From Dharamasala to Amritsar: Max and I embark on our own adventure

So this entry is sort of continued from the previous one.

It begins with Freya, Devon, Max and I travelling by minibus from Manali to Dharamsala. We drove through the mountains, through forests, fog, past army stations guarded by ghurkas, past fluttering Tibetan temples, past elephants that carried logs along the roadside. We drove higher and higer, until we reached the predominantlyTibetan settlement of Dharamsala and McCloed Ganj Dharamasala means ‘safe haven’, and when Tibetans escape China, it is usually the place they escape to. It was so different to Manali; the whole place was shrouded in fog, buddhist prayer flags fluttering in the trees and the streets filled with monks and tibetan people in traditional dress. The four of us decided to take a rickshaw to Bhagsu, a small town a few minutes from McCloed Ganj. We managed to find a guesthouse after heaving our bags around some very steep foggy streets for an hour. Freya and I found a cosy little place with a veranda overlooking the valley down a few winding alleyways and set back in a little garden. We unpacked and wrapped up warm in all the layers we could find. The sky was fairly clear now, but the Israeli travellers living next door to us told us it had been the first time they had seen blue sky for days. It really had been the perfect day to travel, then.

Freya and I headed out to find some food, and a little while later bumped into Max and Devon on the street. Max had one hand in the air, after hearing the story of a Baba who did it for 14, and still feeling as if we had quite a bit of energy after the journey, we headed out with Devon’s guitar to find a jam.

Bhagsu was very similar to Manali in the generic hippy shops and traveller cafes, and we soon found a travellers hang out where we made friends with Jaye, a girl from England and Stef, a cockney geezah who we soon renamed Teeth due to his ability to open bottles with his teeth. These guys were to become our Bhagsu crew and the rest of the week was a happy one.

We spent the days exploring the area, climbing high into the misty hills, exploring down into the bustling market town of McCloed Ganj. Traditionally dressed Tibetans filled the streets, monks wandered between bleating goats and when the rains finally returned, we would spend long afternoons huddled in Three of Life, a cost traveller café where we would drink mint tea and play scrabble, looking out at the rain. It was so nice to be cozy again.

Max and I discovered we had a similar love for writing and started spending lots of time together working on ideas for stories...One day, we decided to visit the Tibetan Museum, It was so moving. There was barely anything there. The Chinese have destroyed so much Tibetan culture and so many of their artifacts there was nothing left to show except for a few rusty shackles and singed pieces of beautifully scripted paper. I couldn't believe the human rights atrocities being carried out by the Chinese at this very moment and the extend to which the EU and the west are willing to ignore it to protect their own economy. I was moved to tears time and time again, and it was so hard to walk past the beggars that lined the streets outside. Most of them had no hands or feet, the result of frostbite from the journey here through the mountains. That day, Max and I also visited the Dalai Lamas residence, where we did a pilgrimage around the huge Buddhist Temple. By the afternoon we climbed to the top of a rooftop restaurant in the town nearby and tucked into some much-missed Momo’s: the very taste of Nepal. It was quite a novelty to eat lunch sat in a cloud.

Dharamsala is one of the wettest places in India, but it was so nice to be cost again and the gang of us spent lots of time cuddled up in jumpers in the open air veggie cafe, looking out at the rain, drinking cups of tea and playing scrabble. It was lovely. As the week went on we became so close. Devon and Max made me crease constantly, they are such a funny pair...They always knew when to crack out the guitar or break into some 'full power' dancing. One day me Devon and Max spent the day in McCleod Ganj in the nicest coffee shop, having a heated discussion about books and literature and the universe. I'm so glad we met them when we did. Moreover, Max had been discussing with me for a while his idea of going to work on an organic farm. From the start, I had been desperately excited about the notion of doing such a thing, but hadn’t wanted to tag along on his plan. One evening, as we all sat relaxing in front of a film in the German Bakery, I was reading to him from a book he had bought me called ‘The Alchemist’, and he turned to me and said, “Come with me.” Suddenly everything just seemed to fit, and after spending the night walking to the top of a mountain together and watching the sun rise over the valley, we made a pinkie swear that was the way it would be.

Our last couple of days together with Freya and Devon were the best by a long way. We had a party every night, keeping up half of our guesthouse, and stayed up for days on end mucking about, singing, dancing, playing the funniest games, exploring the hills and the valley and enjoying our group for the last time. It suddenly was the end of the road for me and Freya, and I just couldn’t believe we would be leaving one another. On the last night we were all together we went for a huge sit down nut roast at the Tree of Life. We stayed there late into the night jamming and singing to each other. When we all launched into a rousing rendition of ‘Don't look back in anger’ I felt like crying. That last night we stayed up all night playing games in me and Freya’s guesthouse, and in the morning Max and I finally got our bags together to leave.

As we sat eating breakfast I couldn’t even swallow. Max and Devon were hugging each other and telling each other how much they loved each other but Freya and I just sat in silence. We knew the way it was, and we didn’t need words any more. We had been sharing a bed for 10 weeks, and it was finally the end of the road. Devon and Max would be seeing each other in a few months, but for Freya and I, this could be the end for a very long time. She was staying on the road for a good two years after India, and I had uni…Suddenly I couldn’t bear it, and we hugged and hugged and cried and cried and finally it was time for me and Max to leave for our bus. As we walked off down the road tears were rolling down my cheeks and Freya shouted after me to “Always wear your boots when your digging!” Now, it was just the two of us, off on our own adventure, and after a week of fun, relaxing, hedonism and sing songs in Bhagsu, we were back on the road. First we were planning on heading to Amritsar near the Indian border and then to the Rock Garden in Chandigarh. Finally, then, we would head to our Organic Farm.

We took a local bus down from the mountains and away from the cooler weather. I had forgotten how hot the rest of India was, and I was glad I hadn’t bought too many warm clothes after all. As we descended, the landscape began to change dramatically. The mountains flattened out into arid bush, and the forests disappeared. Before we knew it, we were driving through dusty cities strewn with cows, litter, traffic washing strung between narrow rows of houses....scrubby grassland cut through with dusty highways, palm trees and desert, mud hut villages and children flying kites from the rooftops. The prayer flags disappeared and the landscapes were suddenly strewn with temples and shrines. The bus journey took us deep into the heart of Punjab, where sword wielding men with huge moustaches were the order of the day.

As we drove down the busy highway we passed a huge metal sign that was nearly rusted away, upon which peeling metal letters spelt out "WELCOME TO PUNJAB". It looked like something out of a horror movie and I suddenly missed the mountains. We were heading to a city called Pathankot, where we would be able to take a train, but as we neared the city, we realized we had no idea where to get off the bus. The bus driver looked at us blankly when we tried to explain, but in our panic, a nice Indian man told us he was going to the train station too and told us we could get off together. When we finally pulled in to a dusty car park of a military style train station, I swallowed hard. Struggling off the bus with our bags, I forgot how starey the rest of northern India is. EVERYONE was looking at us. But in particular me. They really don’t have any concept of subtlety, and as we dragged ourselves to the train station platform I could feel myself getting irritable already. It was so hot, I had forgotten how intense it could be, and we had barely slept the night before because of our guesthouse party. It was my first day of non-smoking in months and I was so hungry, had such a huge bag on my back, and ....well, I was just out of practice I suppose.

