by GAURAV PUNJ
Long after we had exhausted our fingers clicking photographs, and our feet standing on the slope of the hill, and our brains trying to identify all the other mountains we could see, and even when the sun started to go down, and the chill forced us to huddle close, we remained there. We didn’t need the villagers to tell us later that such a clear view is possible only once a month; we knew we’d gotten lucky, perhaps because we finally visited the temple and paid our respects, or because we overcame our disappointment on not seeing the mountain from the base camp and ‘accepted’ what we’d received, or just because we were at the right place at the right time – the reasons didn’t matter. What mattered was the sight of two golden triangles rising above everything else around them, and us able to savour it for as long as we wanted to. (Photograph on page xii in the inserts for you too; you read this long account after all.)
***
Raju, the Guide
Short mein bole toh, trekking around the Nanda Devi sanctuary is the closest you can get to a ‘spiritual’ journey.
More reading
Some easily-available books and guides that I have read and gained from:
Title
Category
Author
Remarks
The Nanda Devi Affair (1994)
Travelogue
Bill Aitken
An ode to the mountain and its mystique, unlike anything else available in a book form.
Nanda Devi: Exploration and Ascent (2000 reprint)
Exploration/ climbing
Eric Shipton and H.W. Tillman
The authors describe their explorations that lead to their being the first people to ever enter this sanctuary.
An Eye at the Top of the World (2007)
Espionage
Pete Takeda
Well, who doesn’t like conspiracy theories.
What to do in Johar valley
Trekking – Essentially, you can go on this trek. But luckily, there are many options within this trek and you can choose to do a shorter version where you stop at Martoli, or the one to a lake above Bogdiyar, only known to the locals and supposedly ‘out of this world’ pretty. From Munsiyari you can also go to the meadows of Khaliya, a short 8 km hike, but with some of the best views of Himalayan peaks stretching from Nepal to Garhwal.
Chilling out – Munsiyari is a superb option to chill out, provided you don’t mind the long drive to get there. But again, break up the drive over a couple of days and you will really enjoy that part as well. Around Munsiyari, you can go for countless short walks, visit local handicraft stores or just stare at the Panch Chuli peaks.
Point to be noted
Munsiyari is home to two very interesting personalities. Dr Pangti, or Masterji as he is popularly known, is amongst the last surviving Joharis who used to be involved in trade with Tibet. He maintains a small ‘museum’ of photographs, documents and some other interesting relics from those days.
The other one is Malika Virdi, a mountaineer and social worker who decided to make Munsiyari her home. She was elected sarpanch of the van panchayat and works towards women empowerment. She runs homestays in Munsiyari and can be reached at [email protected].
I must also mention Vinita Hoon, an environmentalist and author of Living on the Move, a book on the nomadic tribes of this region. We met her on our way back, and as Atul tried to tell her, ‘You have almost reached’, she replied with ‘Yes, I know, it’s my twenty-fourth time’. She was working in Barphu village and helping them set up a water mill. Some women are truly exceptional, and she is one of them.
Local service providers
If you want to trek anywhere in this region, get in touch with Ganesh Singh, a local guide (our guide on the trek) who – apart from organizing everything that you might need – is a very insightful pair of eyes on the trek itself. His number is 9456721651.
Another useful contact is Parminder Sethi in Kathgodam, the railhead, for all your transportation needs. 9410588889.
To stay: Try the homestays run by Malika Virdi or for the more luxurious option, the resort by Wayfarers.
Story 7
Darma Valley: The Land of Flying Lamas
Hand-drawn maps for representation purpose only. Not to scale.
The setting
When the chapter (and the book) is named as exotically as ‘The Land of Flying Lamas’, I think it’s sensible to start with that. We didn’t see any flying lamas, but we were with one. And here is his story:
A child was born in one of the three sister valleys in one of the remotest corners of the Indian Himalaya – the border of Kumaun, Nepal and Tibet. Along with everything else, the culture and traditions here were a unique combination of Tibetan Buddhism, nature worship and Hinduism. The holy men were called lamas, but they prayed to trees and rocks, using rituals not very different from Hindu priests.
The child was special, his parents could tell from his extra bright eyes and calm demeanour. And soon enough, senior lamas of the three valleys knocked on their door, looked at the child and unanimously declared that he was the reincarnation of a very learned lama from the distant past. When he turns five, his education will start, they told his parents and left.
On his fifth birthday, the parents waited for the lamas to come and take him away for his education, but no one came. Confused, they asked their son if he knew anything about it (he was a higher being after all). ‘My education has already started,’ he said. When? How? ‘I learn at a big monastery.’ Huh? ‘In Lhasa.’ Silence. ‘In my dreams.’ Stunned silence.
It appeared that the lama was learning the ancient scriptures from famous lamas, all in his sleep. His specialty was herbs and natural remedies and his mandate was to help the people of his three valleys in case of sickness and injury. And he was given a special power to reach where he was needed – the power of flying.
