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

by GAURAV PUNJ

  So we decided to be brave, and opened up our lunch boxes – who knows what will happen later, might as well eat. I also decided to wait for the last group to break the news to them personally.

  As I explained to Somna and Anuradha about the new route and showed them the trail, I was pretty sure they went blank. It was just the second day and perhaps a bit early for them to shout or curse me, so blanking out was the best option. (I was proved wrong about the shouting and cursing later in the day though.) I left them to their thoughts and Ganesh, and joined the group ahead. ‘Well, I signed up for this trek, so I must suffer,’ Somna and/or Anuradha thought and opened up their lunch boxes as well, although they couldn’t eat much. ‘Maybe it looks tougher than it actually is,’ they thought and started. And forty-five minutes later they just about reached the topmost point. ‘I ... am ... dying,’ even the thoughts were panting hard. ‘But at least the climb is over, now looks like it’s downhill only, and I am sure it will be easier,’ they hoped, not able to listen to the knees screaming about what they were going to be put through.

  The diet plate

  After the hour that it took them to come down the same distance that they climbed in forty-five minutes, they had pretty much given up on everything that’s good in the world. And they had stopped hoping. While they struggle with existential dilemmas, let’s take a quick peek at what’s happening up front. The over-enthu crowd that rush ahead of everyone else at the start of the day usually get caught in their own trap and feel obliged to maintain their position as leaders. Every time they feel like resting or taking a break to admire the surroundings, or even take a photo, a voice rings in their head: ‘What if he catches up with me’ or ‘No, I can’t let the distance between us decrease’, or some such useless thought. Trust me, do not envy the leaders on a trek.

  After the steep downhill walk, the middle group reached the first of many ‘hotels’ we were to encounter on the way. (A hotel here is a tiny hut, made of loose stone, a tarpaulin roof and a dog as the security. The 5-stars have a wooden roof.) We would have missed this hotel if not for the leaders, Atul, Dimpi and Hitesh, who scampered out and rushed ahead as soon as they saw us approaching. Once inside, it was cool, and tea and biscuits were served. The man running the hotel commutes from Bogdyar daily, how convenient, and is dependent on locals travelling on this route and the occasional trekker.

  The diversion cost us more than an hour, two hours in some cases, without even covering 500m of actual distance. And it was not long before the question was popped first, ‘How much more?’ It was around 1 p.m.; a couple of hours had passed since we’d had tea at the hotel, and by the law of economics, one more hotel was due to appear. Voila, around the next corner, there was one, with an open veranda and two charpoys. It even had a blackboard with the menu on it: plate – 20 Rs, diet – 30 Rs. Must be a mistake, we thought, as we climbed up and crashed on the charpoys. ‘Plate is only once, diet is unlimited food,’ the owner explained, and we never found out if he was serious or whether it was his idea of a cruel joke on city folks. Diet it was for all of us and the rice and rajma we had there not only revived us and brought back our sense of humour, it gave me the strength to declare that we were only just mid-way. ‘But it gets easier from here on,’ I added quickly.

  Calmed by the carbs and the assurance from the owner that it is ‘seedha rasta’ from there, we got back on the trail. We were high above the Gori now and almost around the tree line, so there was shade on some portions of the path and along with the refill at the occasional spring of glacier water, it made for happy walking. The valley too had opened up, and instead of the cramped up gorge, it was now wide open with high mountains on both sides, thickly forested around their base and with grassy pastures at the top. It’s about this time when the Himalaya hooks you, giving more than a glimpse of what lies ahead, only if we keep walking and prove ourselves worthy.

  The jealous Goddess

  Legends abound about Nanda Devi not taking too kindly to public displays of affection when in her realm. From the tragic death of a young climber when she paid no heed to the warnings from porters to not ‘mix’ with her fellow climber while on an expedition, to the gentle admonishing that Jahnvi received on our trek, the ire of the Goddess is well known. Soon to be married, Jahnvi and Nikhil were perhaps a shade too lovey-dovey on the first day of the trek. On the second day, as Jahnvi was walking ahead of us, on an innocuous trail, a small stone came flying from nowhere and struck her on her shin, instantly drawing blood. It was a minor cut, small enough for Jahnvi to be more concerned about her new tracks getting soiled rather than the bleeding, but it no doubt warned them off. On the other hand, Bhavana and Seema, who were travelling without their partners, conceived within a couple of months after the trek and delivered two vibrant baby girls J.

