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.