Cut to 2008 and our trek to one of the three valleys – Darma valley. We were amongst the first few ‘non-explorer’, ‘commercial’ trekkers there and who do we get as our guide – the flying lama. From the moment we met him, without the baggage of his story, we felt something special about him; the way he talked, calm and in control always, the twinkle in his eyes, and most of all, the respect he commanded from everyone without once demanding it. ‘This is Lamaji, a very special person, and you guys are lucky he has agreed to come along with you for the trek,’ we were told.
On the first night of the trek, as we all sat outside and talked, the porters told us his story. ‘So you are saying he can fly?’ asked Esha, the bright sixteen-year-old in the group, with enough sarcasm to drown the three valleys. ‘Have you ever seen him fly?’ ‘Yes, I did, once. He was sitting beside me around a bonfire and before I knew it he was on the other side. He just flew.’ ‘Can he show us by flying from here to there?’ Esha was relentless. The unperturbed lama had a constant smile on his face. ‘Lamaji, show them,’ the porters asked, obviously hurt by the tone used by us non-believers. Lamaji continued to smile.
Day 2, as we climbed higher, Kinjal started getting a headache and felt very, very tired. Lamaji ran up (or did he fly?) the slope, plucked a few leaves from a plant, came down, rubbed it in his hands to make a small ball and asked her to eat it. ‘It’ll help your breathing,’ he told us. ‘Must be a herb which dilates the capillaries,’ Rujuta reasoned. Within half an hour Kinjal was feeling better and all of us, feeling a bit left out, wanted to taste the miracle medicine too.
That night we reached the village of Nagling and in addition to the five porters there was the entire village to corroborate the story. As all of us
stepped up the pressure on him to fly, he finally told us this: ‘I have never stepped out of the three valleys, but I can describe each and every detail of Lhasa, the monasteries, the roads, everything. It all happened in my dreams. I learnt the scriptures when I didn’t even know how to read. I was given the power to go from one place to another in case of extreme emergency. It’s not to show off. One time I was careless and I decided from then to stop my practice.’ And he smiled again.
That’s his story and regardless of what we or you, the reader, feel about it now, in that moment, in that village far far away, beyond civilization as we know it, amidst four-hundred-year-old homes, below the snow-covered peaks lit by the moon and high above the shining waters of Dhauli river, all of us felt if ever there was going to be a person who could fly, it has to be this lama in Darma valley.
The stage
It was June 2008, and we were on a trek to the base camp of the Panch Chuli peaks, passing through the Darma valley. It’s a very doable six-day trek back and forth from the nearest town of Dharchula. Nagling is the biggest village in the valley and an important stopover on the trek. It’s a village that redefined old for us. The ‘homestays’ we spent the night in were stone houses at least four hundred years old. They were basic with small rooms and even smaller windows (to protect against the cold). And this was the ‘palace’, so imagine the rest of the homes. (Photograph on page xiii in the inserts.) But it was inhabited, which can’t be said of so many old villages this far up in the Himalaya. Like all villages on the Indo-Tibet border, the people here were bitter about the abrupt stop to trade and their way of life. They proudly told us, ‘Before 1962, when the army came here, we didn’t even know what India was. We had our own currency and our own laws.’
The day we reached Nagling village, the entire population was gathered around a goat (which had died of old age); it had been cut up in the courtyard and different body parts were being distributed to each family. Later in the evening they told us that tonight was the scheduled visit of the ‘Big Man’, a seven foot creature who visits once every week in the middle of the night to check if all is well and punish those who did any wrong. We had a fitful sleep and some of us even heard (imagined?) footsteps outside our room.
We trekked for two more days to reach the base camp, had a great time there and on the fourth day were back in Nagling.
The cast
Lamaji, our guide, the three girls in the team as part guides-part cooks-part friends, Nagling inhabitants and our group of eight, five of whom were on their first trek ever.
The act: The four meadows of Nagling and the Himalayan Viagra
‘But abhi aapne kuch dekha hi kahan hai?’ Lamaji said and yes, smiled at us.
We were having our dinner in the open-air veranda in Nagling village, high above the Dhauli Ganga, and in line with the peaks all around us. Nagling was like our second home by now; we had spent two days there and seen all there was to see: a goat being cut and distributed amongst the villagers, a close encounter with the resident zombie, a volleyball game with the locals, and a high energy song and dance routine in the night. But Lamaji, our guide, the three girls of our trek staff and everyone in Nagling felt we were yet to see the real deal. ‘Kisi ko pata nahin hai,’ Lamaji said in hushed voice, and went on to tell us about the four meadows of Nagling. All different from each other, all unique, he insisted. We were all ears.
We had been trekking in Darma valley for the last four days and it had already surprised us, amazed us rather, beyond our wildest imagination. We were convinced there was nothing like this anywhere, and now these four meadows (‘bugyals’ in the local language) seemed like the last great surprise in the Indian Himalaya, and we the chosen ones to go see them. Trekking is known to induce delusions of being path-breaking explorers.
