Nako

Nako photo album
https://picasaweb.google.com/116253494913081133936/NakoAlbum?authkey=Gv1sRgCOu38LHdsqrCCQ#5672239600461570242
21 August
We left Tabo in the morning, having had a great breakfast seated on cushions on the floor in the very traditional Kunzum guest house, to catch the bus. We walked out of Tabo towards the main road that ran along the valley. There was a large clearing before the main road that looked distinctively like a bus stand, but as well as the few people that were waiting at this spot, there was also a group of ladies waiting on the main road, about 200m away. Not getting any conclusive answers from anyone about where the bus would stop, we stayed in our supposed bus park, but as our co-waiters gradually drifted away, leaving us alone there, we started to doubt and at the last minute rushed to the group of ladies waiting on the main road, minutes before a bus stopped there. It was relatively full - and as we were all hurriedly picking up our bags ready to load them onto the roof, the conductor advised us to wait a further 10 minutes to catch another bus where we would have a chance of a seat. Not having heard anything about a second bus, we were a little nervous as we let it depart, leaving us alone on the side of the road, but sure enough another bus came by. This one however didn't stop at the road, but turned towards Tabo and ended up in our previously supposed, but now doubted, bus stand. I sprinted the 200m to it to get it to wait, to the amusement of all on the bus, while Jacqui and the girls started to pick up our rucksacks in preparation, but my uncustomary display of athleticism was unecessary as at my panting arrival the driver made signs to indicate that we could stay where we were and they would come back and pick us up.
There were marginally less people on this bus, so that at least the girls got a seat, then Jacqui as well, an hour or so later. I managed to get a seat at one point, but gave it up once to a lady with a baby on her back and then a second time to a large lady that was on her way to sitting next to the girls, and certainly would have had them squashed up together. We were all at the back of the bus, so thrown around like a roller coaster again, but as we were not at window seats we were probably insulated from the most terrible sights of vertical drops. The mountainous route from Tabo to Rekong Peo, of which we were travelling a section this day, is described in the Lonely Planet as "the most dangerous in India", but it would be on a subsequent journey that we were to understand the full sense of this expression.

The journey was broken with a stop for breakfast at a roadside dhaba, where Tamsin availed of

a parantha, rolled, patted and cooked before us on the pavement.

We arrived at Nako, a small

mountain village at 3660m of altitude, at around 2:30. After a brief hunt around the few guesthouses to find the cheapest while Jacqui sat at the side of the road guarding our rucksacks, we celebrated our end-of journey relief with lunch sitting outside at a restaurant that offered an extensive optimistic and enticing menu, but with very little actually available. We heard that there was a lake so set off to find it, ending up navigating through the enchanting maze of the village's winding narrow alley-ways, each enclosed by the adjoining white stone walls of the time-worn houses, and at one point passing, as if laid on to complete our education, the group of three men sat on the ground, working assiduously with hammer and chisel, with a pile of uncut rocks on one side and a growing pile of white stone building slabs on the other. We found the lake, circumnavigated it idly before losing ourselves again in the ascending labyrinth, finally popping out the other side of the village at a road which we assumed was the other end of the road on which we had arrived. As we worked our way back along the quiet road we stopped for a chai, sitting outside Dr Shaksuka's small tea-shop, soaking in the silence and the majestic views over the mountainous interior of Himachal Pradesh. After a delicious dinner of momos, chow mein and spring rolls at a small spitian/Tibetan retaurant, we headed to bed.

2 August

We were up reasonably early with the intention of walking up the hills to the Buddhist stompas that we could see in the elevated distance, before catching a bus out of Nako. We had assumed that the only bus heading towards Rekong Peo, where we wanted to go, would be the bus from Kasa on which we had arrived at around 2:30 the previous day - but unfortunately forgot to check with the locals until the morning, and as I stepped out of the guest house, a bus came though the village (apparently from some other town). If we'd known we probably would have been up earlier to catch it, but as it happens we ended up staying in this beautiful mountain village for a further two days and nights, and did not regret a minute of it. We went back to Dr Shaksuka's for breakfast and the likeable owner (Dr Shaksuka himself?) was here this time, and we had a wonderful breakfast of fresh curd with the sweetest plums and bananas, followed by chapati and fried egg (chapati and honey for Fia) and lashings of chai. Some other travellers that also had breakfast here, mentioned to us that there was a festival on that day - we checked with the doctor (I assume he wasn't one, but for us he was now), and he confirmed that there was a one day festival being celebrated near the monastery. So we wandered up to investigate. There was already a buzz in the air outside the monastery and the beginnings of people arriving - all in beautiful traditional costume. We took the opportunity to visit the monastery - another that was established by the tireless Rinchen Zangpo around 1000 years ago, with a different construction to Tabo but similarly conjuring the images of its historic and ascetic past. A resident friendly monk opened up and showed us around the main chapels, with their ancient statues and murals. The gate to the ancient monastery opened onto a large communal area of the village, at the other end of which was the new monastery, positioned on a ledge such that when you looked at it, it was framed by nothing other than distant mountains and blue sky.
We fell in love with Nako. The beautiful old village, in whose winding stone walled streets we had strolled the previous day, the old monastery whispering its centuries old stories, the silence, the serenity of its inhabitants and the splendour of the barren snow-capped mountains in which it huddled.

The villagers continued to gather for the festival and as we stood in the centre absorbing this beauty, with the warm sun engulfing us, we acquiesced to the inevitable and dropped our plans for leaving Nako that day. The festival lasted all day long with increasingly large crowds of locals (from Nako but also from a number of villages in the surrounding areas) arriving, greeting each other then taking their places, men typically apart from ladies, either on the ground in front of a small stage at the front, or along a wall at a further distance. The ladies were all dressed in woollen waistcoats, with pyjama-type leg-ins, chunky beaded necklaces, their jet black single plaits of hair down the centre of their backs, elaborate ear-rings and all with their de-rigeur flat-topped Kinnaur (although technically we were in Spiti and not Kinnaur) felt hats, that created a sea of green and grey as you looked across the seated crowd.