Max and I dropped ourselves down on a platform bench that wasn’t completely covered in flies and had 2 hours to wait for our train, it ended up being the most intense wait so far. Crowds of men were gathering around to gawp at me, at us, and at the fact that I was writing in a notepad. When I stared back or said ‘Namaste,’ they didn’t even acknowledge me, just stared even harder. It was so hard to know where to look. When hoardes of people are stood staring at you, laughing at you, from as close as about 2 foot away, and won’t even respond to your questions…what can you do? It took every ounce of patience not to lose my rag, and finally I lost it when a whol gang of boys began breathing down my neck, staring and laughing at my diary.

They really have NO respect for women. The men I shouted at would just come back a minute later guffawing and staring even more. Elderly men, respectable looking people (with ridiculous moustaches), even women, they all did it. It was like being in a zoo, and really, it was just the hardest 2 hour wait of my life.

The train journey was max's first train journey EVER. I couldn't believe it! And it was a pretty interesting one to be fair. We managed to find our seats and get the Indians to move put of them, and for the next 5 hours we hung our heads out of the window, watching the most incredible Punjabi countryside sweep past. The diversity in India is just unbelievable, and describing it won't do it justice. Just a day ago we were atop misty mountains looking out at the snowy peaks of the Himalayas and now we were here. Where temples sat atop lakes like mirrors, mud hut villages flickered past with paddy fields...the world flashed by, and the two of us spent a long time discussing our own little parts of it. Max told me all about San Francisco where he was born and I told him about Bristol, Worcester, my family...It was so weird to hear about America and I never realized quite how much I wanted to go there until now.

When we arrived in Amritsar we really were in India again. It felt like a million miles from Dharamsala...we took a rickshaw through the crazy congested streets, chock full of horses puling carts, people wielding swords, chai wallahs, rickshaw wallahs, everything you could ever dream of wallahs, litter, cows, noise, food, people, smoke.....The rickshaw dropped us a short way from the Golden Temple and the walk towards it was epic. Carrying our bags through crowds of pilgrims, the temple was huge and lit up against an electric pink and blue sunset...the turrets all around it boomed with Indian chanting and all around us people were touching their heads to the floor in prayer. I will remember that moment for a long time. The two of us just stood there awestruck, as thousands of people around us prayed. The serenade of prayer boomed out across the marbled floor, and the for the first time in a week, we watched the fierce sun begin to set.

The temple provides free beds and food to pilgrims because Sikhs are fantastic like that, so we made our way to the dorms and found ourselves a place for the night. The pilgrim dorms turned out to be so full we had to try and squeeze into a gap between the wall and a door, but finally we heard that for just 100rs a night you could actually pay for a room…with air conditioning! So Max went and organized it, although to begin with, they wouldn’t give him a room on the basis that he was white. The racism here is just unbelievable, and it’s quite an experience to be an ethnic minority for once. It’s an experience I think everyone should have, because when we finally managed to persuade them to let us stay we were SO grateful to flop down on our bed, after 15 hours on the road.

So, now I am in Amritsar. We have been here for a couple of days now, exploring the town, exploring the temple, eating for free in the huge temple dining halls...The Golden Temple is set floating in the middle of a lake, with white marble buildings surrounding it on every side. On entering, you wash your feet and cover your head, have a few photographs taken with some Indian families (this isn’t traditional, but seems to happen constantly). Its stunning, in the evening we wandered around the Temple in the fading heat of the day, watching the sky fade to dark as the lights of the temple began to reflect on the water. Sikhs bathe on the steps all around, and Max and I spent hours sitting on the cool marble floor, talking to other pilgrims, being questioned about our countries of origin. There is something fantastic about Sikhs that I can’t quite put my finger on, but the way they spoke to us always seemed to respectful and curious. Plus they all get a sword, and isn’t that just the coolest thing in the world?

The pilgrim dining hall is probably the most organized place I've been in India so far. It runs 24 hours a day, 365 days a year (even Christmas! Hoho) Firstly, you queue up with hundreds of pilgrims and get given a thali plate, then you file into this gigantic hall, where everybody sits along the floor in lines, holding their plates out in front of them. Men run along the lines pouring curry into everyone’s dishes at quite an unimaginable speed. You refill as many times as you want and eat until you are full, before the whole process starts over again, it’s incredible!

It has been such a funny trip so far, and Max and I make a pretty formidable team. Spending the col evenings walking around the temple laughing like lunatics we have been spending the daytimes walking about Amritsar. It’s a crazy place. Incredibly busy and incredibly Indian. The streets were so dusty and loud te other day that we had to retreat to a chain café we had spotted earlier. To begin with we had refused to go in such a commercialized place, but as soon as we stepped in the door the aid conditioning hit us and it was bliss. We settled down upstairs away from the staring and spent the whole afternoon working on my story together. It was strange to be sat in a place that felt so much like Starbucks when outside life was moving at the pace of an ancient city.

This morning we checked out of the pilgrim hostel, and now we are awaiting our coach to Chandigarh in an internet café. We heard that the hotels there are ridiculously expensive, so we are trying to organize a house to stay at through couch surfers. No luck thus far but here's hoping. So, next time I talk to you may be in a little while. After going to the sculpture garden tomorrow we will be making our way to Sirsa, the town nearest to the organic farm, and then trying to make our way there. I don't know what’s going to happen really, but I want to stay on the farm as long as possible. We will have to see what happens when we get there,

For weeks I've been procrastinating about how and when to come home. I really want to stay here longer but Matt's sister's wedding is no the 13th August. Apart from that though the only thing I have to come home for is Uni in October, should I really cut short one of the greatest experiences of my life just for a wedding? Much pondering needs to be done, and for the moment I assume there won't be any internet around for a while. We’re going to be living the good life, baby! Working hard on our organic farm every day and being paid with free food and a free bed. It's going to be amazing, and I can't wait. I really really can’t.

Old Manali

It’s been a mighty long time since I last wrong, and for that, I apologise. If truth be told I’m having so much fun and have met so many amazing people I’ve been having trouble putting pen to paper.