And so it was decided that instead of heading straight back to the campsite at Urthing, we would get up early and climb up to the four meadows, return by lunch and continue to Urthing. A long day, but we were sure it would be worth it. Lamaji had said so, and if a person who can fly is giving his word, we better believe it.
The night passed by without any visit from the Big Man this time, anyway he only visits once a week, and we were all up and ready by 5:30 a.m. The sun as usual had beaten us and we could see the top of the Nagling peak shining in the morning sunlight. We had a quick breakfast of omelette and toast, and with Lamaji leading us started the climb to the meadows. This also turned out to be the steepest climb of the entire trip and within half an hour we were panting and sweating and collapsing. Before we could revive ourselves, we heard sounds of raucous laughter and looked back to see a group of Nagling women climbing up with baskets on their backs, obviously amused by the sight of our group – some sprawled over rocks, some on their haunches, some barely able to open their eyes from the sweat running down their faces. ‘Ruk ruk ke aao,’ was the advice given, as if we had never considered stopping to breathe as an option.
The women, who were going to the meadows to collect fuel wood, herbs and flowers cheered us up with the songs they sang while climbing up and as we recovered urged us to follow them. Which we did, but just for five minutes, and told them to go ahead, we will come, ruk ruk ke.
Anyway, after about fifteen more minutes, Lamaji announced the climb was over, always the nicest thing to hear on a trek. We had been climbing through a thick forest and were now almost above the tree line, with the forest giving way to flattish terrain. It was just 6:30 a.m., but the day was already in its full glory, with birds chirping, flowers blooming and the sky acquiring a deep blue. ‘Just ahead is the first meadow, the meadow of Kasturi mrig,’ announced Lamaji. He told us that the grass that grows here attracts the musk deer and that they come here all the time to graze. They weren’t there at that time though, it would have been too much anyway. One of the rarest animals in the world, the musk deer is almost a mythical creature now, found more in stories than in reality, and it felt special to stand on the grass where one of them could have been grazing just last evening.
‘Okay, and what’s special about the second meadow?’ the impatient Kinjal wanted to know. ‘Sabse sundar hai woh,’ was the short reply, enough to get us moving. As we walked, the valley started to open up, the trees disappeared, the sound of flowing water was heard and almost like magic we were staring at the ‘sabse sundar’ place we have ever seen. Honestly. I have to put in a limitation alert here: just don’t have the capability to describe it. First take a look at this photograph on page xiii in the inserts, before I even try. Straight in front was the Nagling peak covered with snow, a stream, obviously coming from the snows, was gurgling by our left, we were walking on a flat ground which stretched for almost half a kilometre to our right and which was covered by so many flowers, like a green canvas randomly sprinkled with every single colour possible. In the middle of the meadow, the women were walking in a straight line whistling some song and, wait, you get the idea right, it was basically a sensory overload. We did the only thing we could have done: just sat there and looked around. Lamaji had an ‘I told you so’ smile on his face and was on a high too. ‘We are not moving from here,’ Jahnvi and Nikhil declared, no one argued, and no one moved.
After fifteen minutes of aimless sitting around, we decided to ‘utilize’ this time better and opened our lunch boxes. It was early for lunch, but anything to spend more time at this place. We shared the meadow with the cattle of Nagling village. During summer, they are left to graze here on their own for two to three months. More than a few of us eyed the cows with a feeling not so different from jealousy. ‘Chalo, abhi bahut kuch hai aage,’ Lamaji got up and urged us on. Reluctantly we all got up and started walking, still looking around, trying to form as strong a memory of this place as possible.
The valley of fools
If I ever have an automatic response on my phone it will be: ‘Hi, you have reached CWH, we don’t go to the Valley of Flowers or Everest base camp. For anyth
ing else, press 1’. When Frank Smythe crossed a pass after spending weeks in the barren landscape around Kamet mountain and entered the Bhayundar valley while it was in the middle of monsoon, he and his fellow climbers were simply overwhelmed with the greenery, the streams and mostly by the flowers. So much so that he called it the ‘valley of flowers’, a magical, mystical name unlike anything anyone else had come up with, and wrote paeans to it in his books. For the next few decades, his description of VoF became the basis on which almost every European traveller planned his/her trip to Garhwal Himalaya. The locals were first bemused, some even tried to explain that every valley in Himalaya is a valley of flowers in monsoon, in fact there are valleys nearby with even more varieties of flowers, but the power of the written word is too strong, and soon they settled down to taking everyone to Bhayundar valley. So many expeditions, trekkers and curious travellers went to the valley that they ironically destroyed the very flora they wanted to see. So much so that the valley has been closed for camping for a decade now. Disgruntled tourists started calling it the ‘valley of fools’ as they felt cheated when they didn’t see as many flowers as they’d expected. But has that made people stop romanticizing it and instead explore countless other valleys full of flowers? A big ‘No’. Everest base camp also suffers from the burden of fulfilling the egos of just too many people.
