Mountain Smiles Continued

Ok, I lied. I wasn’t ready. At all.

Have you ever woken up before your body? Where your eyeballs are darting around behind your eyelids, willing them to open; your body’s as heavy as lead and no matter what signal your brain sends, your limbs refuse to obey? Yeah. Scrambling up a mountain for 6 hours induces that same affect. I didn’t try too hard fighting it though. I just laid there on the hard, unforgiving bed, enjoying the sudden awareness of every muscle in my body. I was reminded of a story I read in one of my hippy, spiritual books where an apprentice monk kept asking his master, ‘how does one be present?’ day in and day out, wanting his master to give him a plain language answer- but being ‘present’ is not a concept to be understood purely on an intellectual level. It must be experienced. Fed up with the apprentice monk’s incessant questioning, the master sent him away with a huge load on his back to the top of the steepest and tallest mountain in the region. ‘Deliver this load and you will understand what it means to be present’. The monk couldn’t see how that would help him understand, but obeyed anyway. It was the hardest climb of his life and his load was an absolute bitch to carry. Once he reached the top he was exhausted, sweaty, shaky and weak. He dumped his load and fell to the ground, relishing the end of his errand. He was so tired he couldn’t think of anything. Suddenly, he was aware of every twitch, pain, pore and fibre in his body. He felt the breeze caress his sweaty skin, cooling it down. He could smell the grass on which he lay and heard the subtle sounds of nature surrounding him. He looked around and his eyes widened in awe of the beauty. He smiled. He was present.

My experience wasn’t quite as romantic as that, but it falls in the same genre.

We had 5 more hours of trekking before we reached Chamba Town. Down hill. Which seemed like a relief…but once we started, we were a convoy of stiff-kneed, whinging Westerners. Ow ow ow ow OW OW OW OW OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWW. I loved it! I thought it was hilarious! But that’s usually my reaction to anything. Why take the situation so seriously? It’s only temporary.

The biggest test of the trek though, wasn’t the heat, wasn’t the lack of shade, wasn’t the protesting muscles, nor was it the annoying spring in Sahil’s step as he bounded from rock to rock DOWN the mountainside- it was waiting for the bus.

Karin and I trying to make sense of the Crazy Lady at the station. That's not me being mean! The locals told us she was!

After a 2000m descent, a hearty lunch and a pep-talk for the last leg of our journey to Orchard Hut, we waited for the bus. At the local bus station (in INDIA, need I remind you). In 38 degree heat. Encircled by locals (yes, we had an in-the-round audience to witness the Western Misery show). No seats. For an HOUR, where we, as Clo so eloquently expressed, ‘slowly descended into the depths of our inner hell’. Mother Jen, English Adam and Porcelain Joelle stood there stone-faced; Traveller Karin sat on her backpack with her head between her knees- given up; Tom kept moving Clo out of the way of oncoming buses; and Chetan and Sahil were fending off all the locals with camera phones, trying to take snaps of us. Me? I was there. Laughing.

Then finally our bus came. Chetan called us all to follow him to the entrance to get on the bus that had just arrived at the station. We all whooped and cheered and elbowed our way through the sea of Indians to get a seat on the bus. Naively optimistic, we thought we would just take off once we were all on, but the bus started reversing further and further back into the station and stopped- right where we were standing. And there we waited for another 30 minutes. Without aircon. *sigh. At least we were sitting? The latter wait wasn’t that bad. Tom lightened the mood by telling lame dad-jokes, which led me to give my mean impression of a leprechaun. Clo said I had the best Irish accent she’d ever heard in a joke. Coming from an Irish girl- BOOM! That’s a compliment! Then the engine started up and we were off on the most terrifying bus ride any of us had experienced. The bus driver was a Jedi using nothing but the force to careen his way around blind corners with only centimeters between the wheels and the vertical drop of the mountainside. We all held on, white-knuckled, for our dear lives. I was still laughing- but not really.

Mother Jen and I on the bus, putting on a brave face. Except Adam in the background. He had that face and variations of it the whole way.

Once the bus stopped, we all shakily disembarked, relieved to have survived the ordeal. But then were hit with a fresh wave of dread when we realized we had another hour of ascent up to Orchard Hut.