We also watched the performance in front of us, while equally avidly watching the distinctive community surrounding us. I was particularly captured by a hypnotic rendition from a solo man, singing along with his sitar-like guitar, but the group traditional song and dance performances were also beguiling. Later, there was a dragon dance, with a line of dancers making a giant dragon twist and turn its way through the crowd, lurching towards people making them shriek with delight. There was no formal seating so we were able to move around, but wherever we drifted, Jacqui, and in particular Fia and Tamsin, would be beckoned over by a group of smiling welcoming ladies and invited to sit with them, where they would smile, share their dried apricots, cuddle and swap hats with the girls and try to make simple conversation with meaniningful hand signs and facial expressions compensating for incomprehensible words. It was neither the first nor the last time that Jacqui and I reflected on the way that Fia and Tamsin acted as an ice-breaking key into deeper interactions with the locals that we were meeting in our travels - even in less remote areas, travelling with two young children was, although at times limiting, a unique sight that prompted reactions and invitations. People wanted to talk to them, to know about them, to ask them their names, to shake hands, kiss and cuddle them and take photos of them, in a show of unguarded humanity that opened a door for dialogue and trust.
Lunch was served for everyone communal style with huge cauldrons of dahl and rice being cooked over fires with giant size utensils. I had earlier seen people giving monetary donations to the organisers, but when I offered, I was flatly refused with smiles and claps on the back, and though I didn't understand the words they were saying, the meaning was clear: "you are our guest - the pleasure is ours". So we too accepted our paper plates and our ladles of dahl and sat on the ground in the shade, eating with our fingers, then washing afterwards at a water pipe, along with everyone else. The gathering of this tight knit, serene and peaceful community, the warmth of the hospitality that overwhelmed us and the delight of the traditional entertainment engraved the day at the festival in Nako as one of our most vivid and moving memories.

Around mid-afternoon we finally pulled ourselves out of the revelry, still with the determied intention of not letting the day pass without having climbed up to the buddhist stompas that looked down to us from the mountainside. We set off on a clearly defined path up the mountainside, but as we got higher, the path became ambiguous before it finally gave up on us altogether, and we found ourselves scrambling and hopping across streams in order to pursue our direction to the stompas, still clearly visible above us. Meanwhile, clouds had been starting to build further down the valley, and in the distance we saw flashes of lightning as the weather too wanted to play its part in what was starting to look like a fairy tale "lost in the forest" scene. The clouds and lightning continued to approach us faster than it looked like we were approaching the stompas, but rather than us start to scramble our way back down, I was sure that we would be quicker to continue the climb up to the top where we would surely find the true path, enabling us to descend much more quickly. True to the script we were enveloped in dramatic thunder and lightning before we made it to the top, drenched and although not admitting it to the girls, a little nervous to have found ourselves up a mountain in a terrible thunderstorm, and trying to contain our own flinches at each ear-bursting crack of thunder lest that we revealed our feelings to the girls. We were at the stompas (which would have been impressive and interesting had we not been pre-occupied with our real life Rocky Horror show), and on top of the world, with an unwanted birds-eye view, not only of the scenery but of the full width of the thunderstorm, enabling us to see the now frequent bolts of lightning shoot from the sky and embed themselves into a mountainside in front of us.

My assumptions were wrong, and we found no signs of a path from the top, so had no option but to start srambling down, this time heading in the direction of Nako village that we could see in miniature in the distance. Luckily the storm started to subside, and although our descent was more challenging than our ascent, with some huge boulders that we had to navigate and climb over, the fear and drama was now past and we were able to start enjoying the thrill, and sheepishly laugh at the situation we had found ourselves in.

23 August

We were up early to catch the early bus to Rekong Peo. By 8:00, having eaten breakfast we were at the side of the road with our rucksacks in a pile, together with a group of punjabi watch sellers from Chandigarh, and various locals. By 9:00 however, we were still sitting there, and were all starting to conclude that there was a problem. None of the locals that we asked had any information and all seemed in the dark as much as we were, until a jeep arrived in the village and two locals stepped out who were able to enlighten us on the happenings up the valley. There was a bus srike - there would be no buses today. We could have tried to get a lift with a passing jeep or car, but in the end opted for yet another night in our beautuful Nako, rather than sitting there potentially for hours waiting, and still not being sure of getting a lift. In fact as the day passed, the explanation of the missing buses evolved - the strike theory was joined by news of a landslide around half way to Rekong Peo, but confusingly, by the end of the day, one bus had passed in each direction - so in any case we felt a little more confident for the following day. We checked into a different guest house than we had been staying - slightly more upmarket, and with some space in the room for us to do our school-work which we had opportunistically decided would be our main task for the day, and got stuck into a maths lesson while Jacqui did some clothes washing. It was the first time we couldn't find anybody willing to do the laundry for us, and our limited travelling wardrobe lasts us a few days only before we need to wash. Jacqui, unwisely revealed that, having been starved of any domestic tasks, had quite enjoyed the experience.
We had a lunch of momo's and chow mein up on the hotel balcony (this hotel ran an extremely good and thriving little restaurant), before heading off for another walk in the mountains - we had heard one or two vague indiciations that if we headed up to the stompas (not the same as the ones we had conquered the previous day) that were just about visible on a pass in the distance, you could then walk all the way along the ridge which circled the village, with views on the other side over to Tibet. It was around a 4 hour walk we were told. We headed off armed with waterproofs as rain clouds were around, albeit less threatening than the day before. It was a steep climb for the first hour up to the pass, on a beautiful rocky narrow path that clung around the contours of the face of the mountain. A rain cloud edged past us, so that for a while we had a strange combination of hot sunshine and sparse but large drops of rain. "I think we had better head back, we don't want to get caught in a thunderstorm again" said Fia, putting on her wise and responsible tone of voice and getting nods of approval from her sister, both cunningly trying to exploit their parents embarassment over bad walking decisions taken the previous day, in a vain hope of calling off this tiring expedition. Stopping for a quick snack at the top, we saw a young English couple whom we'd met in the village while they were hanging around waiting for a bus in the other direction. They had set out on the same walk as us but decided to turn back when it started raining.

