Meeting the Ghost of the Mountains: The Kibber Series - Part 2

Hours on the road had dulled the excitement, leaving us cold and tired as the landscape around us grew harsher and more remote. We reached Tabo, a small, picturesque town in the Lahaul and Spiti district, close to dinner time. 

Darkness had already set in, and our exhausted group stumbled into the homestay for the night, hoping for hot food and a warm bed. The temperature, well below freezing, chilled us to the bone as some of us tucked into a simple dinner comprising dal, rice, vegetables, and chicken curry. Others, struggling with a touch of altitude sickness, merely nibbled on dry toast before calling it a day. 

The following morning, tired from the lack of sleep, we stumbled into the cars that awaited us. While some of my companions battled nausea and altitude sickness through the night, the rest of us endured a different kind of torment: deafening music and foot-stomping dancing that raged well past midnight. The rowdy group partying on the floor above us, drunk to their eyeballs, sounded like a riot of ogres, as the wooden boards overhead creaked in protest.

But the day itself, marked by clear blue skies, snowcapped mountains, and generous sunshine, soon swept away our crabby moods, replacing them with cheerful smiles as we made our way to Kibber, which would be our home for the next six days. 

Deep gorges on one side and the magnificent Himalayas on the other made this journey unlike anything I had experienced before. As we ascended, the small streams at the bottom of the gorge gave way to the snaking Spiti River, its crystalline waters so clear that I could make out the rocks beneath, despite the height. 

Driving on the treacherous mountainous roads is not everyone’s cup of tea, especially for those accustomed to the plains. The road, though seemingly innocent, was coated in a thin film of ice. Our skilled driver navigated the narrow bends with ease, save for a few moments where we felt our car, a boxy little Jimny, shimmy on the slick surface. He got in under control almost instantly, flashing us a reassuring smile that helped calm our frayed nerves.

“Ah, time for a cup of tea!” I thought as we stopped for a short break. Grateful for the opportunity to stretch my legs, I made my way to the toilet, not knowing where we would stop next. 

It was a decent enough restaurant. I gingerly pushed open the toilet door and tried the flush. As expected, nothing happened. The water had frozen solid. No surprises there, I thought, peering into a large drum that thankfully still held water. Right beside it sat an empty five-liter oil can, clearly a popular choice in this part of the country as far as restroom accessories were concerned. 

Bidding adieu to the beloved oil can, I hopped back into the car. There was no time for tea; our group leader had just received a call reporting a snow leopard under a bridge near the homestay. Talk about luck! 

The next two hours passed in a blur. Our driver, careful yet eager, stepped on the gas, and off we went in hopes of laying eyes on the elusive ghost of the mountains.

As we got closer to Chicham Bridge, the highest suspension bridge in Asia, we spotted a couple of cars already parked. Several photographers had claimed prime vantage points overlooking the valley, their bottoms perched on folding chairs, cameras clicking furiously. 

My heart sank. Were we too late? Would we have to struggle to find a decent spot from which to see and photograph this magical creature? 

I needn't have worried, for our porters and guides, who had arrived much earlier that morning, had already set up chairs for us. They sprang into action the moment we parked, assembling tripods and shouldering our heavy equipment with quiet efficiency. These men were a godsend, for not only were they quick and capable, but among the warmest, kindest people I have had the privilege of meeting. 

I had imagined this moment for a long time, but nothing prepared me for the feeling of absolute otherworldliness when I first laid eyes on a snow leopard.

Curled into a ball, she slept, her thick tail wrapped around her furry body. The tell-tale spots on the grey-white body offered perfect camouflage as she blended seamlessly into the snowy landscape of white and dirty-brown rocks. I watched in awe, the camera forgotten, as she stirred briefly, opening her eyes to glance upward, only to close them again. 

To see a snow leopard in its natural habitat is a privilege like no other, but to witness it with the naked eye, unaided by the powerful lens of a camera or binoculars, is a rare and extraordinary gift! And yet, here I was doing just that. In that moment, neither the cold nor the wind bothered me. All that existed was the snow leopard and me. Nothing else mattered.

I finally focused my camera, the reverie broken by the firm but gentle insistence of one of the guides. It took me a few seconds to bring her into focus, the harsh glare of the sun against the snow making it challenging. 

“Ah, there she is!” I exclaimed with excitement. She stretched lazily, in a gesture so typical of cats, before sauntering toward a clump of twigs. From behind it, she dragged a carefully hidden carcass, concealed from the prying eyes of opportunistic scavengers like red foxes and the raptors that ruled the skies. 