‘There has to be another way. I’ll pay. I don’t care. I’m out of water. There must be another way.’ Poor Karin. She looked like she was ready to cry. Chetan just ignored her pleas and said that we were at the ‘elephant’s tail’ of the journey. Just a teeny-tiny bit left. Once we started, I was really surprised by how easy it was. I guess because we’d been moving downhill for so much of the day, it was actually a relief on the muscles to be going back up. Kind of like turning around in circles for ages one way, and then turning the other way to feel right again.

‘There’s the Hut.’ Sahil announced. And there it was, emerging from the plantation of fruit trees, a gorgeous wooden structure, carefully built into the green of the mountain. It was absolutely gorgeous. It was like someone had planted a huge seed and from it bloomed a HOUSE. Waiting past the tree hammocks and more fruit trees, was Mr. Prakash. The owner and founder of Orchard Hut- his passion and dream. He was a friendly faced, old man with big, bouncy belly and fuzzy ears that made him look like he had steam coming of out them. He welcomed us with a huge smile and open arms:

‘Welcome Back to Nature.

’

Welcomed with a traditional Himachal cap and bindi at Orchard Hut

Mountain Smiles

All geared up and ready for trekking!

The morning after our enlightening Cheese Conference in Dalhousie, we met Sahil. A fresh-faced young man who (I was very pleased to learn) will be escorting us on our 2-day trek with his mountaineering expertise to his home town, Chamba Valley. When I say ‘escorting’ I really mean, ‘skipping alongside us as we trudge and drag our unfit Western asses up and down a series of ever changing natural terrain’.

‘The mountains are my playground.’ He would shrug and flash his amazing smile. It was a smile that sits so easily and sincerely on his face that you can’t help but stop and admire. Or in my case, stare in open-mouth amazement. He has a small chip in his front tooth, which would normally spoil a set of perfectly straight teeth. But in his case it just made his smile all the more genuine, as if to say ‘I’m not going to hide this flaw; it’s part of who I am.’

Sahil led us through jungle and forestry of 50 different shades of green. Chetan also told us that there are 29 shades of brown…but doesn’t that depend on what you eat? (Clo was the only one who heard me say that to appreciate it. Thanks, Clo! Can always count on you!) So, as I put each foot forward and breathed in the freshness of natural India, I felt myself filling up with a sense of elation…and relief. So many trees to hug!! Our footsteps rose and fell with the mountains as the path changed underneath us. We went from flat, gravel paths littered with dried pine needles, to steep rocky slopes (we had to crane our necks to see where we were going), to moist, mossy grounds where fresh spring water freely cut through the terrain. My heart was singing with joy to the tune of the mountains…the hills are alive with the sound of music. For those who know me well (and perhaps not so well) won’t be surprised to learn that I wasn’t shy to belt this out during the trek.

Finally after 6 hours of ascent and perspiration, we arrived in Khajjier AKA Mini-Swiss. If it weren’t for the cows weaving in and out of the café tables, I would’ve thought I was in Switzerland! Once we reached flat grounds I was hit by a second-wind. I spread my arms out like wings and ran across the grass towards the steaming pots that promised chai chai chai! I shouldn’t have done that. I exhausted the last of my energy reserves. Later at the hotel, I pretty much ate dinner with my face on the plate and excused myself from the group at 8 and slept till morning. It was like Delhi all over again! Mother Jen’s right, I’m consistent with my high energy and light moods, but I crash and burn. Haha whoops. But that’s ok. When I woke up, I was more than ready for trekking, day TWO!

Say 'Cheeeeese!'

The stereotype is correct. The English love cheese. Seriously. I didn’t know it was possible to have a 2-hour conversation purely dedicated to cheese. The curdling, the storing, the moulds, the melt, the types, the consumption…Meanwhile, Bollywood music drifted into the hotel restaurant from the balcony for a monthly social event for the local Dalhousie college students. I could hear them laughing, singing and dancing. And there we were… talking cheese. It even continued into the next day on our trek into the fresh pine forest at 3000m above sea level when Tom (who is also English) learnt that he had missed out on our cheese conversation and excitedly listed all these great French cheese fondue boutiques all around the world. Then soon after, on a soft, grass-laden terrace with amazing views of the mountainous landscape, it was revealed in conversation that Porcelain Joelle was once hit and bruised by a wheel of cheese. She was watching the massive annual event in England where a bunch of (otherwise rational) people risk their lives chasing a huge cheese chunk down a rocky, grassy, 45 degree angle hillside.