Well, the last time I wrote, I was in Pulga. Well, Pulga was incredible. It was like stepping back in time, and in a tiny hamlet where the forests whispered the changing weather and the sun over the mountains dictated the passing of the day, time suddenly came to life. I seemed to spend endless endless hours with my feet hanging from my bedroom window, paper on my lap, just staring out over the breathtaking valley and writing and writing. I would take long walks around the village, playing with children, sitting in dhabas drinking chai…I befriended some of the locals, an old Tibetan woman taught me to make fire…Freya and I befriended another Claire from Ireland and the three of us spent time wandering open-mouthed through the fairy forest. In the evenings we would relax with the other travellers among the cushions on the floor of our host family’s living area, playing with their baby, playing cards, listening to the forest outside come to life in the darkness. I could quite happily have stayed there to be honest. Something about the energy of that place was very unusual. I thought at the start it might be the altitude, because the whole time we were there I felt as though I was dizy, but in a good way, as if my head was just buzzing with all the sights of the place…And ideas came to me constantly, I started a new idea for a novel, and when I said to Freya how I felt she said she felt exactly the same. An old French man who had been hiking around the Pavarti Valley countless times told us, ‘that’s why they call it the fairy forest’. Apparently something about this place is magical, and I can definitely vouch for that. Watching the forest move as if it is alive, seeing the fireflies blinking around the waterfalls at night….In the middle of the forest is a sacred area of worship, and in it is the most ancient tree in the forest. The locals worship it, and one day some young people tried to cut it down. They were stopped by the locals, but over the course of the following weeks all of them were killed in mysterious accidents. Pulga definitely has the feeling of quiet legend about it.

I ended up staying for 5 nights in total, and by that point I finally felt it was time to get back on the road. Freya was keen to stay a little longer, So Irish Claire and myself decided to head back to Kasol together where we would wait another day for Freya. We managed to hitchhike our way back through the pavarti valley, and spent one last night at Tintin in Tibet – I promised the Didi we would come for one more night if she let us have a discount. That night, the world cup final saw the entire population of the village crowded into the local haunt, Bajus, and it was quite a spectacle to behold. The bar was so thick with chillum smoke and so full of Israelis I thought I was going to pass out, but we had fun nonetheless. The following morning we were reunited with Freya, and the three of us set off en route to Manali.

The journey was executed in style. We caught a public bus along some treacherous landslid roads to a dusty town called Bhunter, where we heaved our stuff past staring indians to enjoy a quick thali at the roadside. Then, we somehow managed to find the bus to Kullu, which we jumped on as it was driving away. It seems like we’re getting the hang of this! After arriving in Kullu we had to find another bus. This one was even more tricky. When we found it, it was so full there was nowhere to sit down. We couldn’t stay in Kullu, and hhad to be in Manali before nightfall, so we crammed our bags into the aisle and squished in on top of them. We endured about 2 hours of penetrating stares from the men around us and the drive to Manali began to take us into the night. I had no idea where we were, and was struggling to stay awake as the bus bumped me from side to side. Ever 5 minutes the conductor would climb over us for heaven knows what reason, and when I took my book out to write the entire bus seemed to turn around to watch how a woman was capable of using a pen. Hours later, we arrived and heaved our things onto the road battered and exhausted.

Manali was not what I had imagined: everyone had described it as a lovely mountain town, that years ago, had been just the same as Pulga. Now, we were stood in a concrete intersection with traffic beeping all around, and the neon signs flickered above a heaving night time market as rickshaw drivers followed us, plying their trade. Claire had been to Manali before, and knew the price from where we were now (this was apparently ‘new’ manali) to the old part of the town. Every rickshaw driver tried to take us as absolute idiots, trying to make us pay hundreds and hundreds over the real price. When we finally secured a deal, he said we had to take separate rickshaws because of our bags, so we told him we would walk in that case. Eventually a beeping sound behind us alerted us he had realized we were serious, and he begrudgingly packed us into his auto rickshaw and began driving us up the steep roads to the old town. As we drove through the darkness I began to feel a flutter of nervous joy in my stomach. We wound our way up darkened hills, and now, little tourist shops were appearing either side of us, travellers were wandering the streets laughing, joking, candle lit bars babbled at the roadside, and below us a dark and misty valley stretched out. This place looked fantastic.

When we were finally dropped in thbe centre of Old Manali, I couldn’t believe how different it felt. Everywhere we looked were tourists, cafes, traveller bars, shops, all twinkling in the darkness and babbling with happy laughter, music, and the smell of insense. Little hippy shops and cafes were glowing through the darkness, travellers wandered around the narrow winding streets and the whole town was sprawling over a steep hill, surrounded by mountains and orchards. Far from the real India, true, but a warming sight nonetheless. Now we had the task of finding a guesthouse in the evening. We carried our bags up the horrendously steep shills to various places, only to be turned away, and only when we reached breaking point did we manage to secure a double room at the Red Fox Guesthouse, where the three of us were happy to share a bed. We gratefully plonked down our bags and headed out to find food before everywhere closed.

Wondering though the cosy streets and down a winding path through an orchard, we found a travellers hang out called ‘Little Italy.’ I was overjoyed at the thought of some pizza or even a beer, but what we found was even better. We walked in, and who should be sat on the nearest pile of cushions, but Yvan, Myke and Miles! The gang was reunited again! I was so so happy to see Yvan, as I had missed him so much since leaving Rishikesh, and we spent the evening catching up, swapping stories and sipping some soothing cold beers.

The first few days we spent in Manali we were staying at Red Fox guest house. After being separated from Yvan for what felt like forever him and I spent the first few days just wandering around the shops, exploring the town and catching up. We soon made a network of friends around the place...We found Kirsty, our Australian friend from Pulga, Irish Clair's Australian friend Daniel, and even Lena from Bandipur! We started hanging out at a really nice coffeeshop called Dylans. They played awesome music and had Bob Dylan lyrics and pictures grafitti'd all over the walls. There was always interesting people to meet and the place served the most amazing still-warm-in-the-middle cookies I have ever eaten. One day Clair and I got talking to a really nice guy from Wales called Steffan. He told us about a guesthouse where he was staying, that we ought to check out. It was 350m along a narrow path that lead along the river, and Clair and I took a leaisurely stroll there, between orchards, boulders, and wee meadows of flowers, until we arrived at a little cottage. There was a huge garden complete with a sheep and a friendly dog, a big patio area where travellers were hanging out having a bbq, fruit trees, a fantastic view of the mountains, the crystal clear river just below and a couple of storeys of homely bedrooms, it was perfect!

Clair, Freya and I moved there the very next day and for the rest of our trip formed a tight group with all the other travellers staying there. One night the gang of us travelled to the village of Vashisht on the other side of the valley where we found a tiny independent cinema and watched an amazing documentary about Noam Chomsky. Another day we walked through the orchards and flowers to a beach hidden away from sight and where the water was sheltered enough to swim in. It was pretty much glacial though and when Freya jumped in her face was to die for. After a couple of days Steffan’s brother and sister flew in to visit from Wales, and for Finn's 18th birthday we had a big party at the cottage. We bought, and had killed, 5 chickens (although by ‘we’, I mean the boys. I couldn’t hace having anything to do with the matter but had some rainbow trout that were caught from the river.) We had a huge BBQ, and spent the whole night jamming out, playing cards, singing along with guitars and djembes and talking about life back home. It was bliss.

