Mabali

Here I am in Manali - compared to Kasol it is Metropolis, Las Vegas and New York rolled into one - it is bigger, better and has excellent shopping. The food is adjusted to Israeli palates and even has a couple of bars (which I have not visited because my previous experience of bars here has shown me that they are, in effect, an exclusively male preserve and who wants to sit in the company of 50 guys at least as desperate as yourself?). Like the Paravati Valley the Kullu Valley where Manali lies is green and surrounded by snow-capped mountains but is not as quiet as Kasol (and I've had more than enough of quiet for a while). This is a very popular tourist destination for Indians too and I have seen no religious connection - for them it is apparently a fun place and we can see them playing from time to time at what most travellers consider "local" entertainment and are too uppity to take part in though to me they look like fun - for example being bounced in a sling over the raging Beas river or riding a yak through the town.

Manali is two towns - Old Manali, which is considered more "in" and where we, the travellers hang out and New Manali where the Indians stay is considered too "modern" but I liked it and the shopping is much more fun. It has a lovely, colourful market with much for the "cheap junk shopaholic' to go crazy over and since that is what I am, I did - you are all invited to a veiwing at my home after the 1st of September (mind you that is when I will arrive back in Eilat). I dont really understand why they call it New Manali - after a year in India everything is "Old" and in truth the only way to differentiate between them is to lok for white faces - more white faces = Old Manali, less white faces = New Manali. Very simple, its all a question of maths. I have come to Manali to do some business so I am not touring although there is much to see and do here but as I will be returning after leh and spending a few more days here I will do them then so you needn't worry that I am not doing my share of tourism.

The 3 hour trip here would have been unremarkable but for the fact that I invited a young lady along for the journey which should have been a fun cruise except that an hour and a half after leaving Kasol we were hit by a monsoon which poured down for an hour with us stuck in a dhaba drinking chai and smoking ......... and when we got back on the road we were caught in rain agin after about an hour and we had to hole up again for 2 hours which was rather unpleasant as we were high in the mountains and the weather turned cold and none of us was really dressed for the cold, least of all the young lady who was wearing shorts and no socks. Lucky for her she was sitting behind big, fat me which blocked off a lot of the wind but what had started off as a pleasant joyride ended up being the "Motorcycle Hell-Ride" and has probably put her off bikes forever. Ah well, you can't convert them all.

It is good to be back on the road. I have had a fun time in Kasol - those who have been will understand - but now it is time to move on. I will write about Kasol and Paravati properly before I leave. I know! I know! I have promised this before but this time I will come through. Depend on it. Trust me. The cheque is in the mail.

Paravati

Paravati Valley is a long narrow valley with a road which winds up for about 65 kms and then ends. Along the road are about 4 or 5 villages with Kasol being the tourist center and the tourists being about 90% Israeli. Kasol is in fact the only real foreign tourist resort while Manikaram, about 4 kms up the valley draws the locals in great numbers. Away from the road, after
Varasani, the last village on the road, you have to trek up in to the hills to get to the various tourist destinations which are a few tiny villages high up in the mountains which make the valley a valley.
After much persuasion I agreed to accompany Gingi to Tosh, the nearest of the mountain villages, about a 90 minute walk from Varasani. We took the bus to there, my first experience of a "local" bus and of course I had the drunk leaning over breathing on and and trying to talk to me during the entire 40 minute ride (another reason I'm so happy to be riding a bike) through one of the most beautiful valleys I have ever seen. There is a raging river, beautiful waterfalls, green forests, quaint villages and of course the ever present possibility of the bus going off the edge of the cliff.
At Varasani we got off the bus and headed up into the hills and of course got lost, took the wrong way and ended up walking an extra 45 minutes. But "no worries mate" it was, except for a bit of climbing (quite a bit actually) a stroll in the park and like the bus ride it was through
beautiful scenery and the extra walk was if anything, a pleasure. Along the very narrow path we came up behind a herd of sheep and goats and had to wait till the whole parade reached a wide spot on the path so that we could pass. But the whole way was breathtakingly beautiful.
Tosh seen from afar is beautiful too but up close it is a filthy collection of filthy, broken down hovels, some of which have been converted into guest houses and restaurants to cater to the tourist trade which is quite brisk, again, mainly Israelis. The view around Tosh is indescribable, suffice that I mention green forests, towering trees, herds and herdsmen, villages and villagers, blue skies, pouring rain and of course the ever present snow covered peaks. But for me nothing can make up for the shortcomings of the village which is torn between the 12th and 18th century, internet and washing machine notwithstanding. And it is cold, fucking cold so after one night I was quite happy to walk down again - 40 minutes - and get on the bus back to Kasol.
We were very lucky to come down just as the bus was about to leave but the conductor waited another minute for us and we were off. Which was quite strange as we had come down at 3:15 and the bus was supposed to leave at 2:30. A nice German tourist explained to me that the bus had been delayed twice because the srteering was not working! Now he tells me! But the drive back to Kasol was without incident and the steering held out and all was well.
Next I'm off to Manali and then Kashmir and Leh but not before I send a longish description of Kasol and Paravati - when I get round to it.

