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.