I have many many fond memories of Dylans, sitting around talking for hours over coffee with really interesting people. Spending every night in Raju's, a restaurant/bar where all the musically inclined travellers came to jam and drink. We met so many talented people, our Russian friend Loki who could play drum’n’bass on the digeridoo, our Nepali friend who was the craziest dancer, an old old man who came to Manali in the 60s…he tried came to stay 6 days, and he stayed for the rest of his life…Every night more and more people would gather until the whole place was packed with people and music. I spent a long lazy day sitting in my Indian friend Sana’s shop, talking with him about his life, his stories from childhood. He was known around Manali as ‘the feather man’, because he collected feathers, and he showed me through his collection. He had thousands of them, thousands! And we sat for hours making jewellery and putting dreadlocks in my hair, marveling at how different our lives were. The weather while we were in Manali was amazing too, and it was such a treat to be warm and dry. We ate trout from the river, incredible curries, we spent a few evenings in People cafe, where they give you crayons and paper and menus made out of pictures frames, Steffan and I travelled to new Manali to enjoy 40rs thalis at a good old fly-filled dhaba....I even got my hair dyed at a real Indian hairdressers. It was an interesting experience! To wash my hair out the Didi basically sat me in her bathroom on a plastic chair and gave me a bath! The result was a half ginger half blonde and a few red dreads looks, which she herself acknowledged was “not so good.” Ha! It was good to drink lemon nannas again, which we did in the Lazy Dog by the river. And then of course there was a LOT of Dylan’s cookies.

The only bad memory I have of Manali is the only really bad memory I have of the whole trip so far. And by bad, I just man slightly traumatic, even for Indian standards. It went a little bit like this:

It was Finn’s 18^th birthday, and I had gone into Manali to make a call home. On the way back towards our end of town, I stopped off at a shop and bought some bottles of beer for the forthcoming birthday party that evening, and as I did, noticed an Indian man there, watching me. He had been walking on the same street as me for a while but I didn’t really think too much of it. However, when I began to climb the steps up off the road and onto the rocky riverside path, I instantly clicked when he bagn to climb them too.I had an instant bad feeling.

I could tell he was on a pretend mobile phone call, so I slowed my pace to see if he would overtake. He didn't. My route to our guesthouse took me up into the hills, but first it stopped off at a couple of other places. At the first guesthouse, I went inside, deciding I would pretend this was my stop, I sat inside for a moment until the guesthouse owner came in from the garden and made a HUGE deal about the fact he had no rooms and showed me out. The guy was still there. So, I did some fake rummaging in my bag as I felt my heart begin to quicken, he was still watching me. In the end, I just thought, fine, I’m just going to go for it. Which in retrospect probably wasn’t the best move. At the time I remember thinking “I’m sure there is some explanation for this,” but obviously that was pretty stupid. I made my way down the path, through the orchards and as I sped up, I felt him following behind. I was pretty aware now that I was walking away from civilization. So, I stopped in my tracks and let him meet me. "Would you like to overtake me?" I asked, and gestured for him to walk in front, which he did. As he walked ahead I slowed my pace to let him get ahead, then sat down on the cliff edge and got my diary out. I thought if I wrote there for a minute he would get nicely ahead of me, but a second later I looked up and he was stood right there.

He sat down next to me on the cliff edge and asked how I was, what my name was, what I was doing, etc, and whether I was okay. I looked at him outright and said, “Are you following me?'

He didn’t know what to say to that. He mumbled something about Manali being unsafe and that he was the Manali police. I said "Bullshit. You’re not the Manali police. Why are you following me?”

He muttered on and on and I stood up and pointed down the path. "Where are you going?" I asked him. He said he didn’t know. I asked him again where he was going, “Where, excuse me- Where, do you actually want to be?” He just stared at me. “Because you are following me, and I do not want to walk with you. So please, If you go this way, I will go the other direction.” Now he was flustered, but I just said, “No. You go this way, I’ll go this way. Got it?”

He seemed to accept this solution, and I turned to leave. "Ma’am?" he asked as I walked away.

“What?!”

He held out his hand for me to shake.

“No.”

Then as I started to walk away, I heard him walking behind me. I turned around and said "WHAT DO YOU WANT?" Again, he held out his hand to shake. Sighing, I held out my hand and shook it, just in a bid to get rid of him. But then he started to kiss my hand.

“What are you-“ I tried to pull away, but he grabbed my arm and yanked me towards him.

“One kiss, one kiss…”

I tried to wriggle out of his grasp but he held on to me so tightly I could barely move. We were struggling on the edge of this sheer cliff above the crashing river, and for a moment I wandered if he was going to throw me in. I kicked him hard in the shin and ran.

As I raced down the path I could hear him behind me and in this moment of blind adrenaline I leapt up the hill to this tiny guesthouse, I banged on the door with all my might but I could see that it was locked from the outside, my heart was in my mouth. I turned around to face him and brandished one of the beer bottles from my bag. “IF YOU TAKE ONE MORE STEP TOWARDS ME, I WILL WRAP THIS BOTTLE ROUND YOUR FUCKING HEAD,” I screamed. “My husband is in here and when he comes out you are DEAD, do you hear me?” He looked completely shocked, and I had shouted so loud my voice had echoed. I screamed again, “CHELLOW!” And after a moment of hesitation, he just ran. He actually ran! I sat in the doorway of that house and sobbed, I had never been so scared, and when I felt like I could stand again, gingerly made my way along the final stretch of path to our guesthouse. I was shaking for a good hour afterwards. I had been so far from people and he had been such a big guy, I dread to think what might have happened if he hadn’t just scarpered. Indian men are crazy.

American men, on the other hand, are totally cool. I decided after a week or so it was time to get on the road again, and on my last day in Manali headed to Dylan’s for some writing and a coffee. I had felt for a while as if there was something I had been looking for, but hadn’t quite found, and after a little while, I noticed a guy walk in who kinda took my breath away. We kept catching each others’ eyes from across the café, and I really wanted to go and talk to him, but didn’t have the nerve. Finally, a gang of Indian guys came in and asked if they could sit in the area I was sat in. I stood up to move, and the only place left to sit was the seat opposite him, so I sat down next to Max. We got talking. It turned out he was planning on making the move to Dharamasala tomorrow as well, and we had a lot of similarities in our plans. He told me about an organic farm he was planning to go and work at, and after chatting for a couple of hours, we were completely psyched up and decided to travel to Dharamasala together. Freya came and found us, and I offered up the plan, she was well up for it. That night the whole gang of us went out for dinner and Max came along, as did his best friend Devon, another lovely guy from Calafornia who was making me crack up all through the meal. It was kind of sad. It was finally the last supper with Kirsty, Clair, Steffan and Yvan, Myke and Miles had gone off somewhere, and we were finally leaving Manali. After dinner Freya and I had a last pint with Yvan by the river, and it was suddenly the end of an era. The three of us had been traveling together for such a long time, we were like a family. I was going to miss Yvan so much, and when we said goodbye I cried and cried. When would we next see each other?

