Backpacking through the Himalayas

Backpacking through Himachal Pradesh

Wondering around Old Manali (Himachal Pradesh, India) I was wondering what you really need to go trekking around these beautiful mountains that surround this lovely place. Is it necessary to hire a guide? According to the two trekking agents that I spoke to, it is absolutely vital, otherwise you run a great risk of getting lost in the mountains. The many “missing posters” hanging around the towns cafes seemed to support their argument. I spotted at least 5 different posters asking tourists to report the whereabouts of the pictured backpackers. I could just imagine mine added to the collection. The prices for a guided tour were extortionate, US$25 per day! Nothing costs that much in India, I thought to myself. I could not find anyone that has actually done a 3 or 4 day trek, everyone that I spoke to was either “going to go” or they were embarking on much longer 20 days expeditions to Ladakh. The guidebooks didn’t provide much help as to the availability of accommodation and food along the trekking routes, they did however show all the treks in the area. The Naggar to Malana trek caught my attention. It was exactly what I was looking for, 3 to 4 days with the impressive 3600-meter Chandrakani Pass along the way. Another good thing about this trek was that if you wanted to, you had the option of extending your trek by another day through the Rashol Pass (3100 meters) to reach Manikaran. Manikaran has bus connections with Manali, my starting point.

I still wasn’t sure what to bring, I opted for the “expect the worst” approach, and made up a list of everything that I thought I needed. My list consisted of; food, sleeping gear, tent, cooking equipment, compass, map and warm clothes. The food included rice, dried soups, bread, chocolate, a tin of fish, and some fresh fruit. I could not decide what to do about the sleeping gear, I had a sleepingbag, and I bought a sleeping mat however I had no tent and the ones available were a little too expensive for my liking. I knew it would rain in the mountains, so I opted for four large plastic bags sticky-taped together. In the worst event I would be able to cover myself with the plastic and sit out the night. The cooking equipment was another problem, the cookers that I’ve found were so large that I would need a porter to help me along the way, I compromised. I bought a pot and figured, that I’ll be able to use the wood found in the forest for fuel. To keep myself warm I bought a (silly looking) Kullu Valley type of a hat, a typical Kullu Valley woolen blazer and a waterproof poncho. I was ready to hit the mountains!

The next day, it took me a long time to get myself out of bed, an ailment that a lot of tourists suffer from in Manali. About noon I made it to the bus stop, the bus was already there. We had to wait for about 45 minutes until it filled up and eventually we left. The bus took the eastern side of the Kullu River. The road was windy and in some places unmade, the scenery was breathtaking. After about an hour the bus driver dropped me off at some shops, apparently this was Naggar. I spotted some tourists sipping “Thums Up” at one of the shops. They turned out to be a French couple and they showed me the way up the mountain to the first village.

This was it, the beginning of my trek, the road was passable to larger vehicles and every now and then a tractor or a motorcycle overtook me raising great clouds of dust in the process. Within an hour I arrived at a hotel/restaurant. I decided to conserve my food supplies and had some lunch. The dal (thick bean soup) was good and the coffee tasted excellent. I was told that I’m in the vicinity of Roerich gallery, Roerich was a russian artist, he lived and worked here. Unfortunately the gallery was already closed by the time I found it.

The region looked very European, the tops of the visible peaks were covered in pine forests and around me were hundreds of apple trees. This area is famous for it’s apples, which it supplies to the rest of India. The local apple juice is sensational. At my first crossroad, I decided to follow the main road instead of veering off to the right up a very steep footpath. Within minutes I stumbled upon a group of people sorting apples in a makeshift tent. Without even asking they told me that I was going the wrong way, they offered themselves as guides, I refused the kind offer and after some minutes they instructed me to go back and take the steep track that I saw just minutes ago. Obviously I wasn’t the first tourist in the area, thanks for the advice and may your harvest be a good one!

The steep little path felt even steeper than it looked, it was basically a dry creek bed, with a little used path next to it. Within minutes I had to take a break, I was out of breath, sweating and not really enjoying the climb. Three more days of this and I might be even used to it. As I sat there contemplating whether it was a good idea to go into the mountains at all, a woman of about 25 caught up with me. I’ve seen her before in the previous village, we had a chat. It turned out that she was from Rumsu, the next village on my path. At first I though she was inviting me to stay with her family, later it turned out she was just advising me that I can find accommodation in her village. Apparently some of the locals do take tourist on as paying guests.

