day 51

For 5 days in Manali nothing happened and then, everything happened at once. This is what happened. As promised I went back to Amigo's and after I shook off my stage fright I played a song on Vikram's guitar. By the time I was finished there was a small crowd that insisted I play another song (encore! encore!) so I decided on a song I couldn't possibly mess up. To my delight, Vikram and his band knew it and joined in beautifully, as if we had rehearsed it a thousand times. It was a surreal and magical experience and I couldn't (though I tried very hard) stop smiling afterwards.

I was still smiling like a lunatic when a really cool couple approached me and asked if I were South African. They were from Cape Town (like me!) and they were going to Spiti Valley the next days, riding their bikes and camping all the way. I hung on their lips and agreed when they said that Leh (I decided to head up to Leh because Spiti Valley had become ‘impossible’) had more tourists than Manali and they wanted to avoid crowds and just be in the Himalayas. Murray and Anna and I liked each other immediately and they invited me to join them. They were planning to spend one more day in Manali and then leave for Spiti, giving me just enough time to get a tent and some camping supplies. By the time we said goodbye we were as giddy as children and I left feeling grateful to these Capetonian angels that I was going to get to ride through Spiti Valley after all.

Strolling back to my guesthouse, playing over in my mind everything that happened, I passed a bike mechanic. He was speaking to an Italian guy who wanted to rent a bike and wanted to know whether a Yamaha was good or whether he should rather rent an Enfield. I felt obliged to offer an input. Soon the charming Italian (is there any other kind?) and I were talking and, by now totally ignoring the mechanic, decided to have dinner together at Shiva's Place, right next door. After weeks of speaking only elementary English, broken Hindi and sometimes miming to get the point across, having a real conversation with this Italian man was bliss.

We talked for hours about life, love, travelling, India and Italy until our waiter, not so kindly, asked us to please leave. We didn't realize how late it was and when we stepped outside it was clear that the whole of Manali was already sleeping. We were reluctant to say goodnight but it was very late and so the Italian walked me to my guesthouse and kissed me goodnight.
'Ciao, Bella'.
'Ciao'.

The next morning I woke up feeling on top of the world and couldn't tell whether it was due to my brilliant musical debut, my impending Spiti-Valley adventure or the dose of Italian charm I experienced the night before. The Italian and I deliberately did not make plans to see each other again and both felt that if it were meant to be then we would meet again. Later that day I ran into him again but that, is another story.

made in India

Last week my good friend Elke asked me if after 2 months in India I wasn't getting sick of it yet. Truthfully? No. Soon enough I'll be back in South Africa among everything familiar but for now I'm soaking up everything that's strange and new. The one thing I do miss, is chocolate. I never expected Indian chocolate to be great (leave it to the Swiss and the Belgians, I say) but here the chocolate, even the Cadbury's, tastes like butter. Cheap butter.

I understand why India doesn't care much for chocolate, Indian sweets (Bengal sweets) are mind-alteringly delicious and made from insanely sweet condensed milk and nuts (pistachio, almond, cashew) and flavored with spices like cardamom, ginger and saffron and there are hundreds of different kinds.

But to get back to the chocolate, I was standing in a shop in Shimla waiting to pay for a bottle of water and was considering buying a Cadbury's but knowing I would only be disappointed I put it down and shook my head in dismay. An older Indian man was standing behind me and asked why I wasn't buying it. 'Because it tastes like butter' I said. He agreed and asked me whether I knew why it tasted like that, even the Cadbury's. Totally expecting him to say 'because it's made in India', I said 'because it's made in India?' but that was not what he was planning to say and I could see he felt insulted by what I had said. I apologized but he refused to speak to me any further, not even to tell me why the chocolate in India tastes like butter.

Later in my journey I did discover why Indian chocolate tastes like butter but don’t want to share it here. It’s pretty disgusting.

come rain come shine

The sun was shining and my illness but a memory when I set off for Sarchu (the gateway to the North) at 7h00 but after only 5km it started raining and I was forced to take shelter. One hour passed and the road merchants were starting to stir (I didn't quite make it out of town). I wanted to avoid any contact on my way out of Manali and was now (cowering under a rain-sheet) being harassed by everyone passing by. It was clear that the rain would persist and I would have to turn back and re-claim my beautiful room before some eager hippie occupied it and turn it into a hot-box. Manali turned out to be a hospital of sorts for me and I felt frustrated that I had to return when I was feeling healthy and restored. My plan was to ride 220km to Sarchu instead of Keylong only 115km away and so gaining a day but the plan changed again and there was no guarantee that the sun would shine tomorrow. This thought plunged me into a gloomy mood that matched the dark skies perfectly. How is it, I thought, that 5 days of glorious sunshine could be forgotten in an instant? Surely, the sun would shine again.