That’s the thing that breaks my heart about travelling. You meet people who, at home, you would remain friends with until you wither fell out or grew apart or for some reason weren’t friends any more. But in travelling, you meet people who you have the most amazing connection with, and grow as close as any of your best friends back home. But then, for no apparent reason, they just blink out of your life and you never see them again. It’s heartbreaking, really. And when Freya and I quietly packed our bags at the guesthouse that night I realsied one day I was going to have to say goodbye to her, too.

In the morning the entire community of Rockway Cottage saw us off, and we gave huge hugs to everyone. We trekked a final time along the river, and down through old Manali to sit in a café and wait until the morning Rickshaws got going. When they did, we took one to the coach park in New Manali, and we soon found our ride and threw our bags onto the roof. I had butterflies wandering if our American friends from the day before would turn up lik they said they would, but a few minutes later, who should arrive but them. With the four of us perched on the back seats, and a minibus full of rowdy Indian tourists, we set off for Dharamasala, and the journey there was a pleasant one. We had decided to take a day-time minibus, and for the first time, were travelling a journey in the day time. Although it meant not saving a nights price in a guesthouse, it was so nice to be able to see the view all the way, and as we climbed higher in the mountains it was a stunner. It took a minimal (for India) 8 hours altogether, and when we reached Dharamasala itself, it felt like another world altogether.

Quest to the Fairy Forest

Okay so my last entry wasn't particularly optimistic. I was feeling pretty low after 2 or 3 days of solid rain and wasn't feeling the travelling vibes at all. Everything has somehow, unsurprisingly, turned amazing again, and it turns out all I needed to do was to get away from Kasol.

Me and Freyafinally left, finally also leaving Myke and Miles, two days ago, with the intent of having a girly adventure into the Pavarti Valley. It was a seriously good move. Tintin in Tibet was such a fantastic little guest house and such a haven away from the Hebrew chatter of the main drag. I was even sad to be leaving Myke, despite all the ups and downs that have occurred between him and me lately. We have still been on a hell of a journey together. I’m sure we will see them around though, the same faces keep popping up everywhere, which is funny considering how vast India is, but also one of the traits of following the traveller routes. Anyway, the point was, for now we felt like we have been travelling with boys for too long, and Freya and I have been wanting some alone time for a while, we couldn’t wait to get out on the road together.

On our final day in Kasol, Freya had gone to the next town along to organize her visa, and I spent the day in a hammock, gazing at the mountains and writing. When she came back, she was full of stories about endless landslides and impassable roads, and it dawned on me travelling to Manikaren might not be as easy as we had anticipated. We sat in our room for ages trying to decide whether we should stay or make a break for it…what if we got completely cut off? As we nervously started packing our bags, a little miracle happened. We took a look out of the window, and where, for the past few days there had been grey drizzle, suddenly the sky was blue! The sun CAME OUT, and we ran outside and were practically leaping on the spot. The sky was BLUE. The mountains were glistening in the sunshine and suddenly it felt as if everything had come alive again. After a few minutes sitting and staring and smiling we grabbed out bags, and exclaimed, "We're leaving!" The boys sat there stunned as we pranced about, then we finally hugged the boys goodbye and danced down the steps through the glistening fields of cannabis and into Kasol for the last time. With our huge bags strapped up on our backs and the sun shining through the trees, we set out on our next adventure.

The taxi ride from Kasol to Manikaran was the first hurdle. Our driver was a gung-ho young guy who was clearly a cocaine addict. Sniffing and twitching he ranted and raved, grinning back at us, barely keeping his hands on the wheel as he ploughed down the winding roads, the car actually coming off the ground as he careered through potholes at breakneck speed. We were clinging on in the back for dear life, and it was only then that it occurred to me that this could be one of ‘those stories’…’two girls, got in a taxi with a complete stranger, he drove them like a maniac into the wilderness and…’ Just as Freya and I were staring in terror at each other and I was about to scream for him to stop the car, the steaming temples of Manikaren loomed into view. The holy town was nestled in a valley so steep it almost seemed to obscure the sky. The river which was swollen from the week of flooding was thundering below the rickety suspension bridges and tiny buildings hung precariously from the steep riverbanks either side. Steam rose from the rooftops of the entire town. I couldn't believe that just down the valley from Kasol lay such an inspiring place. The valley around was so thickly forested around the settlement that it seemed to almost sparkle in the middle of it all, and the entire town seemed to be fluttering with flags, with a huge steaming temple rising from the middle. It looked so Indian, almost mythological, in comparison to the touristy cafes of Kasol, and I felt my heart leap at the fact we had made the decision to come. We paid our maniac taxi driver a brown handful of rupees, swung our bags onto our backs and began to climb across the tantalizing suspension bridge, the brown water thundering below.

Manikaran, unlike Kasol, was a real Indian town. Cows wondered the tiny alleyways and Sikh pilgrims bustled in and out of tiny shops selling offerings, dhabas where pots of dhal bubbled on the stove. We were the source of quite a lot of interest, with families asking to have photographs with s and bashful women being thrust out their hand for us to shake by laughing relatives. IT was good to be in real India again.

We heaved our bags into a few guesthouses, but every promise of ‘good price’ resulted in a tiny dingy room for more rupees than was fair. We finally found a place with a sunny courtyard next to the crashing river, and the kind old man who ran the place explained we would even have our own hot spring. We took the room after some stern bartering, we were no longer being taken for a ride, and now I felt as though I had acquired all the bartering skills I needed. On the first floor overlooking the courtyar, Freya and I set our bags down and went out exploring the town.

Manikaran was a jumble of shops and shrines and dhabas, with it’s steaming temple in pride of place in the town centre. I was so happy tpo be there, to be away from the sterile tourist-vibe of Kasol, where Thalis were 20 rupees again and a cup of chai was 5. When you finally get off the beaten track, in India, everything is magical. The tumbledown shacks sell golden bangles, home cooked candy, childrens play on the steps and stray dogs lie panting in the shade. The smell of insense and litter wafts through the streets and cows wander between the pilgrims. The most fly infested underground cafe that you wouldn’t set foot in in England serves up the most effortlessly incredible curry, served by a man smoking a cigarette in a greasy vest, and it’s the best meal you’ve ever tasted in your life. Everywhere the sound of hindi pop crackles on radios and people strike up conversations with you to practice their English. Middle aged women squeal with laughter as they shake our hands, families crowd around us as we eat to have us pose for photographs with their children. Babies are thrust at us with a smile, men ask us where uor husbands are. The sight of two white girls wondering aimlessly around, no husbands, no parents, away from home in a foreign country, is just crazy to them.