  This was also the time when the last group, now walking in slow motion, started having serious doubts about themselves, about their decision to come on this trek, about me even knowing what I was doing, and most importantly about reaching the campsite at all today. One can only imagine what the mind does in such times to entertain itself. ‘I have my jacket with me, maybe I will just lie down behind a rock and cover myself, and then in the morning, head back and somehow reach the road, hire a car and drive all the way back to Delhi, non-stop, and take the first flight home. Yes, that’s plausible, isn’t it?’ Time moves slowly in the long afternoons of the Himalayan summer, or at least that’s how it appears when you are barely able to drag yourself forward.

  But for those of us walking ahead, the general feeling was that we were almost done and the supposedly tough day wasn’t that tough after all. And just like that, as we turned a corner, we could see the ITBP camp at Rilkot, our destination for the day, in the distance and a collective hurrah was shouted. Distances in the high Himalaya are tricky though, and for us, unaccustomed to such scale, it doesn’t make any sense when no matter how much we walk, the destination seems to remain just as far. In fact, it gets positively irritating. I tried telling everyone not to get overly excited, that it was still some distance to go, that the trail doesn’t go straight as our sight does, it curves around the mountains and with all the ascents and descents it could take a long time, surely more than an hour, but everyone had been very patient since morning and now that they had seen it, the campsite just had to come.

  Technically, it took us two-and-a-half hours to get to the campsite from there, but by all accounts it was ‘forever’. First the smiles vanished, then the frowns appeared, sarcasm and anger, in that order, weren’t far behind, finally giving way to helplessness. What may now appear as irrational behaviour seemed perfectly in place then, with some people ‘demanding’ that the trail end and the campsite appear after the next turn, and some convinced we are on the wrong trail and shouting for others to follow them on a non-existent one. It was high-tension stuff, not of the ‘last over and 8 runs to win’ type, but more like ‘will I ever get out of this’.

  I accept, therefore I am

  If you guys are still with me, and still up for one last flashback, let’s check on the group trailing behind. They had gone through all that the ones in front were going through now, more perhaps, much earlier in the day, and since the last time we checked on them were dragging themselves forward somehow. Unlike those ahead of them, they didn’t notice (or more likely didn’t bother to acknowledge) the campsite when it first became visible, and maybe that’s why they had no expectations of it ending anytime soon. Like everything else, there has to be a rock bottom in this situation as well, and it came when one of them, doesn’t matter who, threw up, sat on a rock and just cried, soon joined by the other. As the tears dried and nothing appeared to have changed, they got up slowly and started to walk again, somehow feeling lighter, more aware of their surroundings, more in tune, ready for what was to come next. In Anuradha’s words:

  ***

  Reality check

  Anuradha Choudhary

>   Managing editor with Filmfare magazine

  The first half of the second day passes without any incident. But by the time it’s 3 p.m., I’m dead meat. As usual the seasoned trekkers are far ahead of me. Solitude turns to loneliness. I can’t take a step forward. It’s been seven hours since we’ve started walking and there’s no sight of the campsite. I feel lost, depressed and am hit by a bout of self-pity. I sit on a huge rock and start sobbing. I curse God for not helping me. He’s unmoved of course. A good cry does some good. But my body refuses to move and my eyes droop. The next thing I know is that Somna, who was behind me, has caught up with me. I’m done with crying and both of us, exhausted and emotional, get up to start negotiating the endless trail again.

  That’s when we sight it on the other side of the riverbank. The Great Himalayan Bear grazing by the river below with its cub. Suddenly, our deadbeat bodies stir with interest. We stop walking and watch the mother and baby. Everything is forgotten in that moment, in the sheer beauty of the animal. It’s God’s way of apologizing to me, I’m sure. Apologies accepted and suddenly I’m already to negotiate the tough terrains once again.

