. Again we climbed up a gorge, with precipitous walls along which our little road snaked along shelves blasted out of the rock face, with the odd small village visible on in little niches on the equally abrupt opposite hillside. Strangely from time to time the bus had to chug its way through small groups of cows huddling against the cliff face beside the road. Hard to know what they were doing there and how they got there. There was scant food by the road, and though the hillsides had cover of grass and shrubs, a mountain goat would have been hard pressed to descend or ascend from the road, much less a cow.

It was not until just before the town of Sangla that we came upon the Baspa Barrage, another dam and associated engineering work. The water seemed to still be pouring out below the dam so the river below was still lively. But the development associated with these works had transformed Sangla from quaint village to substantial town, full of ugly concrete buildings and burgeoning multi story guesthouses, the latter apparently constructed on the premise that people like to come and look at the reservoir behind a dam. We had thought from what had been said when we bought our ticket that the bus terminated at Sangla, but as not all passengers seemed to be disembarking I asked and was told by the conductor that it continued, so we paid the extra to Chhitkul, the end of the road. Sangla spread itself a few kms up above the dam, but once past the valley opened out. At this stage of development at least the lake behind the dam is small and the river beyond still retained an untamed free spirited turbulence, but now it was flanked by flats on which crops spread for some distance before becoming lost in the forest which commenced on the lower slopes of the valleys still considerable hillsides. More apple orchards and cereal crops were the main staples, but there were also fields having a reddish even pink colour which puzzled at first but which we later found to be buckwheat.

There was only one further village prior to Chhitkul on the road itself, which remained somewhat above the valley floor, but a few hamlets could be seen among the cropland below. There were also a number of marked turnoffs leading down to tented camps, which seem to cater for Indian domestic tourists on self drive or organised group tours. I considered jumping off at Rakcham the penultimate village as it looked a reasonably pleasant place mixing old style village with a few amenities, but by now having come so far we decided to press on to see the last frontier. Beyond Chhitkul you can only walk, and even then you must climb over the passes into Uttarakhand.to reach the next main settlement. So we bumped and jerked our way along until at last reaching Chhitkul, which we found rather forbiddingly stark and exposed compared to most of the valley below. Though we’d passed through groves of trees not long before, they were in short supply around town. We scrambled off onto a dusty little carpark area just below the old village, to meet a European man we’d seen somewhere back on the road in Spiti, who suggested a guesthouse 500 metres back along the road we’d just come. From where we stood we could see several rather forlorn looking places much nearer but Julie’s inspection revealed them to be dispiritingly drab so we hiked back down to the Alpine View GH. Here we took a pretty basic room, but it was clean and light, had own WC and shower, so if you start to ask for much more for 200Rps you’re a hard taskmaster.
We were also favoured with views on 2 sides, and from the rooftop one can look up to the head of the valley and see above some distant snow capped peaks, which may or may not have been the Kailash Kinnau group from a distant angle. On the far side of the river stands of pine grew near the mouth of a side valley from which a tributary stream ran, and up which a path could be seen climbing. I asked our European acquaintance, who had been on a hike up this valley, where he had crossed. I found his reply a little ambiguous but it didn’t seem to indicate the presence of a bridge, so I presumed there must be a place where one could ford. From a couple of hundred feet above the river didn’t seem so wide as to make that implausible, albeit it was still extremely boisterous.

We elected to dine in our place, having been told there were no options in the village, and pretty sad fare we received. Indeed it was so bland we decided our stay in Chhitkul would be a short one. Next morning we walked back into the village and thence into the fields lying along the mule track leading toward the top of the valley. Despite the apparent absence of almost any other tourists the building of additional tourist lodgings was proceeding apace, with a couple of newish places and others either under construction or having additions put on top. It seems there must be a peak season in these Kinnaur villages sometime. LP suggests late Sept/early Oct is when hoards of honeymooners and Bengalis come. But to us there seemed nothing but empty rooms and menus which promised much, but for which proprietors did not see it as economic to stock the essential ingredients for anything but noodles and fried rice.

