Memories of the Subcontinent - Part 3

I arrived back in Delhi to catch a night bus that would take me 570km north to Manali. After negotiating the evening rush hour we pulled out onto the free-way. Whilst listening to 'Songs for the deaf' on my headphones, the driver pressed along at dramatic speed. In 16 hours I would be on higher ground. As night descended the passengers grew weary and began to sleep. The sudden rocky motion of the bus confirmed to me we had departed from the free-way and begun to make our ascent to some 2000m above sea level. I closed my eyes and slept for 2 hours. When I awoke night was now dawn and the vista had changed dramatically. The arid dust-bowl of the plains had vanished, now a lush bounty of wilderness unfolded before my eyes. Climbing higher and higher, I spared not a thought for the potential danger of the slender roads and how without too much fuss we could skid and plunge to our deaths thousands of feet below. I was just too captivated by the limpid rivers and the glades of the valley. Even the general physical-racial profile of the people seemed strikingly different. The typical Indian characteristics were absent; replaced by a more East/South-East Asiatic appearance. With the landscape less squalid, the litter and pollution less ominous, i asked myself: Had I entered another country?

The mammoth journey from Delhi had frazzled my brain, and i hadn't eaten or slept since the previous day. Inevitably I was stoked to have reached my destination. But making one in a catalogue of faux pars - much owing to acute fatigue and stubbornness , I checked into a cheap and insipid guest-house; even the rickshaw driver who dropped me off seemed bewildered by my choice of lodgings. I threw my bags down and climbed straight into bed. Beyond exhausted I tried to sleep. The noise from outside was invasive: a mother shouting at her children boomed from just outside my window, and the perennial soundtrack of my travels: livestock and construction work were, as always, present. The Cacophony was a fast-track to despair. Just when I thought I had attained some sort of peace and quiet the reality of the situation came crashing down on me: i was far from home and with no creature comforts; all was foreign and nothing familiar. Curled up in the foetal position, i preyed for the sound to abate. And just like that a rare rational idea popped into my head: 'Relatively speaking, i was a wealthy man. Money was of no real object.'. Instinctively i started packing my bags. Within 5 minutes i was out of there and making my way to a guest-house with facilities that would make me feel a little more at home, namely a TV and a bit of hush. I checked into my new, more luxurious digs and sat down on the veranda outside my room to admire the range of snow capped mountains. The tranquillity, the panorama and the TV produced in me that one feeling of satiation a hungry man gets when he has a hearty meal inside him.

Though the town itself wasn't all that exciting: souvenir shops, restaurants, hand-crafts and people selling various illicit knick-knacks, I look back in regret I didn't commit more time to discovering Manali's surrounding beauty. The ecology was broad and diverse. The river untamed and wild crashed alongside the town; it's colour the hue of purity, of unspoiled charm – by far the most refreshing river I have ever laid hold to. The forests carpeted the land rising high into the sky. Saffron and cannabis grew wild. In all my misguided preconceptions and notions of India this wasn't one of them. The surrounding landscape seemed more akin to that of the Swiss Alps. And so with It's natural grace and abundance of wild growing psychoactive plants Manali attracted throngs of peace-seekers and pot-heads - who, to their credit were thoroughly well behaved and laid back. A prominent memory of my time in Manali was a visit to a gnarled looking temple in the woods. Whilst I had a few moments to myself on a bench outside the temple, an Indian tourist approached me with his shy teenage daughter and family in-toe. They took turns to have their pictures taken with me. Though I certainly wasn't offended, more bemused if anything, this was to be the first of many photos I would pose for with Indian families.

Escaping the heat, the pandemonium and the over-population of the plains, my paranoia and anxiety began to allay. I had experienced some uplifting and positive things. I had conversed with locals without feeling the weight of financial expectation. The Taj Mahal was just an after-thought. By comparison its impression was poor, unsustainable. Nature was unparalleled and inimitable. The erratic whip of this country was obvious. Those highs, the rewards, could only be accessed through a passage showcasing some of the very worse aspects of our nature. The pendulum, always in motion, would swing from one extreme to another.