In Manikaran too there was a distinct Tibetan influence. Old women with kindly weather beaten faces and huge golden earrings carry babies wrapped in shawls on their backs. They always have a ‘namaste’ and a deeply humbling bow as they greet you, and seem to be the kindest people on the planet. I wanted to stay in Manikaran longer, but time was ticking and we knew we had to stay on the move. We spent a night relaxing in the hot springs at our guesthouse (The water comes out of the ground at 95degrees and is so hot the locals boil rice in it. At our guesthouse it was dilutred with cold water, but in the town Sadhus sat naked in the steaming pools, god knows how they did it.

When we woke the next day, the sun was shining again, and we sat on the roof of our guesthouse taking in the blue skies and lush green mountains that enclosed the town. The coloured rooftops of the town spread out all around, with endless washing drying in the sun. ‘Om Namah Shivayah’ murmered from the temples below us. It was going to be a good day.

We took a taxi freom manikaran around lunchtime after another amazing thali and some posing for photographs. A couple of young guys were desperate for us to take their taxi but we had learnt our lesson now, and instead we opted for an old Nepali-looking man who boasted in jest that he was the slowest but safest driver. The journey up through the Pavarti Valley was incredible. We drove higher and higer and the view was just the greenest thing I have ever seen. Just green and blue and green again with silver waterfalls cutting lines through the forests. We rumbled further and further away from manikaran, our elderly driver smoking a charras joint and turning up the volume on the radio. The sun was blazing, and the wind was in my hair as I leant out of the window and watched the tiny villages flash past. After an hour or so driving, we finally reached a huge hydroelectric dam that was being constructed in the valley. It was such an eyesore. Just dirt tracks going down into a huge building site that filled the entire end of the valley. I couldn’t believe we were seeing what we were seeing. Up until then it had just been greenery, and snow capped mountains looming above the forests, and now this. I felt like we were so far away from any aspects of modernity and then this was here as a slap in the face to remind us, times are changing.

To get to Pulga we had been told by our driver that we had to cross a bridge and walk for fifteen minutes through the forest. However, as the car crunched down the winding roads into the huge building site, I stared through the window and hoped I was not looking in the right direction. What appeared to be a landslide of concrete and boulders stood amidst the crashing water of the Pavarti river, and there was only the grim remains of a washed away bridge hanging from the opposite side. Sure enough, our driver happily pulled up at the roadside and with a smile, esked for his rupees. The bridge had clearly been gone for a long time.

“How are we supposed to get across?” we asked him, dumbstruck.

“Maybe you can ford the river, further up,” he smiled, gesturing for us to give him the money and go.

“Hold on a minute,” we began, as he started opening doors and taking out our luggage, “You said you could take us to Pulga!”

“No, ma’am,” he said, “You ford river.”

“You told us it would take us fifteen minutes walk!”

I was starting to panic, “Ji, we can’t possibly get across that river, you knew that bridge was not there. What can we do? Stay in the building site? You have to take us back to Manikaran!”

“Back to Manikaran is 300 rupees ma’am.”

We were fuming. We had been told that it was a short drive and he could not take us all the way but he could take us to within fifteen minute walk. Suddenly, the bridge didn’t exist after all and we were faced with the prospect of either fording a river or being left in a building site! We told him we were not paying full price, he clearly had had no intention of ever getting us to Pulga and had just (no pun intended) been taking us for a ride. After a huge argument with the man we finally just threw the money at him and walked off, now laden with ALL of our bags. We had thought it was only a short walk and so had brought our big rucksacks with us. It was here that the adventure really began.

We climbed down the landslide to the rivers edge and spent about half an hour trying to figure out a way to ford it. It was impossible. The water was absolutely monstrous, deafeningly loud and just, huge. It was so swollen from the weeks flooding it would be a death wish, there was no safe route across, none whatsoever. It was now so hot, and our bags were so heavy, we were starting to wane. How the hell were we going to get across? We climbed our way from one end of the bank to the other, but there was nothing. Builders from the building site were starting to come and watch us, clearly we were completely lost and I was starting to becmoe aware that in every direction for a couple of miles or so was nothing but Indian working men. How were we going to get out of this one? I cannot stress enough now how heavy these bags were, and the sun was beginning to burn the tops of my feet. We stood trying to ignore the growing stares from up high on the banks, and shielded our eyes from the sun as we tried to figure out what to do, Suddenly, we saw a tiny figure walking along the other side of the river! We shouted and shouted until they saw us, and with some mad arm gestures we managed to communicate that we wanted to get across. They pointed further upstream. So there WAS a way across. But it was starting to feel like it wasn’t meant to be...even if we somehow got across, how would we ever get back? We stood, trying to work out what to do…risk trying to hitchhike back to manikaran? How would we even get out of this building site? We had come so far to see the fairy forest, I didn’t want to give up, but even if we got across, one more night of flooding and we might be trapped there for good.

We slugged our bags back up the dirt track to the building site, and by now a crowd was starting to gather. It was so hot, and our bags were so heavy, all we could do was try not to make eye contact. Two white women with no husbands wondering around a huge building site, totally and utterly lost and in the middle of nowhere was obviously news, and the news was spreading fast. We walked from one end of the site to the other, but there was no way of getting further up the river. Where were we supposed to be going? Men were following us now, and they were starting to laugh and point. We spotted some stairs that lead uphill, so with all our other options exhausted, we began to heave ourselves and our bags up them.

It was so tiring, my legs were trembling all the way. Now men were on every side of us, pointing, laughing, taking photographs, leering. We climbed higher and higher until it seemed that we were just in the men’s toilet block for the building site, and now we were at the edge of our limits. Nobody would help us, we were asking everyone, please, how do we cross the river, but all they could do was leer. Eventually we just lost it.

"Oh, its really fucking funny isn’t it?! What have we ever done to you?! WHY is it so difficult for you to just HELP US and STOP BEING CHILDREN?!"

We screamed at them, throwing our bags down and staring them out. I was literally on the verge of just losing it, and they seemed fairly taken aback. They carried on taking photos as we took out a couple of cigarettes and slumped down on our bags. Then, on the road below we saw two white guys with rucksacks! We grabbed our stuff and ran down to them, and thank god, they could speak English! They were all smiles, and they had a huge amount of sympathy for us. We told them our predicament, and although they couldn’t help they stood with us for a while and shared a smoke as the crowd of Indian men dispersed.

They were heading for Kir Ganga, 4 hours walk away, so joining them with our bags wasn’t really an option. After going through our options for a while, I said, "maybe we should just give up." It seemed there wasn’t a chance. But we had come this far. We would never forgive ourselves if we turned back now. “No,” we shouted, “lets do it! There has to be a way across this river!” The guys cheered us on and we heaved our bags up the stairs one more time. This time an Indian man who could speak English came to us, and explained that the way to cross the river was indeed, that way. THANKYOU! Why did they not tell us before? I think watching us struggle was just too much fun for them.

