Meandering through Manali

8/31/16

      A definite surrealism engulfs the Kullu Valley.  As mentioned we are still in the monsoon season, however that word does not describe the reality.  Monsoon, to me, means “holy shit” the rains are about to wash us away.  No, this is a gentle rain, almost a mist, the low clouds playing tag with the mountains.  Cynthia and I are up early, as seems to be our routine, drinking coffee (yes, Starbucks instant!) and reading the news.  Actually not unlike our routine at home.  Neither one of us seems bothered by the rain, in fact I couldn’t be more relaxed.  I think Manali brings that on.  Not to mention our hotel.  

Kullu Valley, Himachal Pradesh, India

      The initial negative reaction has now given way to a true fondness for the place.  As I step out of our room I am greeted by a light smell that takes me back to boyhood.  Spending summers on the family farm with the farm house being more than 100 years old.  Hard to describe that smell.  Musty but not negatively so.  Just kind of old.  Hey, I can’t hold that against it given that I am no spring chicken myself. 

Sunshine Guest House
Old Manali, Himachal Pradesh, India

A daily highlight is when the family’s father feeds the geese, ducks and chickens.  A crescendo of squawking can be heard from our room and continues until every speck of grain is gone.  This takes place in the well tended, but somewhat wild, garden filled with hydrangeas, dahlias, marigolds, and chrysanthemums.  Adding to the interest is the family of monkeys lounging on the roof beyond our hotel.  As with all monkeys I am sure they are full of mischief, but have not chosen us as a target yet.

Monkey Time

     
      Anyway, Manali.  Summer retreat for the Indians, come see snow for the first time in one’s life, see the majesty of the green mountains, shop till you drop if you are so inclined.  It has an Indian style hippiness to it.  Young travelers (though definitely the off season) both from India and beyond.  Narrow streets with unknown destinations.  The first day walk through the giant cedar forest was magical.  The diffused light show, the raging Beas river letting you know it was not to be messed with, an occasional person walking with the same slow gait that you found yourself assuming.  

JB in the forest of deodar cedars
Manali, Himachal Pradesh, India

The “tourist” sites are few.  We went to a couple of temples that glare in their simplicity.  The highlight of the main temple could well have been the women with their angora rabbits, aggressively placing them in your hands, or in my case on each shoulder, charging for the privilege of a photo.  They were so warm to the touch, smiles could not escape the face. 

JB with Angora Rabbits

     
      Though we have not tired of Indian style food yet, Manali has restaurants to fit all tastes.  Last night we went to a small intimate place that had an eclectic menu with an Italian flare.  Most tables were full, mostly young Indians, mostly drinking Tuborg beer and smoking the hoouka pipe.  Just tobacco my friends, though I am sure other substances would be available.  So as we begin to see the end of our Manali stay, we are definitely enjoying it.  Not action packed, but who needs it to be.  Our traveling legs are beginning to find their gate.

      Speaking of getting our traveling legs, yesterday we did our first bus ride, and we are not talking luxury style.   Passing through acres of apple orchards ripe with fruit, we went to the small village of Naggar.  It is nestled high on the valley wall overlooking the Beas river.  As is often the case the journey was as rewarding as the destination.  One hour fifteen minutes of narrow rough roads (as in, is this bus really NOT going to tumble down the mountain), interesting characters, and a feeling of blending in with the locals.  As is standard in many parts of the world the bus is such the deal.  Definitely designed with the people in mind.  120 rupees (less than 2 dollars) for two, round trip.  A taxi? 1,600 rupees ($25). The journey was a slice, the destination interesting but not overwhelming, and the scenery spectacular.  