The leopardess settled down to feast, tearing mouthfuls of what remained of an ibex, a wild mountain goat that abounds in the Himalayan landscape and forms a part of its natural prey base. We spent nearly an hour watching and filming her eat until our lunch arrived.

A plateful of steaming hot dal ladled over freshly made rice, accompanied by a spoonful of tangy, spicy vegetable pickle, was handed to me. Sitting on the Chicham Bridge, with a snow leopard and a wonderful group of fellow-travellers, and simple, nourishing food for company, I couldn’t have asked for a better first day in Spiti. 

In the next chapter of The Kibber Series, the days in Kibber truly begin, with biting cold, warm hospitality, great food, and memorable adventures that remind me why Spiti has a way of staying with you long after you’ve left. Stay tuned.

If you’ve been following this journey from the beginning, you’ll know it all started much earlier, with steaming bowls of roadside Maggi, endless kilometres, and a slow climb into the Himalayas. If not, you can catch up on how it began in Part 1: Eating Our Way to the Himalayas.

Eating Our Way to the Himalayas: The Kibber Series - Part 1

There’s something wonderful about wolfing down a hot bowl of instant noodles outdoors on a freezing winter morning, with the majestic Himalayas in the background. These are memories in the making.

We started from Chandigarh, heading to Rampur in Himachal Pradesh, our first leg in the much-anticipated snow leopard expedition to the Kibber Valley. While the elusive Ghost of the Mountains was a priority, I was determined to check an important item off the list - the Pahadonwali Maggi. Translating this to English - Maggi of the Mountains - dilutes the flavor. It’s akin to adding too much water to your instant noodles, making it flavourless and watery. 

A break in the eight-hour journey to relieve bursting bladders also presented an opportunity to try the instant noodles advertised in bold by the restaurant’s proprietor. Having placed our orders, we waited in eager anticipation as the chef busied himself in the kitchen, the clanging of pots and pans reassuring us that our food was on the way.

Though the temperature was likely to drop as the day and journey progressed, I took off my jacket, feeling the warmth of the soft, mid-morning sun on my arms. The gentle breeze from the mountains reminded me of the teeth-chattering cold that awaited us, but that was for later. Right now, I greedily eyed the stainless steel bowls as the server made his way to us. 

The steam rose steadily as I rolled a forkful of the deliciously unhealthy food and took the first bite. The medley of flavours warmed my soul as I shoveled another forkful, the mild heat from the chopped green chillis complementing the sweetness from the tiny bits of carrots and peas. The Pahadonwali Maggi lived up to every bit of the hype surrounding it and then some.

Among the ten of us, we polished off several bowls of the noodles, scalded our tongues as we glugged down the just-off-the-stove tea, and patted our satiated stomachs in satisfaction. Oh, what a happy group of travellers we were!

A few hours passed as I dozed, chatted with my fellow travellers, and soaked in the gorgeous sights of the snow-capped peaks at a distance, as we made steady progress. It was almost time for lunch.

Our driver, a cheerful, chatty local, stopped at one of the many nondescript restaurants en route. It was a small place by the edge of the highway - a simple brick-and-wood structure set against a gorgeous mountain backdrop. Quaint and picturesque, it looked like something lifted straight off a postcard, the kind that instantly stirs a longing for the Himalayas in whoever receives it.

I stretched my legs, my stomach still full from the noodles and chai. I had little appetite for lunch. But first, I needed to use the toilet.

“Down the stairs,” said the owner, who was also the chef and the server, all rolled into one. I stared at the rickety contraption anxiously. The stairs were essentially uneven planks, hastily nailed together and supported by rusty railings. With no choice but to go, I gingerly placed my foot on a plank, one careful step after another, my bladder protesting desperately.

Closing the stubbornly heavy door behind me, I looked around. A chipped bucket, accompanied by a broken mug, stared back in forlorn silence. I tried the flush before getting down to business. Nothing happened. 

“That’s not good,” I thought, as I peered into the bucket, looking for water to pour down the toilet. There was water, alright, but it was frozen solid! What a conundrum! 

“The water is frozen!” I yelled, hoping the jack-of-everything owner, chef, and whatever else he was, heard me. 

“Oh!” came the response, followed by several giggles. Not from the owner, but my friends who seemed amused by my predicament. 

I implored them to get help, for I knew that the call of nature was not mine alone. Sooner or later, they’d have to use the loo too. So it was in everyone’s best interest to find the man who could bring us a bucket of water.