The Rules of the Road

Actually this has absalutely nothing to do with motorcycles, in fact its rather pedestrian (Sorry!)

A couple of days ago I was strolling down the main street of Kassol, old Kassol to be exact, that is the first 150 meters of street which have run down little guesthouses, restaurants, internet cafes and tourist shops, which differs very little from new Kassol which is the second 150 meters which has little guesthouses, restaurants, internet cafes and tourist shops. I was strolling along minding my own business and thinking happy, happy thoughts when suddenly my attention was drawn to shouting ahead of me.

I looked up from my deep contemplation of the road in front of my feet to see a jeep coming towards me with a guy running behind shouting to the driver to stop, which he didn't. I thought he was running after a taxi which he had ordered but which had somehow gone past and he was trying to catch its attention when my eye also caught a young lady lying on the ground a 50 meters in front of me. Of course my mind slowly made the connection and I foolishly stepped into the middle of the road and blocked his way.

Fortunately he must have decided that 2 (he had actually hit two girls but one had only been grazed) victims was enough for one day and pulled to a stop just in front of me. I stood there until the boy who had been shouting trotted up and started shouting at the driver.

And then I heard the sentence which I will always cherish - "BUT I HORNED THREE TIMES". Thats it, apparently in India if you toot the horn 3 times that is sufficient. If some pedestrian is so stupid (or perhaps just "hearing impaired") as tp not get out of the way they are fair game.

All the rest pails behind that sentence, the fact that the girls were right off the road is irrelavent, the fact that he hit one and then the other (fortunately all occured at low speed) is irrelavent, the fact that he didn't even stop is irrelavent - HE HORNED THREE TIMES - 007 - License To Kill.

You can't not love this country.

Of course there was great indignation on the part of several Israelis who were witness to the excitement or arrived soon after - lynch the bastard, smash his car, call the police. This is India guys! You're not Indian you're to blame! It doesn't matter that you were walking and he was driving, you're a forigner, your'e rich, you pay. Thats how it works, you cant fight city hall. And everybody is carrying a generous supply of garras. You don't want the police anywhere near you idiots.

And with those thoughts in mind I quickly melted away.

The best part is that the driver of the jeep was quite certain that he had done nothing wrong. He couldn't understand why the people around were getting so indignant. I stared at his almost blank face for a while before melting and all I could see was astonishment that anyone should have any kind of beef with him, after all, he had horned three times.

Walk carefully my friends.

Zen and the Art of Motorbike Riding in India - Part 5

I am now in Kasol in the Paravati Valley and like the lotus eaters I have lost all will to move. it is like being in a picture postcard. It is not at all what I had expected, I had imagined a broad valley where you could not see the sides and little mud villages scattered around the countryside with thousands of Israelis riding between them on motorbikes and endless trance parties.

Well the bikes are here and I believe the parties will be here soon and the thousands of Israelis are here with more pouring in every day. But the scenery is completely different, We are high in the mountains, in the (lower) Himalayas actually and the valley is narrow and intensely green with snowcapped mountains (Again! For F%^$ sake, youve already used that word several times before - true, but these arent towering above me) at the end of the fast flowing Paravati River just outside my room. It is like Paradise Regained except you have to make allowences for time and place. There are as many signs in Hebrew as in Tel Aviv and that is the main language spoken here (more I am sure even than signs in Hindi). I will be staying here for a while.More about Kasol will come later.

But I really wanted to tell you about our journey from Rishikesh to here. In Rishikesh the guys I'm travelling with met "Papa" an old (my age) Norwegian hippie type who has lived here for the last few years riding around on the most elaborate Enfield I have seen to date, in fact whenever our convoy stopped the rest of us were ignored as the locals all rushed to crowd around Papa. Papa is permenantly stoned, at levels which I can only imagine, when I met him he was sitting in one of the popular cafes in Rishikesh so stoned he could not talk. For the first hour I only saw him move when someone offered him a chillum which he always accepted with alacrity, drew deep into his lungs and only exhaled when he had passed the chillum to the next person. Never said a word nor did he react to anything said to him, just sat staring stonely, stonedly ahead. Rrom time to time he would come out with a sentence which while gramatically and syntaxicly correct, is connected to nothing we may be talking about.

At one of these meetings it was agreed that Papa and a couple of other bikes would join us on the journey to Kasol. the journey kept getting put off (mainly for sexual reasons with which, unfortunately I had nothing to do)but finally it was decided that we would leave on Saturday and at 7:30 am on Saturday Pappa was at our guesthouse on his bike ready to roll. But no-one else was (I was but I'm not admitting that). Eventually everybody was organised and ready to go. We were, Papa, Houdini (an Irishman), Gutte (Elad) with Gingi riding pillion, Noam and myself.