So by the end of it all, it was appropriate for me to have cut the cheese for laughing so bloody hard.

Maharaja in Mandi

Backtracking slightly, we had a one-day, one-night stopover in Mandi before Dharamshala. Mandi is a quiet, modest town where the Region’s Maharaja resides. There, we stayed at the Raj Mahal- a palace turned hotel…where the Region’s Maharaja resides. COOL! Chetan had also taken the liberty to organize dinner with His Highness. EVEN COOLER! But first, we met another interesting character whilst strolling around town:

He was the most defeated looking donkey I’d ever seen.

‘Deb, no! Don’t take a picture of the poor thing!’ Clo was horrified at the pathetic state of the donkey. Traffic flowed around it while it stood there static, wondering where the grass was. Cars honked, bicycles dinged... the donkey didn’t even blink. Then a huge bus came along. Unable to drive around it, the bus horn blared. The donkey’s ear twitched but still made no effort to move. The bus driver threw his hands up, put the bus into gear and rear-ended the donkey and STILL it only took a couple of steps. I expected it to lay down, roll on to its back and beg, ‘Please.’ Chetan explained that donkeys in India are equal to stray dogs. Once the owners are done with them, they simply abandon them. I don't get it; why wouldn't you want to save your ass? There are so many rogue, flea-infested donkeys roaming the streets and needless to say they’re treated with much less respect than their Moo-ing counterparts. I reckon you’d have to have done something real bad in your past life to come back as a donkey in India.

So, what does one do, say or expect when meeting a Maharaja? Ceremonious trumpets to announce his arrival? Bows and kissing of the feet? Dialogue through an interpreter who not only translates but censors inappropriateness?

We all sat in our best-dress in the lush garden restaurant, furnished with ornate stone tables and chairs adorned with velvet cushions. Before we’d all gone to get ready for dinner, Chetan gave us a short synopsis about His Highness:

Although his title remains, the Maharaja no longer holds official political power. But he still commands the respect of the people of the region. Because of his popularity, he is constantly consulted by the government to help make final decisions for passing laws and bills. There are dates and stuff to his reign and royal lineage…but I’m not so good at remembering those kinds of details.

As the tour group arrived for dinner in dribs and drabs, there was this old dude in a checkered short-sleeve shirt, sitting with Chetan at the end of the table, casually chatting away. I breezed on by, smiling politely with acknowledgement, saving my bigger, brighter smile for His Highness. Then Chetan called me back and introduced me to Mr. Sahib- the Maharaja of Himachal Pradesh. I was struck by the informality. The Maharaja held his hand out without rising from his seat and without implication that I should be bowing down or something. We all sat there around the dinner table with an air of awkwardness, all not knowing what do in the presence of royalty. And then Maharaja Sahib said:

‘I have a question of legality for you regarding where you are from.’ Everyone sat up ready to answer as best as they can.

‘Can a widow’s husband remarry his wife’s sister?’

‘That’ll be the sister-in-law…so yes, he can.’ I reasoned.

‘In the West, we can remarry whoever we want as long as they’re not blood related.’ Tom offered.

The Maharaja scratched his chin, ‘but…how can he remarry if he’s dead?’

There was a pause. And then we all threw our heads back in laughter and slapped our foreheads. A widow’s husband! Duh! The Maharaja had shattered the ice and everyone was put at ease. Fortunately for me, I thrive in social events that involve riddles and lame jokes. But unfortunately, the Maharaja has been around for longer and knew all the riddles I tried to tell:

‘If a plane crashes on the border of-‘

‘You can’t bury the survivors.’

‘Oh… alright then, how far can a dog-‘

‘Halfway!’

‘Oh…’ and so on and so forth.

But my shining moment came when I solved one of his riddles! All by myself! I’m so smat!

I really enjoyed Maharaja Sahib’s company; his presence was a non-dominating one, but he still knew how to capture attention with his lighthearted humour and down-to-earth attitude. I prefer that over trumpets and feet kissing any day.