With nothing to do but read and think I considered all that had happened and realized that the reason I was staying longer in a place than I planned was not because I wanted to see more of a place and the people. I was afraid of what lay ahead. I was terrified of that unknown and the road ahead would be the toughest yet. Realizing this was like hesitating before jumping off a great height, it just gets harder once you've hesitated and I resented that I hesitated at all. Up to this point I’d already drove in rain, hail, through thick sand, mud and survived a landslide. A sudden need to jump and not be afraid gripped me as I came to my senses, so to speak. Each little difficulty presented an opportunity to overcome and so silence all those voices telling me I can't do it. Sadly, I was trapped in Manali and all that passion would have to remain bottled for a not-so-rainy day.

Strolling down to the market, oozing determination, I had lunch at 'Amigo's Cafe and German bakery'. Manali caters for a wide range of tourist, can you tell? It wasn’t at all what I expected and inside were 3 Indian guys playing their guitars and singing the most soulful Indian folks music. As I listened to the music (and the rain outside) I remembered that this trip was about more than doing something 'impossible', it was also about having these random and exotic little delights and I was grateful for another perfect moment in India. I stayed for 2 hours and promised to return later that night and play a song on the guitar. Yikes.

the dhaba on the left

Again I was faced with a change in my plans but I was delighted to discover that by now I was taking every disappointment and delay in my stride. Spiti Valley (at this point) was too dangerous and even riding in a group would still be risky. Listen up people! I'm adventurous, not reckless. I would retreat back to Shimla and formulate a new plan. Fahad and the boys would accompany me back to Shimla from where they would head back to Delhi. When we got to Shimla and were saying our goodbyes they were absolutely beaming at me and Himanshu was wagging his head so vigorously that I thought it might fall off but the feeling was entirely mutual. I'd grown very fond of these boys in a very short time and we promised each other a reunion when I got back to Delhi.

Back in Shimla, booked into a cheap (dodgy) hotel it started to rain and didn't stop for 2 days. Shimla is the kind of place where you could easily sink into glorious boredom but I was anxious to get going as soon as possible. Refusing to acknowledge the television in my room and armed with a pink umbrella, I went for endless walks everyday in the rain, had gallons of chai while learning new Hindi phrases and made a serious dent in Anna Karenina but the hours dragged on.

When, eventually, the sun showed up I wasted no time, packed up and gunned it to Manali, North Shimla. I needed to get to the dry parts up North and riding straight up to Manali, skipping Spiti Valley seemed like the wise choice.

To get to Manali you need only follow the mighty river Beas for half a day and then arrive in a beautiful little village that sits snugly in a thick forest of giant Deodar trees and apple orchards. The guesthouse I booked into was a lovely old farmhouse surrounded by apple trees and my room had wooden floors and two large windows that overlooked the orchards but no television. Perfect. After I had a long, hot shower (a necessity after a day on the road, believe me) I, ironically, went in search of a television. It was the World Cup Final and I was determined not to miss it. As it happened I watched the game with the owner of my guesthouse, Mano, on his tiny little black and white television but as the game only started at 12am, Mano faded just before half-time, leaving me all alone. At 3am I woke up and Spain had won the World Cup. I'd fallen asleep and missed the whole thing.

The next morning I woke up feeling like death had come to visit and had all the dreaded symptoms of an upset stomach. Crap, so to speak. I spent the next two days in bed on a diet of fresh apples, mineral water and vitamins until I felt up to venturing outside and explore Manali. Down at the market I discovered that Manali, apart from its exquisite natural beauty was overpopulated by a colony of hippies complete with dreadlocks, psychedelic lukin t-shirts and all stoned out of their minds. Not wanting to spend the day in Hippie Village I rode to the next town, Naggar, to visit the world famous Roerich art gallery. Nicolas Roerich was a Russian artist, mystic, philosopher and photographer who lived in Naggar and claime to draw his inspiration from the Himalayas. It was a nice ride through the orchards and the gallery certainly was impressive and I slowly started to feel like myself again.