The walk up the valley was a pleasant one through crops and pasture, with the sound of the river roaring below, and busy harvesting workers calling out greetings. No vehicles go past Chhitkul so everything supplied to the farms and any small settlements up the valley must be carried by donkey or on human backs. However electricity poles march along the footpads, and certainly in Chhitkul and I suspect even beyond little satellite dishes can be seen on the side of many a house so the 20th , perhaps even the 21 st century has touched the people . So one sees people chatting on their mobiles while taking a break from cutting the grain with a hand scythe. 2 men lumped a metal cable turned on a large wooden spool, suspended on a wooden pole. I was relieved to see them be able to stop and start unwinding down into the valley below- it hurt just watching.

Returning back to Chhitkul I descended to river level looking for a possible crossing point. Right below the village I came on the remains of a bridge which had been washed away, leaving only the remnants of its concrete pylons on either bank. Many of the smaller and pedestrian bridges in these mountain valleys are suspension bridges with a set of pylons rather like miniatures of those on the Harbour Bridge. While many remain intact quite a few seem to have been damaged by recent floods, and the main road bridges are now either Bailey Bridge or box girder type. The Chhitkul bridge was under repair but I don’t think anyone will cross on it this year. About 20 men and a few women were on the job, but while I watched I estimate no more than 5 or 6 at any one time were engaged in doing anything, and the it was pretty desultory stuff.. But I solved the crossing mystery- they had rigged up a kind of flying fox system, whereby a metal cage suspended from a steel cable is hauled across the gap by ropes. I might say that having inspected the river from close up the notion of fording it had become preposterous. Although only 15-20 metres across the flow was such that one would have vanished downstream within 3 or 4 steps of entering the water. As it was nearly lunchtime and we had decided to take the 2pm bus back down to Sangla I decided against asking for a trip on the high wire to explore the far bank. This was only a small crossing, and this same method has long been used to cross much wider valleys in these parts. We have seen quite a number which extend more than a hundred metres and cross above gorges much deeper, but though we’ve seen goods being sent across in the cages I haven’t seen people in them.

While waiting for the bus I had a walk through the old village. It is very small and rises above the new buildings by the road. The oldest untouched houses have stone and wood walls and slate rooves, but many have now been renovated with addition of sheet iron lids. Some of the very oldest smaller places, now mainly used for hay and animal shelters have wooden slats the size of railway sleepers for roofing. The houses were of the humblest sort, but as said above spaghetti of wires and satellite dishes delivers power and telecommunications to many if not all. Returning to a small café and shop down by the road, we did meet one group of Indian tourists, who had arrived in a convoy of 3 4 WDs and after the briefest of look sees were now waiting to move on. They were from Kolkarta and were all middle class professionals on a 2 week tour based from Chandigar. They did say that toward the end of the month there would be a holiday period and many people from Bengal did travel during this period, so perhaps there is hope for the guesthouse proprietors yet.

We reached Sangla about 4.00pm and booked into a place right in town which would be handy for our early morning departure next day for the Parvati Valley. At least it had a pleasant dining area with a modicum more choice in the menu. To add insult to injury when we’d got our bill in Chhitkul, after a breakfast marginally more interesting than the dinner, the food impost was about 450 Rps, more than we had paid for far superior repasts in tourist restaurants in Leh. Before dinner though we thought we should have some sort of look at Sangla, so walked down a rather steep rocky path into the older part of town. Well, if it seemed there was bit of the old hooch growing pathside in Kalpa, that was nothing to what we saw here. Here the weed was dominant and not just small knee high shrubs, these were head high whoppers and growing in thick stands everywhere along the paths. I’d love to hear one of the drug squad detectives give his estimate of the ‘street value’ of this urban plantation. Just amazing. I don’t know if it is native to the area as it seems to be most common nearest to settlements, though to be seen in smaller concentrations. It’s not clear to what extent local people partake as the smell of it being smoked was not conspicuous at all, although bare stalks here and there indicated some having been plucked by passers by.

Tomorrow we take a bus, which may leave sometime between 6.30 and 7.00. We go first to Rampur, a transport hub from where we are told there will be’ many buses’ , so hopefully we will find one heading to Bhuntar, the departure point to Parvati Valley.