The Road to Manali

Getting out of bed in freezing temperatures in an unheated room is never easy, but at 5.30 in the morning, when it is still black outside and well below zero, and you have perhaps over indulged because of Divali, it is a battle of will.

But we did it, dressed in all the layers our wardrobe allowed, and waddled out to our bikes with all our kit. The stars were still bright, and only the merest smudge of sunrise in the sky.

Jamaica was there with hot chai, Mark had come to catch an early bus and Trixie to say goodbye too. Also too the truck promised had arrived with its driver Beejay. At the last minute, we woke up Spanish James, and insisted that he come with us too - Jamaica was not that happy as he thought it would take up space in the cab which we might need, but he needed to get to Manali and we had space.

It was sad saying goodbye. In the last 24 hours, we had come together as a family to celebrate Divali. We had visited monsateries, watched monks dance, drank and laughed together. But life is all about partings, and when you are traveling in foreign places, both meeting and leaving happens much more quickly and more intensely.

Before 7 we were on the road out heading north to Kunzum. Dan and I on Carmen and Butch, and James and Beejay following in the truck. It was cold. Colder than I had thought possible. The wind grasped out our skin through the layers of clothes, rasping them with icy fire. My hands grew colder and colder, until I could feel them no more, and my fingers turned into icicles of pain.

Dan was even more exposed, his gloves thinner and less wind proof. The roads were good, but less then 20km outside of Kaza, we had to pull over. Dan could not even speak he was in such pain. We tried to warm our hands on the engines of the bikes, but it took a long time to warm ourselves to a point we could continue.

20km and 20 minutes later we had to pull over again. The pain in our hands was making driving dangerous - we could not feel the clutch or the accelerator. The landscape was stunning, the road winding through boulder fields with mountains marching on either side, but we could not appreciate it. As Dan said, 'Its beautiful, but its fucking horrible'.

Eventually though we made Losar, the last village before Kunzum and the only habitation until Manali. We stopped for Chai and breakfast of Parantha.

James asked to borrow some toilet paper, disappeared behind the building for a while, then came back with a smile on his face. 'A shit at 4000m. Unbelievable. I think this record will stand!',

Slowly the sun came up, warming the air bit by bit, raising our spirits and bringing life back into our bodies. The first hour of the journey was so painful, that I was not sure we could complete the journey. It was with a heavy, dread heart, that we turned our bikes north, and started the rise to the 5500m high pass of Kunzum-La.

Snow started creeping down from the mountains until it covered the banks of the road. Specks of white started to appear on the path. Soon patches of ice between the rocks. We were able to steer around most of them at first, but there soon came areas where we had to drive over them. And then ahead, a 50m stretch of snow, with two watery tracks between them where a lorry had passed. We stopped, drew a breath, and then nosed our bikes through.

A slight skid, a quick adjustment, a slip... and then we were through. The snow behind us, back onto the rocky path. The road wound higher, the steep turns occasionally glittering with frost, but no other really tricky patches. Higher and higher, until we crested the ridge, and the pass of Kunzum-La was before us.

A high desolate but beautiful place, White mountains in every direction, still and quiet. There was a shrine at the top, covered in flags. It felt peaceful and serene, and to be honest, not at all what I was expecting. There was no howling winds, no bitter gales, no vengeful traps waiting for us. I prayed at the shrine for a moment thanking her for her generosity and asking for her blessing, left a donation, and then we carried on.

The path down was easier than the ascent and we started to pull away from James and Beejay in the truck. About 500m down, the path levelled off into a river valley.

It was an eerie yet thrilling ride. Boulders everywhere, some the size of houses, some the size of cars, some smaller, football sized, as if they had been torn from the mountains and tossed randomly about. Almost as if the Gods in some ancient war had laid waste to the place. The road itself was just rubble, streams occasionally crossing it. It was a thrilling landscape to drive though, much better terrain for bikes than cars, and we sped through. The truck was left far behind as we sped through. Nothing on the road, perhaps 10 vehicles drive through each day.

We stopped twice to allow the truck to cat up. Firstly by an abandoned guesthouse, and then by a bizarrely open chai shop, 3 hours drive from the nearest habitation. Dan and I were in excellent spirits, our pain from the early morning start forgotten.

'The conversation is excellent in the truck'. James joked ruefully in his accented English, a smile playing at his lips. 'One sentence. "You staying Manali?"

We started again on the road to Rohtang. Not paved, but after our experiences of the last weeks, easy. And then tarmac appeared and our speed increased up to about 60.

A turn off to Lay and Ladakh halfway up, which called to me and beckoned me, but we had to ignore it. The pass that way is definitely closed.

And then we were at the top, and a scene that I was not expecting. Coachloads of Bengali tourists, drinking chai, riding ponies, driving along in little atv carts, some trying to ski. Vendors selling chai and roast corn on the cob. A joyful, family place.

And overlooking all of them, a shrine, seemingly proud and watchful of them, enjoying their exuberance. An atmosphere of warmth and benevolence.

James and Beejay caught up, and after a while, we continued the final 50km. Apart from a few tough stretches where they were making the road, it was tarmac all the way down. Green grass and trees, neither of which we had seen for more than a week were very welcome.

So eventually we drew into Manali around 6pm, just as the sun was setting. Decided to stay in Vashist, a tourist village a couple of kilometres on the advice of a girl we met on an Enfield.

It has an atmosphere similar to the Kho San road in Bangkok, all tourist shops, internet cafes, restaurants and hotels, with a real traveller vibe. A hotel manager found us as we were unloading, so rooms were forthcoming.

We said goodbye to Beejay, and after a shower, had a festive meal and beer together.

We had completed the drive accross the passes. In the end, it was not so difficult or as fearsome as I thought. The weather was beautiful, the roads were good for us. We could have done it easily without the truck and Beejay, but it was good to know they were there behind us.

I had heard the legend of Rohtang and Kunzum-La the day before. It seemed to me that they had learned their lessons - they were kind and benevolent on the day. The valleys are once again prosperous and holy, the people rich and happy again. From the bottom of my heart, I hope that they are soon re-united with their father
in the realm of the Gods.