When I got back to Manali I was starving and looked for a safe-looking dhaba to have dinner at. It’s amazing how paranoid a stomach bug can make you. I found 2 close to my guesthouse, one on the left side of the road and the other on the right. I picked the one on the right and had an egg roll and a cup of chai. Later that night, twisting in agony, I asked myself over and over again, why oh why didn't I pick the dhaba on the left?

tradegy or comedy

I allowed myself very little luxury on this trip. Contrary to what you may have heard, travelling by motorcycle is neither glamorous nor comfortable. The only indulgence I allowed myself was that I decided to bring my Macbook along. Not to Facebook or email but to write and edit photos and because the idea of being separated from it for 6 months was unbearable.

With my Macbook stuffed safely into my sleeping bag (it was genius, I thought, perfectly buffered and waterproofed) I arrived in Sarahan, 175 km North of Shimla. It started raining heavily just as I rode into the little town and didn’t stop for several days. I was hoping to make it into the dry parts up North before it started raining like this but I was in no rush. I’d just have to wait out the rain.

After I found a place to sleep I walked down to the market have dinner, on my own. On my way to the market I went to look at the 2000 year old temple. On my way out of the temple, with my stomach growling by now I met Nazeem, Himanshu and Fahad, 3 Indian guys on a week-long bike trip, on their Bullets. They were heading in the same direction as me and we started talking. Nazeem didn’t believe that I was riding solo and on a Yamaha nogal and insisted that I had to accompany them for the next few days. All things considered, it was a great opportunity to do a tricky section of the route with 3 willing, able and beautifully good-natured guys and I accepted their invitation breaking my no riding when it’s raining rule.

The next morning it was still raining, but as agreed, we set off into the uneasy-looking horizon. Riding in the rain was a scary experience and I decided that after the boys go their separate way I would reaffirm my rule of not riding in the rain.

After only 35km we stopped to help a biker who was stranded in the rain with a flat tire. We parked our bikes and offered our assistance. While we were standing there talking to the rider we heard a deep rumbling sound and before we could register what was happening had to jump out of the way of 6 massive rocks falling right onto my bike.

It was a landslide. I’d heard rumors about landslides this time of year but thought again, as I was heading to the drier parts, that I would miss it. We ran, shaking, to a safe spot where no unexpected rock falls could crush us until we were brave enough to return to the scene and assess the damage. It was bad.

1. Engine cover - broken
2. Front brake - broken
3. Back brake - bent
4. Right foot rest - bent
5. Both rear indicators - broken
6. Mud shield - broken
7. Front wheel rim - bent
8. Petrol tank - loose

It was bad, really bad and the situation got worse when a group of 40 riders, passing by from the direction we were heading in, told us that the road ahead was closed due to severe landslides.

Eventually we managed to get the bike back to a little town we past just before the disaster and had to stay the night. I thought the bike was finished but the mechanic laughed and said, matter-of-factly, that everything can be fixed in India and the repairs would be done by the next day. Good news, I thought and (thinking in Rands) the damage to my wallet wasn't bad at all.

We booked into the Satluj Hotel, on the banks of the river Satluj (raging by now because of the rain) and decided to get clean, warm and go out for dinner, determined to end this bad day on a good note. Beer and food. My spirits lifted a little but as I opened my bag to get a dry set of cloths I remembered my Macbook. I took it out of m sleeping bag, opened it up and..

Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

It was smashed. All at once the tragedy of the day hit me. My bike was broken, my Mac was broken and now my heart was also thoroughly broken.

Heartbreak or not, a girl's gotta eat and by the time we got to the restaurant we were starving. In the bar were the 40 riders we met earlier and they started whispering amongst themselves when they saw us, 'is that her?' I heard them say, 'she survived a landslide'. A couple of them came over and asked what exactly happened and how I was feeling. I said I felt very lucky (hiding my heartbreak as best I could). We ordered beer and I let my companions order food. We had a feast and laughed and talked until late. Every now and then one of the other riders would glance over to our table and lift a glass. I was famous. Macless, but famous.