I watched her walk off up the mountain, one thing that struck me was the way she tackled the climb. Her movements were limited to a minimum, no waving arms, jumping from rock to rock nor large unnecessary steps. She moved slowly and methodically, placing one foot in front of the other in small steps, taking large breaths and persistently winding up the path in a zigzag fashion. Excellent way to go especially at higher altitudes. I must have been somewhere between 2000 and 2500 meters above sea level, and the air was a little thinner than the air that I was used to. I followed her lead and even though I could not keep up with her (only because I had a backpack, was mine reasoning) I seemed to make much better progress.

It was getting close to 5 p.m. when I staggered into Ramsu, the village the woman told me about. Pretty little place but I didn’t really pay much attention to it, my mind was preoccupied with finding accommodation. I didn’t fancy spending the night in the forest, not unless it’s absolutely necessary, I think the nights here could get pretty cold. At the third house that I passed, a man appeared in the doorway and with very good English asked me if I was looking for a place to stay. The answer was an overwhelming “Yes”, and after a little negotiating we arrived at the princely sum of 50 Rupees (US$1 = 40 Rupees) for a nights sleep. I was not sure where I was going to sleep but wherever it was going to be, it was going to be better than in the forest.

Deepak, as my landlord was called, was a Hindu. This was his family home, he shared it with his younger brother and his family. Each couple occupied one room. Deepak and his wife were childless, this is unusual for India, but I didn’t want to inquire as to the reason, assuming that it was natures choice rather than their own. To make a little extra cash and meet some foreigners he dabbled in the tourist business. As a host he was unparalleled, within minutes of my arrival he told me the (shortened) history of the village, his family and village life in this area. He also invited me to have dinner with his family, I declined wanting to use up some of my own supplies.

Deepak’s house was a wooden two-story one, the bottom part was divided into three parts. One part served as a cowshed, the second a firewood storage area and the third was an apple storage room. Deepak like all good farmers in the area had an apple orchard. The second story was encircled by a veranda, and it consisted of the two bedrooms and a kitchen. Like all buildings in the area the house was covered with unique to this area roof tiles made of chiselled out rock and the size of a standard western roof tile. Later, when I had a stroll through the village, it occurred to me that Deepak’s house was very common to the area, if anything it was a little on the small side.

There wasn’t much of a garden around the house, on one side there was some sort of a pulse crop and the other two sides were overgrown by weeds. Weeds in this area being mainly marihuana plants. We spent the whole evening on the veranda talking, drinking chai and admiring the scenery. Well after sunset I suggested that maybe I should get some sleep and asked Deepak where should I spend the night. To my horror he informed me that he and his wife have moved out of their room onto the veranda and I’ll take their bed for the night. I was stunned, not really wanting to deprive my host of a bed I suggested that perhaps I should spend the night on the veranda and he can keep his bed. He was not going to hear of it. I’m the guest and as such I’ll be treated like one. It was useless arguing, so I thanked him and retired to my suite.

The room was drab but I wasn’t complaining. It consisted of two cupboards, one containing clothes and the other smaller one had a jug of milk, collected from their two dwarf cows. The cows here are about the size of ponies and give little over 2 kilos of milk each. I think they collect the milk for a couple of days and then sell it. Thinking of cows, pulse crops, steep mountain tracks, wild marihuana plants and my hosts freezing outside my door I fell into blissful sleep.

I got up early the next morning eager to get a move on. The nights sleep was good by I woke up with large bites all over my body. Deepak informed me that there is only one way to go and that’s “up, up, and up”. Apparently there is some sort of a path marked out and it’s hard to get lost, within a couple of hours I should stumble upon some tents higher up that take tourists in. Hmmm... No travel agent mentioned this to me and infact there was no mention of it in the travel books either. Another piece of advice was to go “slowly, slowly”. Ok, “slowly, slowly” it is.

I had to walk through the village once again. Nice quite place, soon I was in the forest. The track was steep, and to make things worse it was muddy and very slippery, the morning dew had not yet evaporated. At times I was on all fours, it must have looked hilarious to the locals that passed me now and then. I decided to approach the walk (or rather climb) in a systematic fashion; work hard for half an hour and rest for 10 minutes. Repeat this process until you either cannot walk anymore or you find a place for the night, the later being the more preferable option.