We headed on the path they had come from - it was stunning - with views of what must have been the Tibetan snow capped peaks in front of us, as well as a few of the snaking roads clinging to the mountain sides. Somewhere down there was the old Hindu-Tibetan highway which had been used for trade to the east for centuries, and we thought also of the many Tibetans who had excaped from their homeland on foot, on a path much like ours, to take refuge in India, many in Dharamsala. After walking another hour or so, we started to conclude that our path was not approaching the ridge that we had hoped to walk along, and that if we continued we risked a premature entry into Tibet - so we left the path to head directly up the mountain to try to find the required path. After an hour of exhausting steep uphill, the ridge of the mountain, which had looked within touching distance from below, did not seem any closer, and we compromised for another half-path to get back to the original pass to get back to Nako.
It became competitive on the way down, and developed into a race - Tamsin and Daddy vs Fia and Mummy, and we were back down at Nako, panting, in around half an hour - and as it happens we were glad of the speed, because just as we arrived, the heavens opened for several hours of heavy rain.
We spoke to a couple from Barcelona who had also set out walking in the morning on the same route. They had spent the whole day - they had a great walk but had clearly not found this elusive path that had been referred to, and we came to the conclusion, after our two days of walking in the mountains around Nako, that the word "path" in local vocabulary represented something more akin to an attitude than something of a physical nature. In the evening over dinner, We learnt a new card game from Stefan and Stefanie - two germans that we had joined for dinner. We had worn thin our portfolio of two card games (three if you include "Snap") so were delighted.

Tabo - August 2011

20 August

We were all up at 6:00 in order to be ready to catch the bus to take us down the Pin valley, as part of our trip to Tabo. We skipped breakfast for the sake of sleep, but asked the monk to prepare us some chapatis that we ate while we were packing. Having heard that the bus sometimes stops only at Gulley down the valley and doesn't bother making the detour up the hill to Kungri, we head out on a short-cut across the fields straight to Gulley, but half way there, we spotted the bus climbing the hill, earlier than we had been told - we were neither in Kungri nor Gulley, and as there was only one bus per day, we all had to break into a shuffled rucksack type of run through the fields to get back to the road in the hope of catching the bus on its way down the hill. We made it, flagged the bus to a halt, loaded our rucksacks onto the roof and piled in. Our bus surprises were however not over for the day.
We had to get the Kasa headed bus to take us back down the Pin valley to the confluence with the Spiti river, and then up the Spiti river until the bridge, where we could cross over, and wait for a second bus from Kasa to take us down the other side of the Spiti river to Tabo. But while we were rocking and bumping our way up the Spiti river, we saw the Tabo bus, surrounded by a cloud of dust on the other side of the valley heading down river and already past the bridge - we had missed it, and the next one was not until the evening. We got off anyway at the bridge, in the middle of nowhere, piled our rucksacks up and sat down with a pack of digestive biscuits to wait for any potential vehicles going to Tabo that could give us a lift, but prepared if necessary to wait the 8 hours before the next Tabo headed bus was due. We didn't have to wait long. After about half an hour, we saw a small car coming up on the other side of the river. Seeing that he was turning right after coming over the bridge, I flagged it down - it was a tiny Chrysler hatchback with an elderly Kinnaur gentleman driving on his own. He was indeed headed to Tabo, but, shaking his head, pointing at the rucksacks and mumbling about weight, he was clearly lacking faith that we could squeeze four people and four rucksacks into his car, or perhaps the ability of his car to transport them over the mountains. Fia and Tamsin came up to join the car window discussion, and gave him a smile while he was deliberating - after that, the decision was made - it just became a question of "how" we would fit us all in and not "whether". At a squeeze, we managed to get Jacqui's rucksack into the boot, the two girls rucksacks by their feet in the back seat with Jacqui as well, and I, after having tried a few different angles, managed to get in the front passenger seat with my rucksack on my lap. The rucksack stretched across more than half the width of the car, and everytime that he needed to change gears (which was very frequently, given the mountainous and rocky route) I had to lift my right leg to raise my rucksack so that he could have acces to the gear lever. He was a gentle and likeable man, even though we had hardly any common vocabularly between us, and he drove very carefully over this dramatic rough stretch of road, slowing almost to a halt for every pot-hole and winding across the width of the road to find the smoothest path. Jacqui and the girls fell asleep while I stayed wide-eyed for the two and a half hour drive, soaking in every inch of this majestic route, cut through steep valley sides and jagged grey rock lunar-like landscapes.

We arrived at Tabo, and our driver - his reluctance at taking on this voluminous family having long ago been superseded by an eagerness to help us in any way he could - took us up to the door of a guest-house we had mentioned.

It was one that had been recommended to us by a Russian/English couple that we had met in Kasa (and who we were later to meet again). It was a residential house onto which the owners had built a second floor for a few guest rooms. Although it was not endowed with any particular character, it was homely, the family were more than welcoming, and our room was spacious and spotless with a dream of a shower emitting copious amounts of hot water at any time - a luxury that we had not seen in several weeks. The lovely town (village?) of Tabo, though much smaller than Kasa, is better known due to its 1000 year old monastery (a favourite of the Dalai Lama, who regularly stays) that dominates the village. Despite the smattering of tourists, the place remains completely unaffected, and, nestled amongst the Spiti valley Himalayas, retains an atmosphere of total serenity.
Having shed our rucksacks, we wondered through Tabo and had a quick breakfast at a little restaurant before we headed back for a siesta. After a late lunch of momos, spring rolls and parantha (a delicious chapati stuffed with cheese and potatos) we visited the monastery. It was constructed in a beige sand-coloured mud-brick, giving more of a north african feel, in 969 AD by Rinchen Zangpo, not long after the first introduction of Buddhism in the Spiti valley as part of the wave of Gelugpa-sect monasteries he built in the region (along with Dhankar that we had visited earlier). We were shown by one of the monks around the different chambers that each led from a central open courtyard. THe monastery is particularly famed for the astonishingly well preserved artwork inside, mostly dating from the initial construction of the monastery and for which Rinchen Zangpo hired the very best of artists from the different corners of the kingdom. In a dimly-lit monastic slience, we browsed the detailed murals that lined the walls and admired the chamber full of huge mystical stucco sculpted bodhissatvas (Buddha had reached a liberated state of enlightenment, freeing himself from the world although for compassionate reasons had chosen to stay among us, bhodissatvas were others who had reached or were on their way to this state).
Our timing was coincidentally perfect for the puja. We sat cross-legged looking through the doorway while the magical spiritual atmosphere filled the chamber like a vapour, with one lone monk (the main communal puja for the other monks being performed now in the more recent monastery constructed next-door) chanting in repetitive simple melody with occasional scripted accompaniment of a hand drum and clashes of a traditional cymbal.
With a vivid sense of the life of 11'th century Buddhism ringing around our minds, we left the monastery and scrambled directly up the steep valley side on the edge of Tabo (ignorant at that stage of an easy paved path only 200m from where we were climbing), to find the caves that the monks once used as their secluded retreats for meditation and prayer. They completed the picture of intense spirituality, but also offered us an exciting playground where we could hide behind rocks while we launched our attack on the imaginary pirates hiding inside the caves.