Girls on the Bus

      There has definitely been one dilemma that has thrown us a bit into a state of discombobulation.  In a word, Kashmir.  Whereas right now we are in North East India, Kashmir is in the North West.  It borders with Pakistan.  Kashmir was to be one of our major destinations.  A beautiful mountain region, the large Dal lake with inviting houseboats to comfort your stay, a culture unique from others in India, and many nearby villages beckoning for a visit.  As many of you know Kashmir has been in a state of unrest, in one form or another, since Indian independence in 1947.  Of course, once again, religion raises its sometimes ugly head.  Hindu India, Muslim Pakistan and Kashmir.  On our previous trips to India we could not even go to Kashmir.  The border was either closed or the environment was so unfriendly that it made a visit impossible.  But that has changed in recent years.  Peace has, for the most part, prevailed and the local tourist industry has been thriving.  Then came July 8.  The Indian forces killed a young separatist leader.  Violent demonstrations broke out, the Indian army reacted with force killing some 60 demonstrators over a period of 6 weeks.  The tourist trade, per the Times of India, pretty much came to a halt.  

      On arriving in India Cynthia and I had not yet made a firm decision on whether we would continue with plans to go to Srinagar, the capital city of the state of Kashmir.  Our initial inquiries, however, were not positive.  The people who were in the tourist industry said don’t go.  It is not fear that is driving our decision, it is the fact that a curfew prevailed, stores were closed, road blocks in place and gas stations closed.  Movement seemed impossible.  As a result we made the decision not to go.  We cancelled reservations and set about figuring a plan “B”.  Then came yesterday’s headlines in the Times of India.  The curfew had been lifted because the situation was improving.  So now what?  At this point Cynthia and I are going to take it a day at a time.  No decision has to made right now.  We’ll keep our eye on the news, email with Nadim who is watching the situation, and hope for the best.  We are in the lucky position of having either option a positive.  We go and experience a situation totally unique, or we find other destinations that will hold charm as well.  Vamos a ver.  

Time Warp

8/22/16   7:15 p.m.

  The internet is failing and my blood glucose level is 62.  In other words, 0 for 2.  The wine is good, Chilean of course, about the only country that Guatemala seems to have a wine connection with.  The name of the hostel we are staying at seems fitting, Los Volcanes.  I certainly can’t see a volcano but the memories are fresh.  I know I am about ready to enter a time warp.  As in, it is now 6:45 a.m. tomorrow in Delhi.  What?  Where the hell did that half hour go?  Whose time do I try and set my brain to?  I am leaving Guatemala but haven’t arrived anywhere yet.  Limbo.  Time out of mind.  Kind of like Dali’s clock.  Bent.  OK, back to the book.  It’s about a double agent Vietnamese refugee. 1975.  Sounds as confusing as my time warp!

8/27/16   8:00 p.m.

  Five days later???  Impossible.  Seems like I wrote the above at the most 3 days ago.  Well one day went into the never land. Flying West.  Changing date lines. One day just sort of went up in smoke.  Not to be regained until we do the reverse flight.  Then, poof, we’ll regain a day.  At least that is the promise.  I followed our flight path.  The most direct route would have taken us over Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan and Pakistan.  Apparently not advisable.  Instead we did a northerly arc.  The Stans.  Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan.  Of course there would of been the day when that would’ve been “enemy territory”.  Back in the USSR.  But things change. 

The Route

       Which brings me to Delhi.  The first time I landed there, 1988, I immediately knew I had arrived at a place beyond my imagination. The airport was packed.  But not necessarily with passengers.  It was the crash pad.  People everywhere, but not going anywhere.  Some food and a blanket, if you were lucky.  Today the new Indira Gandhi International Airport is state of the art.  Apparently it won the “Best International Airport” award two years in a row.  And from what I saw it deserved it.  A large bronze sculpture greeted us with all the positions of the yoga mantra, Salutation to the Sun.  Pretty cool.  Delhi was a whirlwind.  We stayed on the edge of old and new Delhi.  And what a difference.  Old Delhi is non stop “in your face”.  Crowded, noisy, fascinating.  New Delhi was what made the British comfortable.  Wide avenues, lots of trees and landscaping, a feeling of cleanliness.  The Indians, of course, took it over in 1947.  But they take pride in it.  All the government buildings are there.   The president lives there.  The parliament works there. Mahatma  Gandhi and Indira Gandhi met their fate there. On the opposite spectrum, Old Delhi is just that.  It is the way India has been for centuries.  Crowded, deals on the street, sleep on the street, piss on the street, honk on the street, thrive on the street.  Take your choice, Delhi has both.  