After about 2 hours of climbing, I found myself in a paddock. All around me were many clues as to the recent presence of cows in the area. I decided to have an early lunch. As I was sitting there and gathering my motivation to go on, I saw someone climbing towards me with a backpack even larger than my own. This turned out to be a porter from a tourist group that started out this very morning and was about an hour behind me. All my worries about getting lost in the mountains disappeared. In the worst case I will be able to tag along with these people. Surely they will not allow me to die or get lost in the mountains? We had a quick chat and moved on together.

It’s so much easier to walk with someone else, especially when they lead. The hardest thing I found in that first day was setting myself a pace that would not kill me. You have to go “slowly, slowly” otherwise you run out of breath and you have to stop. Once you stop it takes a lot of motivation to get going again. Within an hour we found a couple of tents in the forest, the porter told me that there is a better place to stay, only another hours walk away. He kept on going and I had some watered down chai.

After my chai break the climb didn't get any easier. Looking back I could see the tourist group approaching the tents I've just left. I really didn't want them to catch up so I accelerated, only to loose my breath. Another hours climb got me to another paddock, soon I found the tents that I've heard about. I was told to go to the last one on the left, this wasn't hard to do since there was only 3 of them.

These tents are called “Camp Cafes” because as it turns out you can find food, drink as well as accommodation in them. My new host turned out to be a villager from Naggar who spends half a years here in the mountains putting up tourists like myself. I made use of his stove and after polishing off half of my food I perched myself at the entrance to the tent to await the arrival of the tour group.

They arrived within an hour. All together it was two westerners with 3 locals, a cook , a porter (that I have already met) and a tour leader. They carried their own supplies and tents, which they pitched close to by. We acknowledged each others existance with a nod, and I went back to my tent for some hard earned R&R.

The tent was a decent size with a stove in the middle that doubled up as a heater at night. I sat up for hours drinking chai and talking to my host and a parade of his friends that kept on dropping by till well after sunset. At about 11pm I layed down in the hope of getting some shuteye. The bites that I acquired the previous night started itching, scratching them only made matters worse, after hours of ferocious scratching, tossing and turning I managed to fall asleep.

Breakfast that I ordered the previous night was served in bed. All I had to do was eat. I inspected the bites that kept me awake the previous night. I had more bites than I realized, my waist was covered with them. Although they were not itchy at the time I knew as soon as night time comes around I will suffer again, I can still feel the pain of it as I write this. They weren’t bedbugs, bedbugs leave lines of bites about a centimetre apart all over your body. These were only concentrated around my waist. It must have been fleas, and I have picked them up in the village, I should have insisted on sleeping outside on that first night. My concern was that I was the carrier spreading this vermin around the hotels that I’ll be staying in. I decided that as soon as I get back to Manali I’ll have to either wash everything that I have or simply throw it out.

Soon after breakfast I hit the track again. My shadows, the tour group was still in their tents. This was fine by me, I was going to have the whole place to myself. The going was much easier that day, the track was much flatter, within the first hour I broke through the tree line and found myself navigating through rocky paddocks. I could see the surrounding peaks, some of them exceeding 6000 meters, most of the higher ones were covered with last-years snow. The view was magnificent even though it was interrupted with the occasional cloud or two.

Soon I stumbled upon another chai tent. I made use of it, I could see there was much less people and cows in this area and the gods only know when the next opportunity is going to arise. It was a refreshing break, I felt I was getting used to this trekking business, I was really enjoying the scenery, the fresh air, the solitude, the beautiful mountain flowers, the challenge. Apparently it was only another 2 hours to Chandrakani Pass, after which it is all down hill. The thought of a downhill run spurred me on even more, I payed for my chai and moved on.

As they said, the pass was easy enough to find. A trail of lolly wrappers lead the way. I think it is the locals that actually rubbish their own mountains. From the tourists that I’ve spoken to, everyone seemed to be very environmentally conscious, including myself. I’ve been keeping my rubbish in my backpack, which was a little annoying because it did have a habit of spilling out of its weak plastic bag and mingling with the relatively clean contents of my pack. I decided to deposit my rubbish at one of the larger villages along the way in the hope that they have some sort of rubbish disposal system other than tipping it down the side of a mountain. As it turned out I carried my banana peels, the smelly fish can and a couple of other pieces of off-putting trash back to Manali with me.