Kungri - August 2011

Photo album Kungri
https://picasaweb.google.com/116253494913081133936/KungriAlbum#5668849878923277826

18 August


This was the second day of the Ladarcha festival in Kasa, and the centre was pulsing with trading activity again. Once again, after several previous false starts in our attempts to leave Kasa, we packed our bags. The girls meanwhile were working on some maths exercises. At lunch time, we wondered into town to say our goodbyes to the friends we had made, and by 3:00 were walking down this well-trodden street as we had done many times in the last 10 days, but this time with our rucksacks on our backs and a sad sense of departure from familiarity eclipsing any of the excitement we had from the anticipation of new discoveries. We would take the bus east out of Kasa along the Spiti valley, before branching up the Pin valley to the Kungri monastery, where we would stay the night. Then we would return down the Pin valley to join the Spiti valley, and over the next week to 10 days, continue along the long road that starts east towards Tibet, then gradually loops south parallel to the Tibetan border, and then west through Kinnaur to come back to more populated territories closer to Lahaul, where finally the single life-blood road that had crossed the remote valleys flowers into a network between multiple urban centres through which we could pick our way to Dharamsala. We had some ideas about some places we could stop on the way but much would be determined by the buses - their timings, and the lengths of the journeys. The bus was not due to leave for Kungri until 4:30pm, and we had wanted to be very early to be absolutely sure that we could get a place. There was already a bus standing in the bus park, crammed full with people, and with more trying to get on. We were sure that it was too early to be our bus, already so packed, one and a half hours before it left, but having asked several different people we solemnly accepted this ominous reality - we were going to have to fight our way on and suffer this journey. I climbed up onto the roof to load our rucksacks, while Jacqui and the girls squeezed and pushed to pierce through the crowds and into the aisle in the middle of the bus. I decided to stay out of the bus to be able to keep an eye on our bags for the long wait before it deparated, assuming that alone I would be able to find some way to fight my way on at the last minute. By the time I located the girls looking through the windows and between the mass of bodies, Jacqui was perched on a few inches of space that had been kindly liberated by an already squashed row of passengers, and Fia and Tamsin were on different laps - all a few seats away from each other.The crowd intensified and grew, and shortly my carefully attached rucksacks on the roof were buried and serving as seats to a huddled crowd of people who would survive this bumpy journey clinging hold to the top of the bus. I decided that the risk of the bags being stolen was less than the risk of me not being able to get onto the bus if I waited any longer, so I also took the plunge and fought my way, sweaty body by sweaty body, through this compacted sardine-can of determined passengers, with my indications of needing to join my family serving as a sufficent password for people to lean one inch this way, and one inch the other way, opening up enough of a gap that I could ream and limbo my body through. Five backsides were squeezed onto seats designed for three, and 3 onto seats for two. Men were on men's laps, women on women's, and any possible standing space was crammed to the physical limits - every limb having to find and defend its own personal space. There wasn't an inch of space free, and the air was heavy and stagnant, with no relief from the fresh air outside that was fluttering past the open windows but dying in the mass of compacted bodies as it tried to get inside.The crowd intensified and grew, and shortly my carefully attached rucksacks on the roof were buried and serving as seats to a huddled crowd of people who would survive this bumpy journey clinging hold to the top of the bus. I decided that the risk of the bags being stolen was less than the risk of me not being able to get onto the bus if I waited any longer, so I also took the plunge and fought my way, sweaty body by sweaty body, through this compacted sardine-can of determined passengers, with my indications of needing to join my family serving as a sufficent password for people to lean one inch this way, and one inch the other way, opening up enough of a gap that I could ream and limbo my body through. Five backsides were squeezed onto seats designed for three, and 3 onto seats for two. Men were on men's laps, women on women's, and any possible standing space was crammed to the physical limits - every limb having to find and defend its own personal space. There wasn't an inch of space free, and the air was heavy and stagnant, with no relief from the fresh air outside that was fluttering past the open windows but dying in the mass of compacted bodies as it tried to get inside.The crowd intensified and grew, and shortly my carefully attached rucksacks on the roof were buried and serving as seats to a huddled crowd of people who would survive this bumpy journey clinging hold to the top of the bus. I decided that the risk of the bags being stolen was less than the risk of me not being able to get onto the bus if I waited any longer, so I also took the plunge and fought my way, sweaty body by sweaty body, through this compacted sardine-can of determined passengers, with my indications of needing to join my family serving as a sufficent password for people to lean one inch this way, and one inch the other way, opening up enough of a gap that I could ream and limbo my body through. Five backsides were squeezed onto seats designed for three, and 3 onto seats for two. Men were on men's laps, women on women's, and any possible standing space was crammed to the physical limits - every limb having to find and defend its own personal space. There wasn't an inch of space free, and the air was heavy and stagnant, with no relief from the fresh air outside that was fluttering past the open windows but dying in the mass of compacted bodies as it tried to get inside.