       We had a contact in Delhi, compliments of Chicago Irving, Nadim.   A fine young man whom Irving met in India some ten years ago.  Took him from the street and helped him get his degree as a tour guide.  We spent an evening and a day with him.  

Nadim and Cynthia at Humayun's Tomb, Delhi

Cynthia and I picked the sights, he was the guide.  He definitely wanted to show off New Delhi. He thought, probably correctly, that that is where the Western tourist would want to go.  (I, on the other hand, was drawn to Chandni Chowk, heart of Old Delhi and the place of all things).  So we toured the tourist highlights.  Walked the final path of Gandhi, marked by cement imprints of his sandal tracks, to the place he was assassinated by his Sikh guard. So classic of the world we live in.  The man dedicated to the non-violent way (ie. Martin Luther King) assassinated by the men that just couldn’t handle it.   

     

Gandhi's Last Walk

       Speaking of the Sikh’s. The highlight of the day was the Gurudwara Bangla Sahib temple. It was glorious in its majesty, and its message.  One thing that got our immediate attention was its kitchen.  As we toured it there was a throng of volunteers preparing food in its massive space.  The Sikh Temple, in a mission to be of the people, prepare three meals a day available to anyone who needs to eat.  Given the throngs of poor in Delhi, I can’t imagine how this is played out.  Since we were not there at mealtime we do not know what restrictions, if any, are placed on those who come.  Nadim said none, though I find that hard to believe.  Anyway, an abundance of food was being prepared and I am sure it was being consumed by those in need.

Gurudwara Bangla Sahib Temple, Delhi

     Just as we thought we were getting passed our jet lag (11-1/2 hours difference from the Lake) we had to arise at 3:30 a.m. to make our 6:30 a.m. flight to Manali.  Somehow both Cynthia and I felt rested.  We were ready to leave Delhi.  The two prop plane took us up and into the thick clouds for the 1:15 hour flight.  Talking about different worlds. We landed on the single runway with the same clouds completely enshrouding us. 

Kullu Airport

The raging Beas river was running mad and muddy close to the runway.  However, as we left the airport an immediate smile came to both of our faces.  Four cows were leisurely strolling the street.  Ahh, now we were in the India we knew and loved.  The one where animals, particularly the sacred cow, has as much right to the road as the human carrying car.  A 30-minute ride along a narrow two lane road, flanked by the unbelievably wild movement of the river, brought us to Old Manali.  

     The jury is still out here.  Cynthia came down with a ferocious cold.  She is definitely out of it and slept most of the day. The monsoon season has not left yet, thus the raging river.  Our hotel got excellent write ups in LP and Trip Advisor.   Given that, it was a shock.  Kind of out of town, not really a hotel, more like a stay at the old farmhouse.  Our room is large and comfortable, but modern it is not.  Feels like the 19th century.  More types of animals than I can count, flowers in a thriving garden, a beautiful view from the expansive porch down the cloud covered valley will eventually make us glad to be here.  

Porch view of Manali Valley

But right now I must admit we are in a bit of befuddlement.  I keep in mind what I long ago learned from my travels.  To arrive in a strange new place is seldom easy.  It takes getting one's legs.  Right now it is way too early to write anything off.  

8/28/16  8:30 a.m.

  Remembering the lack of good coffee in India, Cynthia and I came prepared.  Starbucks French Roast Instant.  Recommended by good friend Pat Torpie.  Smart.  The choice of coffee was Nescafe or nothing.  Yikes.  No restaurant as such at the “hotel”.  However, a decent breakfast was served on our porch.  The sky is certainly not clear, but not threatening either.  A peace prevails.  Cynthia is better this morning.  I am going from half empty to half full.  One thing that is absolutely positive.  We are in the mountains!

 

Blog Test

Cynthia and I sit on our porch watching the volcanoes grow darker as night approaches.  We won't see this again for almost three months.  Tomorrow we set out, once again, for another "great adventure".  It is our intention to record our experiences via this blog.  I hope you join us!  I promise not to make them too long,  AND, we have the technical glitches worked out so Cynthia's photography will be an integral part.  Next post, India!        JB

Porch View
Lake Atitlan, Guatemala