  ***

  I don’t know if it was God’s apology, more like a helping hand actually, but the crucial word here is ‘acceptance’. Acceptance of the fact that they are out there in the wilderness, where the writ of nature rules supreme, one which can’t be fought against, but only accepted. And with acceptance comes humility, and the ability to see beyond what you have been, whether it’s a bear and its cub on the other side of the river, or a rare yellow flower right near your foot or the snow-covered peaks high above you. At that time however, the acceptance gave them just enough strength to finish the walk, well after the sun had set and the cold had crept in.

  Their smiles as I met them on my way back from the camp with some tea and warm clothes took me completely off-guard and I fumbled with my well-planned speech about, ‘it’s okay, you have done great, don’t panic, the extra distance offset our calculations, etc. etc’. ‘We saw a bear,’ is all they said, which ideally should have brought tears to my eyes after all the gaalis I had just heard from everyone else, the supposedly fitter and faster members of the group. I gave them some tea to drink, a biscuit to eat, a shawl each to wrap themselves in and the three of us walked back to the camp in silence; a relaxed, calm walk, savouring the sound of the river and the sight of a splendid dusk, the way it ought to be.

  But we don’t learn that easily, do we?

  One can only imagine that a nine-day trek would give people enough time for this crucial lesson to be reinforced. After that fateful Day 2, where we ended up walking almost twelve hours, not just our minds, but the entire Himalaya opened up and welcomed us big time. For the next two days we walked in a postcard, passing through huge green meadows with all kinds of flowers, sheep grazing lazily and snow reflecting from the peaks in every direction. A Lammergeier (Himalayan eagle) scooping down to pick up a lamb would have kind of spoiled the picture, but luckily it missed as the sheepdogs chased it away just in time. Everyone in the group was in great spirits now and comments like, ‘This is what I am talking about’ were heard with regularity.

  On Day 3, as we walked through the open pastures, we reached the village of Martoli, the first of the trio of trading villages in the Johar valley, almost deserted, with roofless homes (the wood in the roofs was used as fuel long ago by the army) like the other two. The village was exceptionally pretty as it was located bang in the middle of a green pasture, right under the historic Traill’s Pass in the east, the beautiful peaks of Trishuli and Hardeol in the north, and the Gori flowing down below. We were to stay for a full day in this village on our way back, so wanting to reach the campsite as soon as possible (yesterday’s wounds were still fresh) we had a quick lunch and walked on, not paying heed to our guide’s suggestion to visit the local temple dedicated to Nanda Devi, high above the village. ‘We will see it on the way back. We are staying here anyway, right?’

  On the other bank of the Gori Ganga we spotted the village of Barphu, stunningly nestled between mountains and sitting beside a stream. It has many more residents, its operational watermill a proof of that. (Refer ‘Vinita Hoon’ at the end of this chapter.)

  We were now just one day away from the Nanda Devi east base camp and the excitement was palpable. Vinod and Ganesh fanned it further by giving a graphic description of how close the peak is from the base camp: ‘You can open the zip of your tent and touch the peak.’ The next day’s walk first took us through a meadow of golden grass, yes, golden (and the photo is on page xi in the inserts), and we continued on till we reached a big stream flowing from the left. It was all too grand for us to even comprehend; besides all we were concerned about was how to keep the sharp and biting wind out of our ears. Across the Gori we could now see Milam, the largest and most important village in Johar. Our path, however, was along the stream on our left and we decided to take a break before starting on the last stretch.

  This is what we remember of the last stretch: it first climbed up through a thick forest of birch and then white rhododendrons, then suddenly the clouds came and it started to drizzle, which soon graduated to hail and we covered ourselves with our jackets and ponchos, our noses froze, the terrain gradually changed from green to rocky moraine, we had to climb down the slopes of small side streams and then scamper up the other side, we huddled up during a break in the hail and ate our lunch, and lastly the hut of a shepherd which we all gate crashed into because he had a fire going. Phew.