By the time I got to the girls, both were suffering from the stuffy heat. Jacqui was next to a man who had seemingly come in from the countryside to be part of the festivities in Kasa, He was blind drunk, but couldn't hide his delight at having a foriegn family near him, and was determined to make conversation, brushing aside any constraints of his complete lack of any English language, and compensating with enthusiastic persistence. We did some maneouvering, and managed to persuade him to flop over onto the laps of some of his high spirited but more controlled friends, in exchange for Tamsin, who was looking unwell and could then be close to Jacqui. Fia, who was also not feeling well, was close to me - I remained standing, concentrating on maintaining feeling in all parts of my body. Finally the bus set off, to cheers from the roof, and we pursued our bumpy track. We had an hour and a half journey, most of it in the same cramped and air-less conditions in which we had left, and only with some relief in the last quarter of an hour when a number of people descended at the larger village before Kungri. Fia was sick on the floor and Tamsin felt ill all journey but managed to survive without being sick. Some others were also sick - one from the roof, landing through the window on a sleeping boys head, with the mother looking confused at it until she realised what it was, and hurriedly brushed it off. We stepped off the bus into the very small village of Kungri, and unloaded our packs, which luckily had waterproof covers that had protected them from the baptism that the boy inside the bus had unknowingly endured. Kungri was the end of the road, and the bus manouvered in a three point turn and headed off back down the hill. The puff of black exhaust smoke cleared to leave us standing, with a huge sense of relief in a beautiful village in the most wonderful of settings amongst the mountains and overlooking the Pin river far below at the bottom of the valley. The rumble of the bus died away in the distance, leaving nothing but a serene peace, disturbed only by the occasional chatter of villagers returning from the fields, or children playing. The monastery was unmistakeable at the far end of the settlements, proudly standing out from the homogeneity of the village with its distinctive monastic walled enclosure, stepped construction and manifold yellow pagoda roof tops. We wondered through the village, towards it, causing the villagers to stop and watch, smiling at us and commenting to each other, and through the imposing entrance gates we entered into this ascetic and insular island.

A few cloaked monks were floating around in near silence, fetching water from the manual well-pump near the entrance. We greeted them, and without understanding what we were saying, they understood the meaning of what we were asking and pointed towards one of the buildings. We were welcomed without words or smiles by a further monk who unlocked some double doors, and led us into an unlit coridor to show us a room at the end. It was austere, with nothing but two rock-hard beds, and two mattresses on the floor, but the positioning of this room was providential, at the far end of the monastery on the edge of the precipice falling down to the Pin river, and with windows on two of the sides giving magnificent views up and down the valley. There was a 'shared' bathroom outside the room (though there were no other guests at the monastery for the 2 days we were there) with a hole in the ground toilet, and a tap and bucket for the shower, though uninspiringly close to the toilet hole. We enquired as to whether we could get dinner. "Half past seven" he replied directly. We didn't push for any further details. Jacqui and Tamsin rested in the room, recovering from the arduous journey while Fia and I ventured into the inner courtyard of the monastery. We asked after Namgyal, the french student that we had met in Kasa, but, it was his birthday, and he was out for the day in solitude at a secluded cave in the mountains (as you do).
After we all had a wonder around the village, Namgyal appeared, and enthusiasticaly gave us a run down of the village. He took us to one of the two "shops" - a simple non-marked low doorway under a house, that we squeezed through to find ourselves in a room that wasn't big enough for us all. We shuffled to try to close the door to liberate a little space but it left us in complete darkness after closing out the little dusk light that had lit the room - so we hurriedly shuffled again to reopen it. As our eyes adjusted we could see a few packets of crisps, buckets of lentils and rice, candle wicks cut to length, some shoes, and a water boiler (optimistic, as we never saw any sign of electricity in the village - we certainly never had any electricity in the monastery). Our dinner of rice and lentils was served at 7:30 sharp, with us sitting at a candle-lit table, alone in a large bare room. The food was basic but good, and the flickering candle light in the austere monastic surroundings made the experience special. Back in our room, With no lighting other than our torches and a candle, there wasn't much to do other than go to bed, and early as it was, we weren't complaining.

19 August

We had arranged breakfast at 8:00 - relieved that guests were excused from the monks morning timetable of 4:00am puja (prayer). Simple chapatis and omelette were served for breakfast, outside in warm sunshine, amongst humbling views of the mountains, and the gentle sounds of monastery life around us. The girls did some writing up of their diaries then we Wondered through the village and along a path into a neighbouring village. It was grass cutting time and everyone was engaged in one way or another. - families, children, grannys, donkeys. The fields were full of groups of villagers scything, and the paths dotted with those transporting, their faces sweating with exertion as they hauled huge bundles of grass, held with a strap over their backs, up the hills from the fields to the houses. The grass bundles were heaved up ladders and layed out on the roofs. All Spiti houses have characteristic piles of small logs or stacked bundles of grass on their flat roofs. Wherever the villagers worked they had their flask of chai and if far from home, a little cooker for their rice and dahl lunch.

In the neighbouring village, a 20 minute walk away from Kungri, a large group of children of different ages were running around playing a form of tag. Scruffy looking, dishevelled and with clothes dusty and dirty from their rudimentary rural lives, but with captivating smiles and sparkling eyes, and a timid fascination in us. We stood in the middle of it for a while, with them running around us - Tamsin and Fia wanted to join in, but when we asked the children, they misunderstood and all lined up for a photo. We took some photos, then Fia indicated that she was going to do the chasing and just started chasing - that worked, they understood, and the game took off. They had a lot of fun, but the disparity of fitness eventually showed through, so Fia and Tamsin retired with enthusiastic waves of goodbye as we walked on.

There were no guest houses or restaurants in Kungri other than where we were staying - we hadn't informed the monk that we would want lunch, as we were half hoping that we would somehow stumble on some lunch somewhere - be invited into someones house, eat with the nuns (apparently somewhere around the village, but we never really found them). At 12:00 we were back at the monastery without having eaten and not quite knowing what to do, but we were saved when the monk came and knocked on our door and announced that our lunch was ready. Thank goodness we hadn't found lunch anywhere else.

We ate outside again, this time the dahl and rice was supplemented with an additional bowl of curried vegetables. The monk looking after us had no english other than the names of the food, never smiled and had a permanent nervous look on his face. I am sure there was no connection, but Numgyal later informed us that the monks were delighted that we were not Israeli - they had a terrible reputation with the locals for being loud, demanding, rude, and agreesive with money. We came across Israeli travellers all the time, and without exception the ones that we came to know were all charming, interesting and likeable, such as Zohar, the zookeeper, marooned as we were in Kasa, and the couple that we originally met on the bus back from Dhanker monastery and then bumped into several times subsequently - but from a distance, you could see how the initial manner of many Isrealis could cause offence or provoke in different cultures.

In the afternoon we headed down the valley side towards the river. At the village of Gulley, we stopped for a chai in a tiny dark room that we had to stoop to get into and never would have found if a local hadn't guided us there. The chai was prepared on a small kerosene cooker on the ground almost at our feet, by a sombre man with no English at all, and we managed to get by with our limited Hindi.

