S'kau now?

So, from Mandi we hopped on an early bus to Manali. Now, from what we’ve read about Manali, there isn’t that much to look forward to except the fact that they are a big enough transport hub that they run buses to Delhi. It was basically decided we would go to Manali purely for this fact. Lonely Planet otherwise said that it was a busy, hippy-ish tourist town with not much potential except to be a bit of a drug and wannabe spiritual haven. I imagine (with squinted eyes, while I was there.. ) that it really was beautiful back in the 60’s, and probably would have lived up to its Shangri-La moniker. But jumping off the bus, I definitely felt my heart drop a little.

As far as I could see were relatively modern buildings, tonnes of billboards and dirty hippies and unfortunate looking dogs. Beyond that.. were the mountains. I’ve never been so up close and personal with a mountain side, you basically had to cross a small river and you were right at the base. It was astonishing – snow covered peaks literally within a short walk.

Unable to imagine staying in Manali, we cracked up Lonely Planet. They recommended a little town outside Manali, Vishisht. About a ten minute rickshaw ride to the wrong guesthouse.. and we truly were in heaven. We were dropped off at “Dharma Guest House”, and had to climb up a relatively treacherous but completely endearing set of stone stairs to get there. It was basically the highest guesthouse into the mountains, looking down on all the houses and restaurants, and faced right into the most beautiful mountain I have ever seen. Hamish and I didn’t think that there was any way that we could afford such beautiful rooms and such a fantastic view.. But at 350 rupees (about 9 dollars ish) it was a steal. Earlier in the season it probably would have been a lot cheaper, but the owner informed us it was going up to 800 rupees next week, then beyond as it got busier. I would have paid a lot more – to step out my door and look at the mountains, to sit on the porch swing and look at the stars and the village.. It was priceless.

Vishist was fantastic. It had this air of a place that had discovered from some guidebook that it was cool, and really didn’t give half a flying tiger about it. Vishisht actually has hot springs in the upper mountains, and they pipe them down into the village baths – which you walked through upon reaching the bottom of the steps. Essentially we left our hotel, wound our way through houses and backyards and come out in the middle of the hot springs; people washing clothes, dogs, their children, themselves. It was great, we eventually came to know the rotation of who would be there when. All the men would take a wash in the morning, then those who didn’t have anyone to wash their clothes would do it after, then in the afternoon mums would drag their kids down and do laundry while they scrubbed their kids clean.

The baths were flanked by two temples, made of exquisitely carved dark wood. It was so incredibly beautiful to walk through these gates of temples and into the mist of the public baths, then climb the steps up to a warm bed and a view that was, and probably still is, beyond description.

Vishisht proper was tiny and sweet. A dozen restaurants and a few shops selling the necessary toques and mittens that everyone forgot to bring. There was basically no meat in any of the restaurants, the closest thing was trout fished from the river you could see right from the patio. Behind the shops, the community began. These huge wooden rambling houses, with cows and goats tied to the front porch, vegetable gardens in the back – it was unlike any other small town - the architecture a mix of wild west, colonial gothic and Indian mughal style. With the mountain air, the clean glacier water and the hot springs.. Everyone just looked healthier. The cultural mix of Tibetans, Nepalese, Indian, various hill tribes; it genetically conspired to make some of the most beautiful people I have ever seen. Wide tanned faces, huge smiling eyes, it was a phenomenal sight.

Our first evening there was spent wandering around, Hamish walked along the river while I did a little knitting, had some tea and did a little shopping. After some quality lazing about and exploring, we went on a search for coffee, something other than Nescafe, which is the bland potato in wolfs clothing in India. So, ambling down main street, there was a little hand painted sign in an alley “Tired of Nescafe?” It seemed like a wilier version of fate than what I was used to – but we followed suite.

The alley was water logged, filled with rocks and debris and some sort of construction was going on overhead. We took a wrong turn and ended up in somebody’s home, turns out that’s actually what we were looking for, just downstairs. We backtracked, and came to a menu hand painted onto a concrete wall, surrounded by little chairs and chess boards. Standing, dumbfounded, a little blond lady came out the door and asked us if we’d like coffee. Which, ultimately, we did.

She introduced herself as Morena, and then introduced her boyfriend (which makes their relationship sound menial – the appeared to be so much more than just what the simple moniker of boyfriend and girlfriend denote) Nathin. She is a Croatia girl, an Indian Studies major, he’s a sweet young Indian guy with his masters in economics, and together they run a little Turkish coffee shop out of the back of their concrete bedroom/home. And in the spare time, they motorcycle around India. I don’t think that sounds believable – but ultimately, it was.

They were fantastic, and Morena’s coffee was such that we returned the next day. But that evening we spent until late into the night talking and smoking and drinking cinnamon Turkish coffee and knitting (Morena was making a scarf as well) and being quiet. It was fantastic. Nathin summed up our laughter at the somewhat dubious alley entrance thus – “The people who brave that alley, who want to know what is here – those are the people that we want to know, that we want to meet.” I can’t think of a better way to streamline and meet people. They taught us one important thing. The Croats have invented a single word to mean “Would you like a cup of coffee?” - Sh’ kau? (shh-cow) The answer, if you’re so inclined, is “Ocho” (sounds like the Spanish word for eight). We didn’t, however, learn how to say no. So when I do make it to Croatia, I’ll do so drinking a heck of a lot of coffee.

The evening was really chilly, (by my standards) and I had about 5 layers, a toque and a scarf on to sit out on the patio. I wouldn’t have changed a thing. It’s a completely different sensation, so clean and beautiful and real to be chilled by mountain air, instead of an air conditioner. I enjoyed every second of it.

The next morning proving just as beautiful as the previous, we had an unforgettable breakfast of dahl and garlic chapattis. They used really thin slices of garlic mixed into the chapatti bread, and it was phenomenal. We sat right outside the public baths at the one outside table there was, and could only exclaim at how lucky we were to be eating such good food at the base of such beautiful snow capped mountains. I don’t know if I’ve ever had such a meal in my life, in view of such beauty – but I doubt I’ll have another until I eat breakfast again in Vishisht.

After breakfast we walked up through the village to a waterfall that was so beautiful and cold that I don’t think pictures will do it justice. We crested a ridge and came on the full view and were absolutely taken aback. It only increased the surrealness of the frame that there were all these long haired blue eyed mountain goats and huge cows being grazed by a group of hill tribe women. It was almost unbelievable, so intrinsically beautiful that at the time, you take it for granted instead of simply staring. I climbed down and sat on one of the dry rocks in the waterfall and continued to knit my scarf. Whenever I wrap it around my neck, I know that some part of it was knit amidst a herd of goats and a Himalayan waterfall.

I’m not sure why I fell in love with Vishisht so hard. It could have been the 360 degrees of mountains, maybe the people, maybe the food and the air and the happiness it invoked in me.. I think it’s a beautiful place, filled with kind and beautiful people. It was the perfect end to my trip. Sometimes I wonder if had I turned around when leaving, if it really would still be there.

So that was my trip. I’ll spare you the details of my horrible 14 hour ride home in a broken bus seat with an unhappy arranged marriage beside me. The only wonderful thing about that part was the end. (And standing around at three in the morning with an Israeli, an Italian, and an Australian drinking sugary chai and watching ancient bollywood kung-fu movies on a bathroom break.)

There’s a funny thing about travelling. When a person paints a picture, they’re not an artist. When a person plays a note, they aren’t necessarily a musician. But when you go from one place to another, when you see the things you see, and you tell the stories you live.. you are, inevitably, a traveller. And without a doubt, you learn the beauty and weight of the words "Welcome Home".