On the way back to our hotel Nazeem took me to one side and asked me to forget about going through Spiti Valley, in the light of what happened. I told him that I would forget about it but only until tomorrow.

conversations

It was easy to break my 4-day rule in Shimla but I didn’t want to rush. I want to savour Shimla. Like Mussoorie, Shimla was also a hill station and the climate wonderful. This morning it rained for the first time and then it dawned on me. Monsoon has started. My imagination told me that Monsoon rain is a 3 month, non-stop, torrential rain that swept villages away but in reality it was different, if only slightly. As I was heading up North, where Monsoon’s impact is not that extreme I never really considered that I would be too affected by it and eased into beautiful Shimla and rested out for adventure further North.

The complimentary breakfast at the YMCA is only served until 9h00. At 8h20 I raced downstairs to eat and go back to bed with a good book (Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina) since it’s raining but an American guy, Robert, asked to join my table. Three hours later we were still talking about religion and the spiritual realm. He was a spiritual ‘seeker’ (aren’t we all?) and confessed that, as a rule, he never talks to Christians about anything spiritual because, he says, the conversation inevitably ends up going in the same direction, mostly ending with the exhausted and frustrated Christian telling him that he would pray for him. What he said was true. I’ve encountered countless Christians (even missionaries) that are hell bent on getting you converted, even if it kills them and I realized how that approach would actually repel somebody from the love of God.

We had a good talk, long and hard but good. I decided to keep it simple and just tell him what I believed. I would witness to what God has done in my life and how I’m changing everyday and that I believe it is faith in who Jesus is that makes the change possible at all. I told him that it took me years of searching and reading before I had a clear understanding but that the act of that head-knowledge sinking down into my heart had nothing to do with my intellect or anything I did but that, by grace, I received it because I asked to receive Jesus. I told him that my journey with God was a daily journey of stumbling and growing process and that my heart was being changed little by little. He seemed touched and conceded that, even though, he was middle-aged and felt spiritually very mature, he could not claim to be as joyful or centred in truth. As with most conversations about spirituality, I should have known better.

His attitude changed and he launched into an in-depth discussion about mysticism, spiritual encounters, yoga, gurus, chakras, the four dimensions of consciousness, angelical beings, demonic possession, universal energy, out of body experiences and so forth. What he said sounded very disorganized and even his speech seemed cluttered by a lot of random things that he claimed were all connected. He started to set out his ideas and theories and after a while he was doing all of the talking while I encouraged him to keep talking, hell bent on showing him the loving side of Christianity. So I kept listening.

After another 2 hours the conversation was getting pretty weird I knew that there’s simply no way of wrapping up a conversation about spirituality, it can go on for days. Around lunchtime I excused myself, explaining that I was exhausted and needed to sleep. We shook hands and said goodbye.

The next morning at breakfast Robert was not there but the waiter brought me a note. Robert had left early that morning and left a letter for me. It was a beautifully sincere letter saying that he was delighted to have met me and was very touched by everything that was said the day before. Attached to his letter was a thick bundle of literature, downloaded from the internet, about mysticism and spiritual seeking. I realized then that Robert had a huge amount of spiritual knowledge but it was still stuck in his head. Intellectually we would probably never find a common ground but I spoke to him from my heart and all I could hope for was that he heard with his.

Shimla is like a little heaven on earth and I’ve already broken my new rule. I’ve been here 5 days. But I don’t want to rush through Shimla. I want to savor it. Woke up this morning at 6h00 and it was raining (monsoon has started). I opened the windows and let the fresh mountain air into my bedroom and fell asleep again. Then I woke up at 8h20 and rushed downstairs to have breakfast. The complimentary breakfast at the YMCA is only served until 9h00. The plan was to just eat and go back to bed with a good book since it’s raining (reading Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina) but then an American guy, Robert, asked to join my table. Three hours later we were still talking about religion and the spiritual realm. He was a spiritual ‘seeker’ (aren’t we all?) and confessed that, as a rule, he never talks to Christians about anything spiritual because, he says, the conversation, inevitably, ends up going in the same direction. Mostly ending with the exhausted and frustrated Christian telling him that he would pray for him. What he said was true. I’ve encountered countless Christians (even missionaries) that are hell bent on getting you converted, even if it kills them and I realized how that approach would actually repel somebody from the love of God.