At the valley floor we crossed the rickety bridge made from steel wires and rough planks of wood, across the churning Pin river and wondered around the dry sections of the river bed before starting to make our way up the steep valley side back to the monastery. The younger monks were all out playing various games when we got back - something that looked like an adapted form of baseball, and others a type of marbles by using stones. We sat and enjoyed this unexpected sight of joyful energy in the midst of such an ascetic community, as they ran around, cussocks hitched up to their wastes. We were in a period of the year when the monks were not allowed outside the walled perimeter of the monastery and each evening we saw them carrying their bowls and spoons, strolling around the limits of their permitted zones for some pre-dinner exercise. It seemed a painfully claustrophobic life to us, but we found that even if some monks are proposed to the monastery at a young age by their family, many go from their own will, and none of them have any constraints to stay there.
Amongst the buildings was a small ghompa, 400 years old - long ago superseded by newer larger prayer halls for the now large community of monks, but still maintained and used by one single monk. Mostly it was locked, but this evening we noticed the door open and cautiously crept inside to find ourselves in the middle of the monks puja. We quietly took a seat and observed. The monk was sat cross legged, with his scriptures in front of him, chanting continuously in a haunting, faintly melodic mantra, evocatively echoing around the ancient spiritual walls, with the mystical atmosphere occasionally punctuated by the ringing of a bell or the pounding on a small hand drum.
Kungri monastery is of the Nyingma sect of Buddhism (as opposed to the Tibetan Gelugpa sect of the Dalai Lama fame) and so we found was less well known amongst the buddhist community in other parts.

We ate that evening with the monks. The food, rice and dahl, was served outside from two large cauldrons and we all queued for our servings before sitting on the ground, leaning against a wall. We had somehow envisaged eating seated at long wooden tables in a large reverberating hall but instead were in the cold of the mountainous evening air in a concreted setting more reminiscent of a prison yard, except for the mass of maroon cussocked monks around us, smiling and interested in these strange incongruities amongst their insular community.

videos clips - Kaza

Interview with Lakpa Sherpa

Zangchuk guesthouse

Making momos in Kaza

Traditional dancing

Kaza Part 2

13 August

The confirmation came in the morning from the manager of the guest house. " Yes, rats" he said with an amused grin "come in when gets cold", then, as if suddenly remembering that we were non-indian lightweights, his grin gave way to a look of concern and he added "too much?" " no.... not at all" I said, not wanting to look like a wimp, but wondering where you drew the line between "too much" rats scrabbling over your head and an acceptable level of rats scrabbling over your head. We were now a little trapped in in-activity. There was no word of our trekking team yet, so we had nothing with us but the clothes we were in, and we tried not to think about the smell that they were generating, otherwise we would have been too embarrassed to leave the room.
We drifted gently between the guest house and the village centre, had coffees, talked to a number of other travellers and the locals who now started to seem very familiar. The heavy rains over the last week had caused various problems with the roads - snow on the passes, and landslides meant that no traffic was getting through Rhotang, the junction where the road from Kasa splits into the road north up to Leh in Ladakh and south to Manali. Most travellers were heading in one of these two directions, and were now stuck in Kasa. The information about the roads though was very patchy and sometimes conflicting, relying only on phonecalls coming from people that were trying to get past the blockages. We re-looked at the options in front of us. We knew that there was considerable expense in having purchased supplies, and in getting the trekking team, particularly the pack of mules, up to Kibber, and there would be further expenses in getting them back to Manali. These would certainly be at our cost. I had a few conversations with Inder and by phone with Ravi (Inder's brother and the owner of the agency) on whether there were some alternative treks that we could do that involved less altitude (despite doctor's doubts, Jacqui and I were now sure that Tamsin's illness had been her own unique manifestation of a mild altitude sickness), so that we could still make use of the trekking team and supplies. But you cannot get far in the Spiti valley without facing high altitude passes, and now we didn't want to take any risks on Tamsin's health or of starting another trek from which we would have to turn back from, at even further expense. We decided to cut our losses, absorb whatever costs had already been committed and get a bus up to Leh. So we joined the other stranded travellers, eagerly awaiting news on the roads. Any new information passed from person to person - "Rohtang pass is blocked from snow, but expected to be clear by tomorrow".... "there is a landslide blocking the Kasa to Rohtang road just west of Chatru - not expected to be cleared for 7 days"..."I'd heard it would be clear in 2 days" ..... "the buses say they don't expect to pass for next 15 days".....and so on. This was the topic of Kasa - on the guest-house terrace, in the cafes, in the town centre square.We had a priviliged connection - probably the most informed of all was Lote, the owner of the main trekking agency in Kasa, who had fallen in love with Fia and Tamsin and them with him. His agency office was on a small square, which acted as the town centre, and we had also become familiar with the others based on this square: Amit, who ran the internet cafe next door to Lote, and Bapu, the shop next door. We were able to sit in the german bakery having a coffee without worrying, while the girls would float around this small square, talking to Lote in his agency, or playing a game outside. They were revelling in having a little autonomy, and knowing that this wouldn't come often over the next year, we were too.

In the evening we happened to be back in our room at the guest house when there was a knock at the door. It was Dalma, the lady from the hospital, with her two sons, Tenzin (7) and Thinlay (9). We welcomed them in, and they came and sat on the bed. We felt a little uncomfortable about hosting guests in our bedroom, and without a drinks cupboard to serve them a gin and tonic, but we shared out an orange juice that we had, and some biscuits that she brought, took endless photos and managed to have a very warm and friendly conversation, even-though Thinlay, with the best English of them all, had only a few key words. They must have enjoyed it, as they left informing us that they would come back again tomorrow. It wasn't the conventional flow for neighbourly invitations that we were used to, but we were delighted, as we enjoyed being in their company and it felt a privilege to get to know a family so culturally remote from ours. Dalma had a friendly, smiling face, that, as we found with many Spiti women, radiated an aura of warmth and calmness.

