Devbhoomi
We were a bunch of doctors yawning over coffee and discussing a colleague’s forthcoming trip. ‘Why travel at all?’ one chap wondered. “What’s the purpose?”
"To see that other people and places are different.” One friend replies.
“And to realize ultimately that we’re all the same.” A senior guy says.
“And to see the greatness of god and his work.” one more pal adds.
It’s the last words that come to mind as we drive along the highway from Chandigarh to Thanedar. My overworked hubby, me and our five year old son who is yearning to see what he calls the ‘mountains where lord Shiva lives.’
I’m used to the coastal plains of Karnataka, and the greenery of the Ghats and the landscape of Himachal is awe inspiring and frightening some times. As we pass from the crowded colourful streets of Simla to the mountain roads, I feel a surprising surge of patriotism in my heart. This country is so beautiful. On our right there are towering barren folded mountains, while on the left the hills are covered with conifers. A lovely pink cheeked lady sells apples by the roadside, and I buy some of them – they’re delicious and everything comes together - the crisp sweetness and the cold mountain air and Silk Route singing ‘saujha’ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7dECuCcllwM on the soundtrack – all my senses are happy!
We were a bunch of doctors yawning over coffee and discussing a colleague’s forthcoming trip. ‘Why travel at all?’ one chap wondered. “What’s the purpose?”
"To see that other people and places are different.” One friend replies.
“And to realize ultimately that we’re all the same.” A senior guy says.
“And to see the greatness of god and his work.” one more pal adds.
It’s the last words that come to mind as we drive along the highway from Chandigarh to Thanedar. My overworked hubby, me and our five year old son who is yearning to see what he calls the ‘mountains where lord Shiva lives.’
I’m used to the coastal plains of Karnataka, and the greenery of the Ghats and the landscape of Himachal is awe inspiring and frightening some times. As we pass from the crowded colourful streets of Simla to the mountain roads, I feel a surprising surge of patriotism in my heart. This country is so beautiful. On our right there are towering barren folded mountains, while on the left the hills are covered with conifers. A lovely pink cheeked lady sells apples by the roadside, and I buy some of them – they’re delicious and everything comes together - the crisp sweetness and the cold mountain air and Silk Route singing ‘saujha’ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7dECuCcllwM on the soundtrack – all my senses are happy!
The twisty curvy road seems to go on for a very long time, and we’re all thankful to stop driving when we finally reach the Banjara orchard retreat. It’s a cool evening, and we eat barbecue by the bonfire, watching the lights twinkle over the town of Kumarasene in the distance. One guest is talking about his cycling tour – “3 hours to cycle the 26 kilometers uphill – and the journey down took 20 minutes – what a rush! I thought I was flying.” I find that most of my fellow guests are professionals - doctors and management professionals who come here to breathe fresh air, work their legs and lungs, and get a break from their demanding work schedules.
We’re exhausted after the long day on the roads, and gratefully go to our room. All the rooms are named after fruit that grow in the area. Ours is called the apricot room – and it is lovely. Wooden floors, hand stitched quilts, and a lovely view over the lit up hill towns.
The freshness of the mountain air wakes me very early and I sip adrak chai and watch the quiet morning mist roll away to reveal the apple orchards for which the town is famous. Samuel stokes, an American missionary brought the first saplings to the area, and now the growing and harvesting of apples is big business here. A tiny wooden gate leads out of the retreat and I pass though it and walk down a narrow lane which runs in to the old town. An old Himachal gentleman sunning himself in his compound strikes up conversation. He is, like all the mountain folk, exceedingly polite and gentle. He tells me about how they are confined to their houses in winter, how they all are in some way connected to the cultivation of apples, and how they send their children to Simla for higher education. I bid him farewell and as I walk back, I pause for a moment at the gate – this place is so quiet I can hear the flap of the crow’s wings as she flies by!
Our next destination is Sangla, a little town in the valley of the river Baspa.
The road from Thanedar towards Sangla is very scary indeed. We seem to be a hairsbreadth from tumbling down sheer cliffs to land in the river below.
We are heading in to no man’s land. The road clings to the side of a steep cliff – our minds vacillate between awe and terror. I do note however the politeness of the people on the road. Vehicles going uphill get automatic right of way, and there is none of the impatient horn blowing that we hear back home in the city. We are encouraged on our way by signs with sometimes quite surprising messages. ‘Saavdhaan! Aage patthar gir rahe he!' is bad enough, but ‘drive slowly, road sinking.' is worse. And the minatory message ‘shooting stones here' has me in an agony of bewilderment and terror. What could this possibly mean?!
There are no houses or schools or restaurants. There is a surprisingly large number of temples however. Perhaps not so surprising, here where the power of nature is so untamed, perhaps there is a sense that our small measures to keep ourselves safe may not be enough, that we may need the blessings of a greater power.