We heaved our bags up the steps and through another bit of building site, still with an audience, but now they seemed to feel a bit sorry for us. We didn't need their help. A few of them offered to carry our bags for us, but now we were determined to show them that we were going to do it ourselves. We picked our way along a narrow dirt path, slipping and sliding in the mud, getting pricked by brambles, and stumbling down slopes, and eventually, in the distance, we saw a tiny wooden bridge. We had made it! We panted and heaved the last bit of the way and before we knew it we were down at the waters edge, running across the bridge cheering, and we were on the other side. The builders watched from the other side as we picked our way along the crumbling bank. Then finally, we reached the landslide. Here, the entire pathway, the entire hillside, even, vanished into the roaring water. I tried to climb across, but the ground just fell away beneath my feet. Now it wasn’t a question of annoying stares and laughter, now, for the first time, I felt the feeling of a real bit of peril.

Our bags were so huge and we were already so exhausted from climbing around for over an hour, we had no balance at all, and the rocks that we had to scramble up slipped away under our feet, tumbling into the water.We had to move so so carefully and gently, clinging on to anything we could that wouldn’t come away from the bank. We climbed, carefully, so very carefully, as far as we could make it. Then wwhen we got to the final point, we had to jump, I threw my bag across, and taking a deep breath, I went for it. That was the moment I realized the grim reality of the Pavarti Valley disappearances. It feels sometimes as though you are invincible when you’re travelling, but if I had set one foot wrong at that moment that would have been it. Obviously, I am writing this blog, so I didn’t, and once Freya was safely across behind me, we turned to face the watching crowd and we cheered like a couple of crazy women. They stared at us with open mouths. Against all the odds, two small, timid, husband-less white girls, had found their way through the maze of building sites, battled off a hundred idiotic Indians, climbed, crawled, scrambled, jumped, and made it, in the heat of the day, all the way across an impassable river, WITH ALL OUR BAGS! We were, as me and Freya would say "WINNERS."

The rest of the trek to Pulga was a stunner. The path lead up into the dappled shade of the forest, and here we slowly walked, enjoying the peace, up into the hills...the mountains spread out in all directions, the snow capped peaks rising above the trees into the blue sky. The birds were singing, everything was still, and we were happy. We crossed wooden bridges over waterfalls, stopped to look at the incredible flowers and butterflies, passed and said namaste to hillspeople in their traditional clothes with their big warm smiles. We came to the conclusion, that EVERYTHING is better in the hills. The people, the places, the atmosphere, the culture, everything. It’s all about the Himalayas.

Eventually we started to find yellow arrows painted on rocks which we followed through the forest. They led us up about 200 grueling steps (it nearly killed us with the bags) and by the time we arrived at the top, legs trembling, dripping with sweat, the view took our breath away.

We were in Pulga. A tiny little hamlet of wooden houses, endless green fields of cannabis and crops, surrounded by forests and mountains, the sun gleaming off the little slate rooftops. Everything was beautiful and it was like stepping back in time. Everything was, in fact, perfect.

Now we are here. We are staying in a tiny log cabin on the edge of a forest called "The Fairy Forest'. We have a little tandoor stove and a view of the mountains. I nearly cried when we were shown to our room and told it was only 150rs. There's loads of travellers here, and people have been coming to trip in the fairy forest since the 60s, it’s incredible. Everyone we speak to here just says the same thing, "it doesn’t look real." And they’re right. Instead of the brambly, twiggy, shadiness of a normal forest, this one has a carpet of clover, strange exotic flowers growing everywhere huge ancient trees that the locals worship, and the most epic boulders that make you feel as if you are only 3 inches tall. The forest lies to the side of the main village, and the hamlet of Pulga feels like a little hobbit town. Tiny wooden houses nestle together between fields of golden crops and sunflowers, children play in the narrow lanes as cows chew in the fields, elderly men with their hands behind their back give you a solemn nod as they walk their morning walk, and strings of washing hang between the houses as the shutters are flung open every morning. Our guesthouse is stood at the top of the sloping village, and is a stunning little wooden building surrounding a stone courtyard. The family running it are the most lovely, kind people of Tibetan descendance. We spent last night sitting around with them, playing with their 10 month old baby, eating and drinking with them like one of the family...it's really like stepping back in time here, but with the added bonus that every night the Israeli travellers start a bonfire and have a huge party in the forest. As I write this, the sun is just setting over the corn fields and I can see women bending low over the crops with sickles. I think I could stay here forever.

Well, that’s all for now. I just wanted to tell you all about our huge adventure in getting here! We received a hero’s welcome when we climbed the stairs to our cabin with our huge bags, nobody could believe we had made the trek with them! We are planning on staying here for a few more days, it’s just too beautiful to leave. It feels as though time has stopped, and now the coming and going of the hours is just measured in the moving clouds and the shadows that creep across the mountains. Namaste.

The Pavarti Valley

To get to this internet cafe I had to wade through a road that was knee deep with freezing water. The Pavarti river burst its banks last night and the main road of our new town, Kasol, is flooded, and to get to any of the shops or eateries you have to get very very wt indeed. I'm feeling pretty negative about travelling today. Since leaving Rishikesh, we have endured the longest and most hair raising journey to date and found ourselves in the PAvarti Valley. When we arrived, it was almost like being in centre parcs, with forested alpine hills surrounding the deep, green valleys and snow capped mountains looming above. Kasol itself is a tiny little town comprised mostly of cafes and little guesthouses, and the atmosphere is so laid back it is almost as if it’s a holiday camp. The day we arrived the novelty of stepping out to a cool breeze and wrapping up warm in jumpers, drinking chai got us excited beyond all reason and with the birds singing in the trees we explored the peaceful town and surrounding woodland. However, the next day the monsoon instantly swept in, to replace everything that was beautiful to begin with with RAIN. I spent all of yesterday in bed with a headache so bad I honestly thought I had a brain heammorage, and when I woke up this morning it felt even worse. All I can do is stare out at the rain and miss all of our amazing friends that we left behind in Rishikesh. It’s amazing the effect illness and rain can have on your mood, because for the first time in weeks, today I just want to go home.

My time in Rishikesh was the happiest I have been in a long time, and it was so so sad to leave it behind. After writing my last blog, we had a few exciting episodes mostly which involved hitchhiking to the next settlement along called Ramjhula, where the gang of us explored, spent whole days in amazing Indian bookshops, got involved with festivals down by the huge Shiva statue by the river…We visited the Beatles Ashram a few times, it was just incredible. The whole place was completely ruined and overgrown by flowers ansd jungle, and countless visitors over the years had grafitti’d the place with Beatles lyrics and psychedelic murals. When it was Myke’s birthday we spent the day and a whole night up there, throwing a party in one of the crazy meditation eggs! We also spent a lot of time chilling in the little ‘Pyramid’ settlement up the hill from the river, which was a health-food restaurant and yoga retreat, where we hung out juggling, drawing and dancing about in Teepees high above the river. By the end of our stay we were so close with all the locals and had become so close as a group, it felt so weird that we were all finally heading off in other directions. T

Theo and Barney were heading south to Mumbai, Rose was heading to Delhi and home, Yvan was going off to Manali for para gliding and Freya and I had decided to visit Kasol on Theo’s recommendation it was the ‘coolest place ever.’ I think his recommendation comes from the viewpoint of someone who loves smoking though, because to me it seems like all there is to do here is smoke and smoke and smoke. As a non-smoker I find I’m just staring at all of these people stoned out of their minds and thinking, ‘aren’t you bored?!’

