There & Back Again

Since the Chinese communist takeover of Tibet in 1949, an estimated over 1.2 million of the population have died through brutal repression and forced starvation (although the Chinese Communist Party disputes this). More than 250,00 Tibetan refugees have fled their homeland over hundreds of miles of treacherous Himalayan terrain to seek sanctuary, under the leadership of the Dalai Lama, in India.

Dharamsala, or more specifically the village of McLeod Ganj (around 4km north of the grubby market town of Lower Dharamsala) is both home to his holiness and the headquarters of the Tibetan government in exile. It’s also a pretty popular stop on the backpacking route; budding Buddhists (sorry) and those of a spiritual disposition travel from the far corners of the world to listen to the teachings of the Dalai Lama and absorb the fusion of displaced culture in the cute little ridge-straddled town.

It was cold. It was bloody cold. My Indian tanning regime is on a temporary hiatus; I was not prepared for such chilly conditions. Our ‘penthouse’ hotel room boasted a host of comforting features: single pane windows that didn’t seal properly; no running water (in the mornings at least—you know, when you fancy a wash); too few curtains so anybody walking past (as a confused Chinese couple did) could see straight in; no towels; no soap; unclean bedsheets and one dismal florescent bulb to illuminate the entire ‘apartment’. It was no Hilton, but we did at least have HBO!

It was HBO that just about saved us. The problem we found with McLeod Ganj was that once the sun went down and the cafes closed, there’s little else to do. And even if there was, it’s so painfully cold (granted in all fairness we hardly had the appropriate attire, but you try fitting a winter coat into a backpack), the only thing you want to do is snuggle up in front of the TV.

After arriving in the village Matt, Daniel, Evie and I went in search of a lunch that didn’t consist of the routine ‘dhal and chapatti’ whilst Anand tried to sort the hotel booking error that consequently landed us our luxury pad. For the first time in two weeks (quite a feat for me) I treated myself to meat and a ridiculously overpriced Corona (it was worth it). So far, since arriving in India, I’ve barely smoked, drank or eaten meat. I’m not yet sure if I feel better for it, but regardless, that will all change once we hit the bars and beaches of Goa next week. After lunch we visited the ‘Dalai Lama Temple’ which thanks to Lonely Planet I now realise is called the ‘Tsuglagkhang Complex’ (try pronouncing that after a few Sambucas). Now, either we missed parts of it, or I simply didn’t find it all that impressive. It was a bit of a mess—sheets and drink cartons strewn all over the expanse of floor mats, hardly the grand shrine I’d expected. We did later discover that the Dalai Lama himself was actually in town (which turns out to be quite rare considering he is, after all, a jet setting country leader) for a Russian public teaching, hence the reason why the temple was still in the state of being cleared after that morning’s exodus of spectators and students.

Exploiting the remaining hours of sunlight we took in every inch of the town, all two or three streets of it. Besides the cafes we took advantage of for free Wi-Fi, and the stalls and boutiques taking advantage of tourist wallets, pawning off all sorts of shitty prayer wheels, beads, bracelets and tacky Dalai Lama paraphernalia at obscene prices, there was little else to do, besides shivering under a stinky blanket watching True Lies and Rambo.

The following day was much the same. We visited a waterfall that was little more than a feeble trickle, though I’m sure would be an impressive torrent in  monsoon season, then crag hopped and clambered along the boulder-laden riverbed like giddy children before retiring to a cafe. We sampled ‘Mo Mo’, a tasty Tibetan snack similar to vegetarian dumplings crossed with spring rolls, and before dark sought sanctuary once again in the room, with our friend HBO.

My regular exercise routine consists of nothing more than the daily ten minute walk between my flat, work, the local and on odd occasions I might bravely venture a little farther to the cinema or a restaurant on the other side of town. I am extremely unfit. But a streak of male pride demands that I uptake certain physical challenges, like Wednesday’s 10km trek, with an arrogant zeal. With a stomach full of porridge (I can’t stand porridge but beans on toast wasn’t on the menu) I shouldered my bag and took point with our trekking guide (whose name escapes me now). Ten kilometers is indeed child’s play, but combine it with a 4000ft ascent and your thighs will later tell a different story. To any of the regular rambling readers who may scoff, I must remind you that in light of my poor fitness I may as well have been climbing Everest.

Through the day we picked our way over rocky paths through mixed forests of deodar, oak and rhododendron; the rooftops of McLeod Ganj and Bhagsunag turned to Lego and the only sounds to be heard over our panting were the rustles in the scrub and the gentle breeze through the canopy above. As we climbed over cols and tors, the terrain grew ragged and steeper, forcing us on to all-fours at some points; the trees and the air began to thin, exposing startling views and sheer vertigo-inducing drops. Eagles soared alongside us, gracefully navigating the zephyrs, and we began to draw an entourage of dogs like some Pied Pipers of the Himalayan hounds. A persistent bunch even escorted us all the way to our destination at 3000m—these stoic companions we affectionately named Rambo, Sneezy (I’ve never seen a dog sneeze so much—it was hilarious), Shitty Arse and Bitch (incidentally the bitch of the pack). Besides accompanying us to the top, the dogs provided entertainment, braved the harsh mountain winds of the night and chauffeured us back down the following day.

When we did reach our summit by mid-afternoon, my legs were shot, but it was completely worth it. I don’t possess the vocabulary to do it justice. Atop the ridge we owned the world; besides our guides, the dogs and a few gliding eagles, nothing else existed. There was no sound, nothing. Only the silent dominance of the eve- reaching peaks behind us and thousands of feet to civilisation below us. We barely spoke—there was no need to. We opened the run-down lodge that was to be our shelter for the night (it was too cold for tents), brewed up some chai and each found our own little meditative spots in the tranquility. I absorbed myself in a book, as I usually do, but at one point stopped in the silence to fully absorb the beauty of the moment—haze and a veil of cloud had washed in like a tide around our little crest of mountaintop, obscuring the foothills from view; through the cold, thin air the sun burned down—I was on an island in the sky.

I’ve never eaten as quickly as I did that evening, it was disgusting. The cold was attacking in full force, carried by a growing wind. By half six we abandoned the fire and leaped into bed—I wore long johns under my chinos, a t-shirt, shirt, sweater and shawl, curled up in a sleeping bag under a duvet. The lodge was no great barrier against the elements, but combined with the layers of insulation and the exhaustion of the day, sleep found its way quite easily, and the next thing I knew the sun was rising over the mountains in the east and steaming chai was being served. The dogs had somehow survived, and so had we!

It may have been the compounded effect of the previous day’s exertion, but the journey back down took its toll, more than expected. Our aching thighs and calves and shattered knees stumbled, staggered and slid over crude paths of rock and shale; I swore I was going to break an ankle, but we did eventually make it back to Dharamsala unscathed, save a few blisters. The guides, and eventually the dogs, abandoned us and we marched a further 5km, adding insult to injury, to meet our lift (who had been trapped in the traffic of a political demonstration in Lower Dharamsala) to escort the bunch of weary travel-worn adventurers back to join the rest of the group in Palampur.

The result of having had no water at our fabulous hotel and two days trekking was that I smelled awful. Greasy hair, cracked lips, my face caked in dry sweat and dust, my shirt drenched and my sweater reeking of campfire smoke. Don’t get me started on my socks (even my dad, renowned for his formidable foot odour, would be repulsed). After rectifying four days lack of self-hygiene I felt like a new man, ate like a starved child and slept like a rock I’d climbed over that very morning.