We stop at one such temple – an old Durga shrine, at the very edge of the highway. We alight and salute the goddess. An ancient priest – the only human for miles around blesses us and says with gravitas ‘yatra safal ho’.
We reach the Banjara camp in Sangla valley late in the evening by which time we’re bone tired. There is a sudden unexpected rain storm and the long walk through the dark up to the retreat does nothing for our collective mood. We’re cheered once we reach the rooms, however. Warm slippers for all of us, hot water bags, and a huge bed. My son is thrilled with the loft – he climbs up the ladder and says “I’m a king and this is my castle.”
I reluctantly emerge from my quilty cocoon early in the morning and walk out to the balcony. The sun rises on my right, and a full moon is setting on my left. The serrated snowy peak of the Kinner Kailash is shining in the combined light of the sun and the moon and I have never seen anything so lovely. We hurry through breakfast to do the signature walk of the valley - the Rakcham walk.
The Rakcham walk is considered the signature trek of the valley and my son and I attempt it the–my husband cries off preferring to contemplate the beauty of nature from a hammock placed strategically near the river.
We start the trek a little apprehensively – 11 kilometers seems like a pretty big walk to an unfit lady and her 5 year old kid. I ask my son repeatedly if he really wants to do the trek and try to dissuade him. But my obstinate little boy is determined to be a mountaineer! The first 2 kilometers is a steady uphill walk over a brassy slope – and then a trek through a forest of deodar and silver oak, poplar and bhojpatra. And ….it is so beautiful – the day that began with the threat of rain is now sunny and the sun filters through the tress high above us to fall on the mossy forest floor. We reach a clearing and look up at the blazing blue sky bordered by the Kinner Kailash range.
Then comes the tricky part. Thin slippery paths to be negotiated with the Baspa rushing musically a 100 feet below us, streams full of slippery pebbles to be crossed. Stone walls to be climbed – it’s scary, tiring, and it’s FUN!
I try to reload film in to my camera while keeping an eye on my son, and negotiating a slippery path, and I land very heavily on my rear end. Our kind guide Mohan looks tactfully away but my son adds to my misery by clutching his tummy and guffawing. It’s ok, I’m ok, I tell Mohan, and we start off again, extremely carefully.
We have a picnic lunch by the river – vegetable biryani and salad and bars of kit Kat washed down by the famous Himachal apple juice and it is the yummiest meal we have had in a long long time – perhaps it’s the fresh air or the climb – but my son polishes off his meal double fast.
The last part of the trek is thankfully downhill, and we soldier through it though we are a little tired by then. The euphoria that we feel for actually completing the trip helps us complete the walk.
Towards the end of our trek we approach a new bridge all dressed up for the inaugural ceremony. Smiling ladies are sweeping the bridge clean with dried branches. One of them observes my muddy backside, and wonders what happened. “I fell.” I confess sheepishly. She helpfully starts dusting the seat of my pants with the improvised broom, - and my son is rolling in his mirth. When questioned later, he says that his mama being slapped around the seat of the pants with a broom was his favorite part of the trip, the second best moment being my expression when I placed my hand on a boulder to stabilize myself and discovered it was full of goat poo.
I learn some important lessons at the end of the Rakcham walk
1. Don’t attempt to multitask while walking on uneven ground
2. It is good to approach challenges with the basic premise that maybe you can do it.
We spend the next two days exploring the area around Sangla. We spend a morning at Chitkul. Chitkul is the last checkpost on the Indo Tibet border accessible to civilians, and there is a lovely temple there too. The evenings are spent walking down to the green Baspa and listening to the music she makes as she ripples down the valley. And every night we get back to the Banjara retreat to tasty dinners and warm beds and excellent service.
In the course of my travels I’ve stayed in places ranging from roach infested closets with shared toilets to 7 star luxury where every wish is anticipated and fulfilled. But I’ve come to the conclusion that what makes a hotel special is care. And care is what we get at the Banjara hotels. In the Thanedar resort, Bittu Sharma pampers my little one, sends up hot chocolate along with morning tea, dissuades us from an early start, saying don’t worry I’ll pack you a lunch you can . In Sangla too, we feel like we’ve stumbled in a favorite uncle’s house in the middle of the mountains.
It’s our last evening in Sangla.
Nighttime in the Himalayas. The silence is thick and the darkness velvety. The snowy peak of the Kinner Kailash is a mere suggestion of light in the darkness. A sole star seems perched on the slope of one mountain, like a light for wayfarers. Then suddenly a full moon bigger and whiter than anything I have seen in the plains slides from behind the peak and lights up the evening. I’m silenced by the pure beauty of it all. The white breakers on the green Baspa, the clouds shining silver, the snow outlining the mountains, the stars that seem as close and touchable as fireflies – no wonder Himachal is called Devbhoomi – everywhere , everyplace is the mark of the maker.