Freya and I were planning on going our separate way from Myke too after we all had a bit of a fall out in Rishikesh, but on the day that we finally, tearfully hugged everyone goodbye in Freedom Café, we ended up sharing a Vikshram with him and Miles to Haridwar, and the next thing we knew they were on the bus to Kasol as well.

The journey here was 14 hours on an overnight bus. We had a mad rush to Haridwar in the midday sun, only to find that the bus was full and they wouldn’t let us on. So, we had to wait for 5 hours *=(im not even exaggerating) in a fly infested roadside café cum poo filled shed, where we couldn’t even afford to buy food, but had to just sit, staring, smoking, and avoiding the stares of the men all around. Urgh it was just…horrible. Finally the bus arrived in the evening, and once we had squashed ourselves onto it, our crazed driver thundered down the unlit hairpin bends and crumbling landslid roads at breakneck speed the whole way. When it was dark it was impossible to tell how close we were coming to I were clinging on to the seats in front of us like a rollercoaster, and trying not to look at where the barriers had been smashed through on the Cliffside before. We drove all night past endless swamps where the sound of millions of frogs was so loud it sounded like it just wasn’t real. We thundered through alpine forests, higher and higher until finally the sun rose over Himachal Pradesh state (although it looked like we were now in Canada). Then, we wound our way around stunning lakes and crashing rivers, higher and higher along narrower and narrower roads until we were safely (ish) in the Kullu Valley. We changed buses (jumping with our luggage from one roof to another) at Bhunter, a very dusty, very indian town, and the final stretch of (i would hardly call it a) road took us deep into the Parvarti valley, where the tiny traveller town of Kasol nestled above the river. Our guesthouse, Tintin in Tibet, is a cluster of tiny tibetan houses. strewn with hammocks and ganja bushes, overlooking the crashing river and surrounded by steep forested mountains. The whole town of Kasol feels a bit like cente parcs. The temperature is english, the wooded mountains surrounding it are stunning, hazy, capped with snow, and are so sheer it almost looks as if they are totally flat, like a painting. Unlike Centre Parcs however, there are so many Israeli’s here it has been renamed ‘Little Israel’ by the locals, and the amount of Israelis is what constitutes for the sheer amount of cannabis (it accounts for 80% of their crop cultivation apparently). It’s growing everywhere. And even as a non-smoker I found myself giggling with excitement at the novelty of having a hemp field in our front garden.

The difference in atmosphere when we first arrived in this part of India was incredible. Not only is it cooler and more, yes, I suppose, Canadian-looking, but the people have that Nepali look about them. A lot of the people here are tibetan refugees and everyone is so much more friendly. It feels amazing to be up in the Himalayas again, they have such an amazing energy and atmosphere and the same goes for the people too. It was almost as if as soon as we crossed the state border somebody flicked the 'namaste' switch on again, and everyone we saw was suddenly saying hello, women could be seen on the streets and everyone had a smile for us. It’s also a strange feeling to be an ethnic minority again, because there are more Hebrew-speaking people here than there are Hindi and English combined, and I think we may actually be th only Brits in the whole town. Since arriving here, we have been relaxing in hammocks, drinking endless chai, mooching around the shops and generally taking some time to unwind in the temperatures which just remind me incredibly of home. It was such a novelty for us to arrive somewhere where we weren't constantly drenched in sweat, and where having a hot shower was actually nice. We spent the first evening reveling in the cosyness of being able to don a jumper and sit in a sleeping bag. However, now it is raining constantly and i can't believe I’m going to say this, but it’s a tad dreary for my liking.

I really cannot believe I miss hot weather. Well, I suppose it’s not that, it’s that I’m already bored of the endless rain, and the flooding is making it impossible to get anything done. A week ago i would have given anything to stop sweating. But now my trousers and shoes are soaked through from fording the main road which is now a river, my fringe is dripping all over the keyboard and looking outside at the slate grey sky you would never guess this is India. Actually, it reminds me a lot of the lake district here. Perhaps that’s why I'm feeling so homesick.

So currently I am trying to decide what to do with our Itinerary. Freya and I were planning on getting a bus to a village not so far away called Manikaren, which is a Sikh pilgrimage site because of it’s mythical hot springs. We also want to trek to Pulga, another small village that is home to the 'Fairy Forest', supposedly the most amazing forest of all. Now though, I’m not really sure what to do, will the weather put too much of a dampener on it? I'm also starting to feel a bit unsafe in the valley. The roads are practically being washed away and I’m very aware that the only way out is along a particularly dodgy one of them, on a big heavy bus, in the rain. The prospect of landslides and/or getting stuck here for a long time suddenly seems a lot more real. I don't know whether the best option is to get out while we still can or to wait and see if the weather eases off. Also, there is a bit of a phenomenon around here known as the ‘Pavarti Valley disappearances’. Scores of travellers have disappeared from here in the past few years, either because of gangs, drug related accidents or possibly even cults…There are missing posters all over the place, and to that end I think it’s best if I let you know where I am thinking of going from here on. Here is my proposed itinery (subject to change, a LOT of change)

Today, travel to Manikaren with Freya

Tomorrow, from Manikaren travel to Pulga and the FAIRY FOREST.

Spend a night in the fairy forest (possibly camping) and the next day trek back to Manikaren.

Head north, providing the roads aren’t completely washed away.

Spend a few days in Manali if the weather is crap, or if it has improved maybe a bit longer.

Then head to Dharamsala.

A week or so in that area, maybe doing some volunteering and yoga, then a train to Chandigarth.

A couple of days there seeing the sculpture garden, then a train to Rajhistan.

Not sure how much of Rajhistan I will have time to see but I would love to visit Jaipur, Udaipur and the Ranthambore Nature Reserve. Then back to Delhi to fly home.

I cant believe how quickly my time here is flying. It really feels as if the whole thing is coming to an end, even though I still have a month left. It's a shame the rain has put such a dampener on my spirits, but I think I would be feeling this way regardless of the weather. I'm tired of having to pay every time i want to be fed and watered, fed up of not having any of my home comforts, tired of being on the road and always having to pay. Everything I need or want means I have to dish out money and I’m well aware of how little I’ll have when I get back to England. It would be so nice to spend a day doing nothing, for free, helping myself to food from the fridge, to free cups of tea from my kettle, sitting about on my sofa watching T.V and not having to talk to anyone, not having to haggle, not having to travel or pay bills or constantly socialize. I just want to sit in silence! I’m sick of having to talk to people constantly…

But I’m trying to see the positive still. Because I am in India after all, and I will miss it when I’m home. Its just hard to feel optimistic when my feet are numb from wading through water.