14 August

Lakpa and Karam arrived back in Kasa, with all the equipment and supplies, and with our rucksacks. Clean clothes, Kindles, sandals, toothbrushes, torches.....it felt like Christmas. The girls wanted to do a televised interview with Lakpa. They prepared some questions, then I invited him down to our room, where they interrogated him, Jeremy Paxman style, and I followed with the video camera. The focus was his mountaineering exploits, though his life was interesting in many other ways. Lakpa was married at a relatively young age to (by all accounts) an eccentric English woman, Linda, whom he met on one of his treks. He lived in England for some time, which explains his incongruous northern england accent, doing various jobs from farming to garden landscaping. They now live separate lives though remain married, and Linda lives in Kathmandu in a large house together with an unbelievable menagerie of animals (we are dying to meet her, if we get the chance when we go there), while Lakpa married his second wife with whom he had a child. The girls asked about the different mountains he had climbed, what a mounataineering expedition involved and whether he was ever frightened.

We caught up with some maths and french school work but otherwise, we were still floating in our state of suspension while awaiting news of the roads up to Leh. The situation was not looking positive, and the possibility of us being stuck in Kasa for up to 2 weeks was starting to become a real risk. By late afternoon, Jacqui had I had taken the decision that we would cut the loop through Ladakh, Jammu and Kashmir out of our trip and head straight for Dharamsala before starting to head down south to Amritsar and then Rajasthan. This was a difficult decision because our hearts had been set on seeing Leh, but the journey there was long and even when the current roads were clear, left us with much more risk of getting stuck, and as our time in India was passing by before our eyes, we were starting to worry about spending too much time up in the north and not having enough for the rest. As a small financial bonus of the decision, we could join up with Inder, Lakpa and Karam in a shared jeep to Manali, which we had already paid for as part of our trek.

Our Spiti friends, Dalma, Thinlay and Tenzin came to visit us in the afternoon, and we settled down again around the bed with orange juice and bisuits. We had been talking for 20 minutes when Dalma asked us if her husband could join. "Where is he?" Jacqui asked, wondering if we had mis-understood. "Outside" she replied - and we raced to the door, found Dorje waiting patiently, and hurriedly ushered him in. He was disarmingly humble and polite but yet friendly and confident, and his English vocabularly, ever-so slightly wider than Thinlay's, gave a little boost to our conversational depth. Time came for them to leave, and imitating the customs that We had learnt from our guests, we boldy invited ourselves to their house for the following day.

Meanwhile, some information had flowed through which generated some optimism that the road to Manali could be clear by the following day, and Inder informed us that we would all leave between 6 and 8 in the morning. It was unfortunate as we had just arranged to meet our Spiti friends, but we were also glad to have some hope of moving, and we packed our bags in the evening to be ready.

Out and about in Kaza downtown!

15 August

I was up at 6:00, but there was no sign of life out of the room where Inder, Lakpa and Karam were sleeping, so I let Jacqui, Fia and Tamsin sleep on. Around 9:00, Inder was up, and there were vague plans of leaving for Manali in the jeep at around 10:00 - we were ready to go, but that was exactly the time that we were expecting Thinlay to come and pick us up to show us the way to their house in New Kasa. When the boys arrived, we went with them, leaving our bags completely packed and ready, and telling Inder to call us if everyone was ready to leave. The call never came though, as further news came through in the morning that the road had not cleared, and was not likely to for a few days more at least. A 4 wheel drive vehicle had indeed arrived in Kasa succesfully from Manali the previous evening which had raised hopes, but the jeep had had great difficulties crossing some areas where there had been landslides, and in addition, further rainfall during the night had caused additional blockages.

We were welcomed by Dorje into the Chhering family residence - a relatively comfortable 4 room single floored concrete house with 2 square rooms either side of a corridor. There were two bedooms, a kitchen and a living area - all immaculately kept, and the four of them lived together with a brother, his wife and their child. On arrival, we we were ushered into the lounge, draped with silk scarves (a Buddhist sign of hospitality and respect that we saw many times subsequently), sat on the cushions against the wall, and given the remote control for the television. We would have been very happy to turn the television off, but not knowing whether the presentation of the remote control to us was a 20'th century sign of respect for guests, and also under great pressure from our children, we played along and chose a Bollywood classic. Dalma was out at work, so we were entertained by the boys and Dorje, and a cute little cousin of about 2 years old. Dorje brought in chai and biscuits and then followed it up with Tibetan chai - a mixture of hot water, butter and salt. We made a respectable effort, but none of us managed to finish our cups!
Dorje was an artist - painting Thangkas (the buddhist silk paintings that hang in many monasteries), and monastery murals, as well as some canvasses. We saw many of these kinds of art in the monasteries, and it always seemed like an art-form lost in history, so it was fascinating to learn that it was a vocation alive in the present. We encouraged Dorje to talk about his work and he brought out various thangkas to show to us - some half done, to illustrate the steps that he went through.There were only 3 or 4 such artists in the Spiti valley - they worked entirely to commissions by the monasteries (who survived mostly on donations), and only during the winter. One thangka could take the whole winter. All the paintings depict Buddhist sriptures in assiduous detail, mostly with established imagery. Murals may be worked on by more than one artist. The house itself was built by a brother of Dalma's, but both he and his wife died in the process when one of the walls collapsed on them. we showed our sympathy as Dorje explained this to us, and sub-consciously shuffled slightly away from the wall which we were sitting against. We left - Fia and Tamsin sacrificing one of the little cuddly key rings that they had attached to their rucksacks, to be able to give something to Tenzin and Thinlay who were absolutely delighted with their gifts, and who had previously presented Raki (not sure of spelling) - whereby bracelets are placed on the arms of girls as a loyal sign of brotherhood.

Our rucksacks were un-packed again when we heard the news about the roads - we had mixed feelings as we felt a little trapped and were eager to move on, but Kaza was growing on us with familiarity and Fia and Tamsin in particular felt completely at home. As Jacqui and I were working on uploading the blog in the internet cafe, I popped next doors to check on the girls who were in with Lote. I saw both Fia and a middle-aged gentleman both standing on one leg, with one arm in the air and their heads pointing down to the ground, with Tamsin in front of them. They had got Rod, a semi-retired Australian teacher, playing "Simon says".

Electricity was almost non-existant in Kaza.