  ‘Okay, so how much further to the base camp and the view of Nanda Devi mountain?’ asked Hitesh, caressing the big SLR around his neck, which he had lugged all the way, along with a tripod, just to take a photo of Nanda Devi from the ‘closest distance possible’. ‘We are already there, that ground over there is the base camp,’ Vinod replied, and Hitesh’s and most of the others’ reaction was to be seen to be believed. ‘But where is the mountain?’ ‘It’s right there, but we can’t see it because of clouds and fog.’ ‘But we have walked for four days to get here,’ voiced some and thought the rest. ‘Let’s hope it clears in the morning. But you should all be proud of the fact that you have reached the base camp, walked for four days, climbed from 1800m to 3500m, braved the sun, wind and snow – it’s really something,’ I said and looked expectantly at the group. ‘What’s the guarantee it will clear up in the morning?’ was all that I got. ‘Let’s hope,’ was all that I gave back.

  One could have easily wagered on what would happen in the morning – yes, no view. Nanda Devi was less than a kilometre away, but chose to stay behind a veil, a veil of nothingness, but one that was completely opaque. But a good night’s rest and the realization that the tough part of the trek was over and the return would now start, plus a hearty breakfast of course, ensured everyone took a philosophical stand about this. ‘But see, we are camped right under Nanda Kot peak, we can see the Nanda Devi east glacier right in front, all around us are grand mountains on a grand scale, we should be happy.’ It was true, the place was out of this world. We were on the periphery of the Nanda Devi sanctuary, and even though we couldn’t see the peak, we could sense her presence. All in all, we were overwhelmed, and unburdened, and with that feeling started our journey back, a journey filled with much more laughter and much more appreciation of the place we were walking through.

  The veil is lifted

  Back in Martoli, as we loitered in front of the hut where we stayed, some lying out in the sun in their sleeping bags (it was windy), some reading books that they’d carried all the way, everyone trying to get used to the feeling of not walking after five days, we could see a big group of people, but not trekkers, locals, heading towards the Nanda Devi temple. ‘It’s a special day and these people have walked all the way from Munsiyari to do a puja in the temple. You should come – there will be some very tasty local food,’ we were told and that was enough to make us climb up on a rest day.

  Th
e temple is some twenty minutes above Martoli village and is quite old, with some really intricate wood carvings, short walls but very wide with a slanting slate roof, and a huge compound. ‘Why have they made the temple so high and far from the village?’ Atul asked out loud to no one in particular. ‘Yahan se Nanda Devi dikhti hai,’ replied the priest, pointing to the direction where Nanda Devi was still hidden behind clouds.

  The atheists

  Every time we visit a remote village and go to its temple/monastery/shrine, invariably some of the group members will maintain a safe distance and not enter. I completely understand where that is coming from of course, but the difference here is that a temple or any place of worship in the remote Himalaya is much more than a room for an idol. It’s the epicentre of the village, its cultural hub and – most importantly – an unrivalled peek into its past. The architecture, till it’s defiled by standardization, is the stamp of that region and probably the last place that it exists in its pure form. Not interested in architecture? Okay, what about the stories? There isn’t a temple that doesn’t have an associated story, not a supernatural type but a practical one, which explains the psyche and beliefs of the natives. And that usually is the history of the place in a nutshell. So here’s some advice: leave your coolness behind and go inside.

  After praying in the temple, the group sat for the prasad and so did we. And what a prasad it turned out to be: a bhaji, thick red rice, poori, a local dal with some rajma and topped with halwa, all made in a unique way, but made so well, in desi ghee and all. We could barely lift ourselves from the ground, walking unsteadily to put back the plates and then to wash, and as soon as we were done, someone shouted, ‘Look the clouds are lifting.’ I’m not kidding, but the layers were coming off, and we just knew it was time. ‘Climb up a bit more for the best view,’ we were told and we did, to the birch forest above the temple, and then we all sat, looking silently towards the mountains, all mesmerized by the show Nanda Devi was putting up (photo on page xii in the inserts). Over the next forty-five minutes, every single cloud floated away, and one by one, the twin peaks of Nanda Devi gracefully came out in the open.