Looking around from the top of the Chandrakani Pass I had a feeling of achievement, the toils of the last two days were already forgotten. It wasn’t exactly the top of the world but to me it was close enough. I sat for a while admiring the surrounding peaks, ate my last chocolate bar and wondered about the road ahead. Like in many places in the world people had a habit of stacking up rocks on the side of the path. I added a few of mine own and toped it off with my hat that I bought in Manali. It was totally useless to me, but a passing local might make use of it, a gift to the gods of the mountains and hopefully an appreciated present to one of the locals.

On the other side of the pass, maybe 200 meters below was another tent. It belonged to a peasant from Malana, in other words my destination for the day. The man was friendly and offered me a cup of chai which I graciously accepted. I’ve heard and read strange things about these people, apparently you cannot touch them or any of their property. They consider all outsiders dirty and by touching their belonging you contaminate them. When they pass things to outsiders (anyone from outside of their village) they place them on the ground or a table. Only then can you pick them up. In this way the object in question is never touched by both parties at the same time and supposedly never gets contaminated. To my great surprise the man handed me the cup of chai directly into my hand. There was a couple of other people hanging around the tent, as it turned out they were labourers on their way back home to Naggar. Malana was in the process of building a new temple and they hired workers from surrounding villages to help with the construction. I found out it was only 2 hours to Malana. With high spirits I took off.

The path was steep and lead thorough a valley wedged between two peaks. It was quite and the sun was frighteningly strong. I was getting burnt. The vegitation was green and rich, both sides of the coulour were covered with mountain flowers. Sometimes I passed a group of locals heading the other way, it way pointless asking how far the village is because they either didn’t speak English or it was just around the next corner. The climb down was getting to me, but since the village was close I finished my water.

The path was covered with loose stones which were either slippery, even when dry, or they would wobble or slide when you stepped them. It was impossible to tell how a given rock was going to behave until you actually landed on it. I would often frantically wave my arms to keep my balance or simply fall on my back. The backpack did a good job cushioning my fall. My knees started hurting and after a while I could feel all my leg muscles. Down in the valley I could see an enclosure with a couple of cows. I made it my target for an afternoon break. I didn’t even make it half way before I collapsed with exhaustion. My legs were really aching and there was no sign of the terrain easing up. I contemplated sliding down the path but the rocks were too sharp and they would have certainly shredded my pack like razorblades. I got some water from the stream that I crossed a number of times on the way down. The water seemed clean but I used my purification tables just in case.

The scenery was quickly loosing it’s appeal. My concern was getting down the mountain before night fall, and even though it was just after lunch, I knew that the second part of the day was going to be very difficult. My numb legs were refusing to listen to instructions. When landing on rocks I often locked my knees in their reverse position. This way frightening, what if I tear a ligament, or even worse break a leg? Who’s going to hear my cries? Who’s going to help? Having no choice, I continued on my way. Slippery rock after slippery rock. It was a good hour before I reached the cow enclosure. I was deluding myself that this will the outskirts of the village. It was the only way I could fool myself into carring on.

There was no shepherds nor cows in the enclosure. I sat around for a long while, contemplating my situation. As expected, the only choice was to keep going. It too late to turn back. With a heavy heart and even heavier pack I got to my feet again. Another hour of sliding down the steep and rocky path and I hit a level path that looked like it was often frequented.

Soon I was overtaken by a couple of local women, carrying wooden beams the size of railway sleepers. No words were exchanged, I let them pass. Good sign, these women cannot be far from their village, not with these beams, I though. Within minutes I was overtaken by a group of local men. Surprisingly they did not carry anything apart from a couple of small items. Once again, no words were exchanged, and I let them pass me. As strange as it seems, that is the way a lot of the world works. Women rear kids, look after their men and perform hard physical labour. The difference in this community was that the women pick their partners. Changing partners is common, when a woman is dissatisfied with her man, she can approach another and marry him. Until she changes for another partner. Interesting. This approach would save a lot of grief in our society.

Nick Mleczko (8/98)

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