“Madam! Use the other one. There’s water in there!” he said, before going back into the kitchen.

The “other one” was parallel to this stall, but separated by a wall, which meant climbing up the stairs, then going over to the other side, and climbing down a similar flight of equally hastily put-together stairs. At least, this one had water, stored in a 5-liter can that must have contained cooking oil in its previous lifetime.

Well, enough about frozen toilets and dangerous stairs. It was time for some hot soup. 

The temperature had dropped rapidly to sub-zero levels, and the prospect of something hot was enticing. The vegetable hot-and-sour soup I had ordered was rapidly cooling down. Determined to finish it before it turned into ice, I wolfed down a generous spoonful.

My esophagus was on fire! It felt like sulphuric acid disintegrating my insides. I coughed, choked, and cried all at once. What was in the blessed soup? 

“You ordered ‘hot and sour’ soup!” said the owner, indignantly. “Hence the green chillis!” Clearly, he did not feel the need to justify further.

I ordered some buttered toast to absorb the God-awful spice, pointing out that I only wanted butter on my toast and nothing else. 

The others in the group didn’t seem to be doing so well either. From the expression on their faces, the lentils and roti were nothing to write home about. The dal looked insipid, and the rotis had turned into frisbees due to the weather. Although only one person seemed to be wolfing down his food like it was the best thing he’d ever eaten.

Curious, I peeked into his plate. A reddish-brown mound of rice with bits of vegetables was being consumed at a rapid pace. I wasn’t sure whether the colour came from the spice or an enthusiastic hand with food colouring. Either way, it isn’t something I’d recommend on a road trip, especially when the roads are long and winding.

I felt sorry for his companions. Imagine being stuck in an enclosed space with someone who’s just eaten a heapful of extra-spicy food, belched in satisfaction, and proceeded to swallow nearly half a dozen boiled eggs like a snake emerging from a long period of brumation.

Needless to say, the remainder of the journey to our first stop in Rampur was not so pleasant for the occupants of the said car. Our egg-swallowing glutton gave them plenty of reasons to keep the windows down, despite the frigid weather!

Nearly in time for evening tea, our exhausted but excited group reached Rampur. After a sumptuous dinner at the hotel, we made a beeline to our respective rooms, eager to get some rest before starting for Tabo the following morning.

As I crawled under the blankets, the warmth of the day’s Maggi, chai, and stories lingered. Ahead lay colder nights, thinner air, harsher terrain - and somewhere beyond, the silent presence of the Ghost of the Mountains.

For now, though, sleep came easily. The real journey was only just beginning.

The bus ride to Manali

Stopping by the highway for a refreshing drink of coconut water on a hot summer day, or a cup of tea no matter what the season; watching the lush, green paddy fields roll by, the miles disappearing as the road hungrily swallows village after village.  These are some of my fondest travel memories.

Picturesque Manali

To me, the journey sometimes supersedes the destination. In fact, there are times when I am almost disappointed to have arrived at the destination even before I can fully appreciate the feeling of absolute abandon that comes with road trips. Add some good music, throw in something to snack, and of course, great conversation, either with your fellow passengers or an interesting stranger who’ll be your companion through the journey and you have the perfect ingredients for a merry road trip.

Of course, there are those instances when you’re desperately counting the kilometers, waiting to get to your destination. Despite their unpleasant nature, these journeys are tucked away somewhere in your treasure trove of memories. Sometimes you recall them with a smile, and sometimes with a small shudder, glad to have put them behind you.

One such journey was when my husband and I took the awful bus ride to a picturesque hill station in the Himalayas, Manali.

The bus, a rather colorful, albeit a rickety piece of metal, came to a screeching halt at the bus station in Delhi. It was late by two hours, and the sweltering heat didn’t make the endless wait any easier.

I almost cried out in relief when I saw our bus, for it had ‘Luxury AC Comfort’ painted in bold, gaudy colors. Tossing the blood-soaked tissues that I’d used to stop my husband’s nose bleed, (courtesy, the heat) we handed the bags over to the guy, whom I assumed was the cleaner, help, and companion to the driver.

Greasy red and black seats that had embraced many a tired, eager bottom, awaited us.

“We did not sign up for this,” I whispered to my miserable husband, as he tentatively sat down, trying not to touch the greasy armrests.

“It’s doo lade for dat,” he responded, dabbing his reddening nose.