The first days riding was relatively easy and trouble free although the roads were at times bad and I did get slightly sideswiped but with no real damage. The scenery was amazing and we drove through mountains, valleys and plains all green and bright with gezillions of monkeys frolicing by the side of the road. The ride was great, Papa led the convoy and was perfect, he rode neither too fast nor too slow, if he got too far ahead and lost us he stopped to wait and all this time he never really said a word. Even when we took a break to skin up or have a drink he didnt talk, unless it was about the journey or to cough as horribly as I do after he took a pull on the chillumm and he took a lot of pulls! Towards evening we reached Punchkol and wanted to stop for the night and Papa wanted to sleep in the great out-doors while we all wanted a hotel. There did not appear to be any guesthouses along the way but every couple of kms we passed a turn-off with a sign to Punchkol and on a whim I said we should turn off at the next one and we did. We turned into a different world, broad, villa lined, empty boulevards which led us to 2 beautiful hotels, we couldnt afford to stay at either one and ended up in the "Suud Memorial Boarding House and Hospital"! where all the rooms are dedicated to one Dr. Suud or another or his mother which was no more than adequate but did have A/C in desert cooler form and hot water for bathing - a prerequisite after a Hard Days Ride. While wew were at the hotels we decided to check them out and ended up in the elegent bar of the Shiraaz - and us so dirty and scruffy after the day's ride - we had vodka, beer and coffee and determined to return for dinner. on our way to the hotel for dinner we passed through a magnificent neighbourhood of lovely villas each with 2, 3 or even 4 cars and a couple of matorbikes in the closed off parking area attached to each house. "Yeah" I said, "but wait until we see it in the morning, it will be as rundown and bleak and unfinished as anything else we have seen here". And we continued merrily on our way to dinner which was as exquisite as the hotel promised. I felt like I was back in the time of the Raj, clean, quiet, neat dining room with old wood panneling and furniture (not the usual plastic garden furniture you find in most restaurants) clean, quiet neat waiters (who except for the chap in charge not one of them understood a word we said to them), the food was excellent (I had the Chicken Stroggonof - delicious). It was a Magic Moment in India.

The next morning when I looked again the villas were still perfect, we could have been in Tarzana or Herzlia. We were up and on the road early(ish) and riding happilly along with only about 230 kms to do and a mostly good road beneath our tyres. And then it happened (okay so thats a cliche but it did) I came round the corner in Mandi and there was a car in the middle of the road and Houdini almost, but not quite, under it. Of course we all pull over and rush over to see whts happened and how Houdini is. he is almost alright, some bangs and bruises and aches and pains but not out of it. Fortunately there is a bike shop just opposite (there is almost always a bike shop opposite - not neccessarily an Enfield shop but you can get most things done in any 2 wheeler garage) and they manage to straighten out the front wheel and the handle bars and poor Houdini is ready to roll again (with the help of a couple or more pain-killers and a few pulls on a joint). In the meantime Papa has been sitting on his bike starting it every few minutes and revving for a while and then turning it off all the while muttering (in a loud voice for all and sundry to hear) that he's ridden bikes in much worse condition - from manali to Delhi with the handle-bars parralel to the bike, from Rishikesh to Agra with one whell and a broken leg and mor in that vein. And all the time we can see a neon sign flashing in front of his eyes saying

"Kasol! Kasol! Kasol!" he is totally focused on getting there that night.

We move off and I can see that Houdini is a bit nervous (the old falling off a horse thing) but as he rides he regains his confidence and is soon doing fine and I am hard pressed to keep up with him (for some reason I always end up as Tail End Charlie), Papa in the meantime is lost to sight, he has obviously forgotten about us completely and is racing to Kasol. Then Gutte and Noam start dropping back and after a while we discover that Gutte has lost 1st gear and is only able to use 2nd occaisionally and we are climbing really steep hills with quite a lot of traffic and its hard to start the bike in 3rd! Then of course we lose Houdini and finally manage to limp into Bhuntar just as darkness falls. We quickly check into the first decent (!) guesthouse we find (actually it was quite comfortable and we got a fair supper and the service was good so please ignore my earlier snide punctuation). Gutte and Noam go off to find a mechanic and return an hour later to report success and the bike would be ready at about 11 the next day. And it was.

The next morning was a bit of an anticlimax, we got up late, lazed about, collected the bike and rode leasurely to Kasol on a beautiful mountain road with magnificent view and a river flowing below and then before us were the aformentioned snowcapped mountains and we were in Kasol.
And you will get more about Kasol later if you have the patience.

Thank you Papa and Houdini - wherever you are.