We had a very good talk, long, hard, intellectual and challenging but I decided that I would keep it simple and just tell him what I believed. I would witness to what God has done in my life and that I believe it is faith in who Jesus is that makes the change possible at all. I told him that it took me years of searching and reading before I had a clear understanding of it all but that the act of that head-knowledge sinking down into my heart had nothing to do with my intellect or anything I did but that , by grace, I received it because I asked to receive Jesus. I told him that my journey with God was a daily journey of stumbling, getting up and a growing process and that my heart was being changed little by little. He seemed blown away and conceded that, even though, he was middle-aged and felt spiritually very mature, he could not claim to be as joyful or centered in truth.

But then he launched into an in-depth discussion about mysticism, spiritual encounters, yoga, gurus, chakras, the four dimensions of consciousness, angelical beings, demonic possession, universal energy, out of body experiences and so forth. It was a very disorganized talk and his mind seemed cluttered by a lot of random things that he claimed was all connected. He seemed so lost in all these ideas and theories and after a while he was doing all of the talking but I encouraged him to keep talking, hell bent on showing him the loving side of Christianity. So I kept listening but it got very hard after a while because he was getting pretty weird and there’s simply no way of wrapping up a conversation about spirituality, it can go on for days. So around lunchtime I told him that I was exhausted and needed to sleep. We shook hands and said goodbye. I saw him again later that day and said a quick hello, in passing.

The next morning I was kind of hoping that I wouldn’t see him at breakfast but I also felt that I had planted a seed with him and felt stirred to fertilize the soil a bit. He wasn’t there but the waiter brought me a note. Robert had left early that morning and left a letter for me. It was a beautifully sincere letter saying that he was delighted to have met me and was very touched by everything that was said the day before. I realized then that intellectually we would probably never find a common ground but yesterday I spoke to him from my heart and his heart listened and responded.

Photo (The quality is bad, the light was gone) - Christ Church, Shimla

the dream of the World

In the YMCA in Shimla I met a fellow traveller, a short, peculiar little Australian man who carries his 1kg Lonely Planet Guide Book to India with him everywhere. He’s been travelling for the past 10 years and looks close to 40 (or an unhealthy 30) and spoke only about the dangers of travelling and the bad experiences he’s had. He has a permanent superior and condescending smile on his face, but I decided that, if people were books, than likewise I would not judge this one by its cover. When he heard my planned route up North and mode of transport he tried very hard to persuade me off my plan and told me I was insane to even attempt anything of the sort. I listened to him patiently, I decided at the start of my journey that I would listen to anyone who had advice to give. He went on and on and basically listed all the reasons why I shouldn’t or couldn’t do this ‘it’s the second highest road in the World!’ he kept saying. I told him that there would always be a thousand reasons why you shouldn’t do something, and that you needed to find one reason why you can and then just do it. He smiled a sly smile (a huge gap between his two front teeth) that seemed to say ‘well good luck to you!’. I couldn’t blame him for not being able to get his mind around it, I couldn’t even get my mind around it and decided my approach would have to be to take one day at a time.

But the talk with the Australian left me a little raw. Was I completely out of my mind? I’d only ever ridden a Vespa and now I was doing the World’s second highest road up into the Himalayas on a motorcycle, all on my own! Then I went out for lunch and met Bilal.

Bilal is a Himachal Pradesch guide, and works in Shimla planning outings for tourists. When he introduced himself he looked at me and said ‘Oh wow, you ARE adventurous!’. I had yet to tell him my plan but I agreed with his assessment. After I told him what I was planning, he was oozing excitement and admiration and asked if I knew that doing this route was often referred to as ‘the dream of the World?’. I didn’t.

We had chai and he mapped out my route for me. It was basically what I had planned but with more detail and with contact numbers for cheap accommodation in that area. When we said goodbye he told me again that what I was doing was incredible and wished me a safe journey. I strutted back to the YMCA, my confidence restored, feeling on top of the World and was stopped by a local who asked for a photograph with me. These random photo-shoots happen every day about a hundred times and while usually I’d be a bit shy today I felt worthy of a photo and posed my prettiest pose. Today humility and modesty takes a backseat. Today I am a rock star.