It was a full hour before the bus started, ferrying a motley bunch of paratha-munching aunties, a group of unwashed and glossy-eyed youngsters, fidgety families, the cleaner and of course, the driver, an absolute maniac with a morbid sense of humor.

The air conditioning did little to alleviate the heat, and soon the stench of sweat and unlaundered hosiery, mingled with the scent from all the food that was being passed around give off an unpleasant odor.

I almost gagged, trying to breathe through the handkerchief I was holding. If this was bad, the worst was yet to come.

A couple of harrowing hours later, the bus pulled up at a roadside dhaba. Muttering a prayer of thanks, we disembarked, stretching our cramped legs and taking deep breathes of fresh air. We were on the outskirts of Karnal, a city in Haryana. The night sky twinked brightly, and the aroma of the food improved my mood a little. I was hungry and couldn’t wait for my first-ever experience eating at an authentic North Indian dhaba. But first things first, I needed to use the bathroom.

“Bhaiyya (brother), where is the bathroom?” I asked the chap who was busy slapping the rotis inside a blazing tandoor.

He barely glanced my way as he pointed toward a dingy corner behind the kitchen. I took my husband along because I was terrified of what or who lay in wait for me in the darkness. The ‘bathroom’ comprised a rusty door that was coming off its hinges. I hesitated, but was reminded by my husband that my options were few.

My eyes took a couple of seconds to adjust to the zero-watt bulb that cast a miserable shadow inside the tin-shed. A small hole dug in the earth and a broken plastic pail, which probably was a can of paint in its last birth sat forlornly in the dim light. I realized with dismay that this was ‘ladiss bathroom’ as the sign hanging on the door proclaimed. It with either this or the fields that stretched along the highway. Imagining snakes and scorpions waiting for an unsuspecting victim, I wisely decided to give the fields a pass.

Following a harrowing visit to the ‘ladiss bathroom’, I joined my husband on the cheap plastic chairs and waited for someone to take our orders.

“How about we try the paneer makhni?” I enquired, looking expectantly at my husband.

“I suggest we stick with the basics. Just some dal and rotis should be a safe choice. Best avoid the other stuff” he responded.

I, however, was insistent on the paneer. “How can we come to an actual North Indian dhaba and not try the paneer?” I reasoned and proceeded to order. My wise spouse stuck to his plan and asked for dal with his rotis.

Let me tell you this...it was the best paneer I’d had so far. Large chunks of cottage cheese, slathered with butter and spices in a delectable tomato gravy, accompanied by piping hot rotis. I tucked in hungrily, while my husband dunked his share of rotis in the not-so-bad looking dal.

“At least the delicious meal was the saving grace on this bone-jarring bus ride,” I commented as we boarded the bus for the remainder of the journey. Little did I know that I’d need a lot of ‘saving’ from the paneer that would soon to do the cha-cha in my stomach.

The bus rumbled on, the video player blaring songs from a vague movie that played for the benefit of the drowsy passengers. The driver,  as if recharged by the meal, pressed the pedal hard, sending the vehicle into a tizzy, barely missing a couple of collisions en route. The passengers gasped between their naps and packs of potato crisps, drifting back into their state of inertia, while the driver continued his murder-suicide mission.

My stomach, in the meanwhile, sent the first signs of distress as I felt the start of tiny, painful pricks. We still had a couple of hours to go, and I prayed as I’ve never prayed before that I wouldn't have to use another one of the ‘ladiss’ bathrooms again. I tried to sleep off the mild discomfort, but the driver’s colorful language as he drove like a man possessed, and the fear of meeting a watery grave in the mighty Beas River that flowed alongside the highway, kept me wide awake.

Now my discomfort levels transitioned from mild to mind-numbing. My husband looked at my perspiring face in alarm and figured what was wrong. With impressive alacrity, he fished out some medication from the bag, which I swallowed sheepishly.

The rest of the journey was a blur of pain and uneasiness as I clutched my aching belly and wished for the dreadful bus drive to conclude. The medication provided temporary respite, until finally, the driver announced that we had arrived at our destination, words that were music to my ears.

The next couple of days at the hotel were, of course, spent on multiple trips to the restroom and back. Needless to say, I wouldn’t touch paneer for some time after the horrendous episode...even if someone paid me a small fortune.

Fast forward ten years, with the regularly mushrooming fast food chains along the highways, the convenience of simply hopping onto a plane or the train at the slightest drop of a hat, and the ease with which navigation apps on mobile devices chart the best possible routes, makes for less adventurous journeys. Although the drive to Manali doesn’t qualify as an adventure I particularly miss, I thank the heavens for the inconveniences of a simple life; for, without these memories, I’d have nothing to reminisce or have a good laugh over.

