There & Back Again

In the space of a day we’ve traveled from the desert dunes of Pushkar to the freezing mountain slopes of Himalaya in the northern region of Himachel Pradesh. I’m tempted to deviate from flowing prose here to express my excitement at being in the Himalayas, one of my lifelong dreams; albeit not the desired crystal heavens of Everest, we’re still several thousand feet up, surrounded by spectacular views of rich green flora—oak, birch, spruce and pine coating the rises, framed by monstrous grey snow-spattered peaks piercing the azure sky. It may be annoyingly cold (it’s probably no colder than back home in Manchester, but due to the lack of double glazing and central heating the chill bites like a bitch), but the air is so refreshingly clear after the gritty smog of our previous layovers, carrying the sweet aroma of the local tea fields and lofty evergreens. It’s quite the paradise.

Thursday afternoon we were straddled, legs akimbo, my chinos close to tearing at the crotch, over a herd (or the correct zoological term) of camels. These weren’t, however, your regular Arabian excursion giddy-ups, not the horse sized beasts I rode as a child in Tunisia—these were fucking monsters! Towering a good eight feet off the ground, lurching and stumbling, ass clenched on the saddle and feet taut against the stirrups, I finally found comfort with the rocky pace and began to counteract and shift my weight in synchronicity with the camel’s muscular strides. Over three hours we made our way out of the town of Pushkar, from where we’d arrived by train from Jaipur that morning, and lumbered laboriously into the wilderness of the Thar desert; the initial panic perching atop the grizzly beasts slipping into a meditative sway as we casually chased twilight.

Upon arriving at our designated camping area around dusk, we decanted our bags into the triangular tents provided and layered up with all we could as the sun’s absence invited a biting chill across the dunes. Soon after, as the stars began to shyly take their places on the stage of the sky, steaming bowls of delicious dal, spiced potatoes and toasted chapattis were served, a campfire sparked and a truly magical evening initiated.

Huddled round the fire we shared stories and swapped dirty admissions with childish amusement as we sneakily supped from a disguised bottle of vodka—the typical fare that often prevails in such situations. The topic of conversation always gravitates in the same general direction—sexual deviances, illegal pursuits, debauchery often exaggerated for the sake of storytelling and the like, but it’s never for lack of entertainment, and is usually as easily forgotten as it was told.

We smoke, sang, teased, laughed and gradually descended into slurring. At one point Daniel and I stumbled near-blind into the dark in search of more firewood, a failed endeavour upon which the return journey I tripped, landing face first in a patch of sticky devilish desert buds, labeled rather appropriately by the locals as ‘Saddam Husseins’; the term proving accurate as I spent the next hour delicately prising the prickly bastards from the fibres of my clothes. Finishing the vodka and the firewood, we bid one another good night and retired to our tents, two of which had been invaded by cheeky dogs that guiltily slunk out amid a chorus of girls screams and everyone else’s hysterics.

I slept surprisingly well. Waking at seven I peered out between the flaps of the tent as the grunting camels were being saddled for our return journey, chewing and drooling their regurgitated breakfast as ours was simultaneously served. A couple of energising cups of chai (I’ve fallen in love with this wonderful ginger infused refresher) and we hopped back on the camels, with slightly more grace than the previous day, as the camp was dismantled behind us and the rising sun leaked over the jagged hilltops before us. With a lurch and a gargle, our hardworking, flea-riddled escorts lugged us back to Pushkar, leaving our drawn-out shadows and a unique experience in our wake.

The next step in the adventure was quite a daunting one—a sixteen hour sleeper train journey from Pushkar to Chakki Bank in the far reaches of the north, from where we traveled a further four hours by minibus to the town of Palampur. Visions of ‘Slumdog Millionaire’ packed carriages, passengers clinging to the roof, vermin scarpering between the legs of the seats and stuffy, dirty bunks crammed together filled our heads. Thankfully, the experience proved to be far more luxurious than our imaginations had led us to expect. The sleeper carriages are divided into booths of two padded benches facing each other, suited to fit three people each, above which are two fold-down cots on either side, providing three-tiered bunks to sleep six people in each booth. Despite the claustrophobic lack of head room, the persistent murmur of other passengers and the hum of the rolling train—it was far from a tragic journey. I’ve had far worse sleeps on planes.

By pure circumstance (well actually due to a booking mix-up with tickets) the boys ended up in the next carriage along from the girls, but Anand was kind enough to mind our bags, and put up with the raucous co-habitants of our booth (Indian ‘lads on tour’) so we could relax as a full group, with a friendly neighbouring Sikh family. Apart from an incident with a cockroach that had Faye hopping about in fear, and consequently the Sikhs in stitches, and a tiny mouse that persisted in scuttling about beneath my bunk all night, the journey passed steadily and the sixteen hours elapsed comfortably. It was, notwithstanding, quite a shock to the system when we disembarked in Himachel Pradesh at six in the morning to be acquainted with a crucifying cold that we endured for the following few hours as we journeyed to Palampur, praying for the rising sun to heat the frosty van.

Huddled under sleeping bags we weaved and snaked along the gradually narrowing mountain roads, occasionally dicing with death in the form of an oncoming bus or a stray cow mindlessly stepping into our path. The tense journey was rewarded as we pulled up to our accommodation and bore witness to the devastating panoramas—the stark drop to a boulder filled gorge below, cupped by rolling forested peaks before us, and behind us the snow-veined collosi of the Himalayan summits dominating the sky. My words fail to effectively describe the beauty of this place. We blanketed up, suffered the tedious rigmarole of camp orientation (same old) and went in search of local activities, of which we discovered, besides trawling the village bazaar (which sold little else but shawls and silks) and miscellaneous walks, there were none. Palampur has little, it would appear, to offer the long-term visitor in winter. So for two days we’ve whiled away the hours reading, eating, trekking the nearby hills and huddling together under layers of quilts watching films in an attempt to combat the ridiculous cold.

Tomorrow me, Matt, Daniel, Evie and Anand will be transferring to the spiritual Mecca of Daramsala for a few days whilst Becky and Faye remain in Palampur to do some volunteering. To be honest, considering the likely ensuing boredom, I don’t envy them.