16 August

With the roads going west out of Kasa blocked and with no certitude as to when they would be cleared, we had been considering heading east, and taking the long circular route which curves back south westwards towards Shimla, from where we could get to Dharamsala. It would be a long route, but it was also an adventure in itself - the road was notoriously difficult, dangerous and subject to problems (though ironically was the only road still unblocked at the moment) and the area was only recently opened up to foriegn visitors, and even now requires a special permit owing to the political sensitivity of its proximity to the Tibetan border.

We knew that it would take us more than a week, with stops at villages on the way to avoid 10 hour and more bus journeys. We were also interested in the idea of staying at Kungri monastery - a possible first stopping point on this route - after having had discussions with a French buddhist that we had met in Kasa, and who was staying there, studying the history of Buddhism. Inder was also starting to think that this route represented their only feasible way back to Manali, so in any case, we decided we should apply for our "in-line" permits to allow us the option of this route. The application for our permit took me most of the day - finding the stationery store where you can buy the forms to fill out for the application, finding the Assistant District Commisioners Office to make the application, having to return for a signature from each of the member's of the family, deposing the application at the office, then a later trip to pick up the completed pemits - but by 5:00 I had 4 in-line permits in my hand.
On each route to and from the ADC office, I passed a large concreted recreational area, and stopped to watch a few overs of a hotly contested game of cricket. The game was being played with a tennis ball and some self-supported wickets, and an enthusiastic commentator with a loudspeaker animated the gathering, completely in Hindi except the scores. Despite the rudimentary infrastructure and equipment, the level was truly impressive, with the tennis ball being launched at an immense speed, and I found out in discussion with some of the supporters that it was an official 1 day knock-out tournament between villages. The subject of the test-match innevitably came up (India, from their nbr 1 world ranking, were being humiliated by England at the time) and I didn't linger too long in case they proposed me to bat as a representative outlet for their revenge. Jacqui and the girls spent the morning in a French lesson, and we all met for lunch at our favourite little Tibetan restaurant for momo's (little steamed pastry parcels of potato, cheese or mutton) dipped into soy or chilli sauce.

By the evening 2 other pieces of news had reached us - 1) Inder had changed his mind about taking the longer route to Manali - another closed mountain pass meant that it was even longer than he had thought and 2) the Ladarcha festival was starting in Kasa. This confirmed our plans - we would wait one more day to see some of the festival, then leave Kasa the following day heading east, stopping initialy at Kungri monastery, and then onwards by bus on the long route towards Dharamsala, finding the appropriate places to stop en route.
Lote, from the travel agency, had previously invited us to dinner with him, so we headed off with him and Rod the Australian, at around 7:00 in his jeep. We had understood we were heading for his house, but in fact he took us to a hotel out of Kasa (which we later found out was his) and had a fabulous evening of excellent, seemingly endless, food - rice, dahl, chicken marsala, muttar paneer (curried and cheese and local peas), curried vegetables and chapatis ad infinitum - with very enjoyable and interesting company, and all lubricated by numerous bottles of Kingfisher beer. Rod was a character, and we found that his talent at entertaining Fia and Tamsin at their level was matched by his talent at entertaining us with the amazing stories of his life, told always with a comically laid-back australian tone. At 50 something (can't remember exactly what), he now spends some of his time doing supply teaching in the countryside of australia and his summer on challenging Himalayan treks with only his tent for company. Lote hosted us like royal visitors - he couldn't do enough for us, and ended the night offering us a room in his plush hotel. The girls were begging us to, but as we had nothing with us, we decided to head back.

17 August

This was our last day in Kasa before an extended period on the move, focused us, and we intensively worked on some school work and the blog. Kaza was buzzing though - there were many more street sellers in the main street, that came in from neighbouring areas, and the street was now busy way beyond the bus station where the village normally ended. People were everywhere, and somehow we could tell they were not from Kasa - they found us novel and stared at us even more than the locals would. The Kasa locals crowded around sellers that were bringing something new to them - a shoe seller and a seller of plastic domestic items, washing bowls, jugs etc were getting particular attention.
In between our "work" we wondered down the street and ended up sitting in the warehouse-like concrete buldings of the bus station where an animated game of bingo was in progress. We stepped up, bought some cards and joined in. We needed some special attention from the organisers to fully understand the rules, but the calls were in english - "two fat ladies, eighty-eight", "unlucky for some, number 13", and the occasonal "big shake", and in no time at all we were there yelling our remaining numbers as fervently as the rest, willing the appropriate balls to be selected from the bag. We won nothing, but felt, as everyone does, that we were close, and had a lot of fun.
Our last lunch was in our favourite (at least Jacqui and my favourite) Hindi restaurant - there are only ever two options on offer: a thali (with Dahl, vegetables, rice and chapatis), and the other samosa with channa (curried chickpeas) doused in a chilli sauce and curd. Both were asbolutely delicious (even Tamsin loved the thali), and the chaotic indian atmosphere was special with all sorts of people eating at the little tables, and a charismatic server rushing around shouting orders through to the kitchen, slamming plates onto the tables, and plonking ever more chapatis onto your table. No matter how much we ate at this restaurant, we never payed more than 3 euros, with a large part being the bottles of mineral water.
In the evening we went to the school where we had heard the Ladarcha festivities would be taking place. There was a large playing field with a fixed concrete stage at one end, in front of which had been assembled rows of chairs. We had clearly arrived early as the seats were completely empty and having chatted away to a couple of Italians, it was not long before we were ushered into seats, before we sat through a painfully long series of what seemed like congratulatary speeches of which we understood absolutely nothing. Finally, after everyone had been praised, thanked or informed, the entertainments began: a haunting flutist sitting cross legged in the middle of the stage, a group of traditional dancers and then a number of different children groups, with colourful traditional costumes abounding throughout. Our naivety was clear - we had been more or less alone to listen to the long droning speeches, but by the time the more interesting entertainments started, the place was heaving - the seats were all taken, the floor in front of us packed with seated ladies, and the sides of the stadium crowded. Unfortunately, we had not eaten before coming (we were expecting something much less formal, a bit more rock-concert-like, with stalls to eat food, and music and entertainments in the background) and apart from a little sip of Mountain Dew when they felt guilty handing out to the officials just in front of us - there had been nothing - so we made our subtle exit, and headed to the Mahabuddha restaurant. Lakpa and Karim were there and Inder joined us shortly afterwards.