Road Trip to Rohtang: Maggi, Tea, and a Lifetime of Memories

"A pile of corpses...really?" That was my first reaction when someone told me what Rohtang Pass literally meant. Had I known this before we embarked on that arduous drive, I would have thought twice before proceeding.

Part of the Pir Panjal mountain range in the Himalayas, this treacherous stretch between Manali and Leh is aptly named. Trucks falling into deep gorges, cars veering off the slippery sleet, or landslides brought on by the sudden change in weather, there are quite a few options to choose from, if an early retirement from life is on your mind. Yet, the sheer beauty of this place, the little streams that appear unexpectedly as you drive along, and adrenaline rush that's part of this memorable experience, attracts scores of tourists every year.

After the 'heart-in-my-mouth' journey from Delhi to Manali, I hoped that the nearly 18 hour, hair-rising bus drive, with someone's nauseous 'mummyji' throwing-up endlessly, was worth it. When I held snow for the first time in my life, I can say it certainly was worth all the trouble.

My husband and I hired a Toyota Qualis for our trip to Rohtang Pass. Our driver, a jovial man of nearly 50, chatted animatedly as we enjoyed the start of the 51 kilometer drive. En-route we stopped to rent the waterproof jumpsuits and gloves that are a must if you want to use your limbs again. The weather was lovely, the skies clear, and the day just seemed great. Thirty minutes later, it was a different story. As soon as we crossed the bridge over the Beas river, I had my eyes tightly shut, because I couldn't bear to look outside. To make things worse, one mistake meant falling right into a gorge that looked dark, forbidding, and endless.

"At least the visibility is good," I thought to myself. Those who frequent the mountains often say that the weather can change in seconds. That's exactly what happened. Fog started to descend gradually, enveloping us in its lethal embrace. Our highly skilled driver (still chatting away) expertly manoeuvred the Quails over rocks and slush, not once taking his eyes off the road.

To cut a long story short, we nearly made it in one piece. But the journey wasn't over yet. We hopped off from the vehicle, and hopped on to the ponies that were to take us to the highest point. The weather was flirting with us again. The fog, which had cleared, was back. To ensure everyone stayed together, the guide tied the ponies one behind another and gave the first one a pat on its rump. Off it went, trotting with the sure-footed grip of a mountain goat, while the others followed at a steady pace. The fact that I couldn't see a thing wasn't as worrying as being tilted at a 45 degree angle sometimes when the animal needed to negotiate narrow, sloping curves. I was both petrified and excited at the same time.

Although I've heard and read so much of the beauty of this place, nothing can do justice to the actual experience. It was simply breathtaking! The white and grey snow-capped mountains, the biting cold weather, and the majesty of the Himalayas can make you feel like a tiny, insignificant speck.

The altitude and the excitement had certainly given me an appetite. What's amazing is that, despite the perilous weather and road conditions, you actually have vendors selling hot, extraordinarily sweet tea, and Maggi noodles. Normally, I'd turn my nose at Maggi noodles, or not take more than half a teaspoon of sugar in my tea, but 'normal' is overrated. When I close my eyes, I can still smell the aroma of noodles wafting towards me as I stood salivating at the prospect of sinking my teeth into a hot bowlful. The steaming glass of tea, with enough sugar to send me bouncing off the rocks, was like a warm blanket on a rainy day.

Manali has a lot to offer apart from Rohtang Pass.There's the great food,the Hadimba Devi temple , and Pandoh Dam, among other places. For me, however, the highlight of my trip was the drive and visit to Rohtang Pass.

I strongly believe that there are some vacations that simply fill up the photo album, and some that make memories. For those of you who haven't been to Rohtang, I'd say "go on, make some memories!"

The Where, When, What, and How:

Where to Stay: Manali has plenty of budget as well as luxury hotels. You can choose depending on how much you want to lighten your pocket. Check out TripAdvisor for more.

When to Go: Tourists are allowed to visit from June to October. It remains closed during the rest of the year, owing to the heavy snowfall and blizzards.

What to Do: Although tourism websites advertise adventure sports like skiing and snow-mobiles, here's a tip – The skiing is rudimentary and the snow-mobiles are fun as long as you don't mow down a tourist.

How to Get There: The simplest route is from Delhi to Manali via road. But, don't expect the buses to be on time. On reaching Manali, you can hire a local taxi that will take you to Rohtang Pass.