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.

An Incident to Remember

I wasn’t a big believer in things like pepper spray. Neither did I carry umbrellas with pointy ends, which can double up as objects for self-defense. I, like most people, believed in the simple principle, “This cannot happen to me”. Until it did.

If you’ve read my blog, 800 Kilometers, and 1 Bike, there’s one incident that I didn’t mention; an incident that was, in part, an outcome of our stupidity and lack of research. So, without further ado, let me share a rather unpleasant, but valuable lesson that my husband and I learned that day.

 The last leg of any journey is always the toughest, and nobody knows it better than us. I remember that fateful day when we were soaked to the bone, our muscles aching from the 5-day motorcycle ride through the Western Ghats. This, coupled with a massive backpack that I carried because I completely lacked common sense, only made things worse.

 “Must buy saddlebags,” I told myself, making a mental note for the hundredth time. My husband, maneuvering the motorcycle in the heavy rain, told me to hang in there just a little bit longer, for we were about 70 kilometers away from Bangalore city. My shoulders were raw from the pain, and my mood crabby, so I pleaded with him to stop at an abandoned bus stop for a 5-minute break. We would, of course, realize shortly that it was a very dumb thing to do.

No sooner had we stopped, then I took the heavy load off my shoulders and stretched my arms to restore circulation. My husband proceeded to exercise his legs as well. That’s when trouble arrived, drunk, on a dilapidated motorcycle. Eyes bloodshot and mean, he parked right next to us. Without getting off his motorcycle, he said, “You grazed my taillight and damaged by bike. Now, pay up for the damages!”

We were aghast. What was he talking about? I blinked, opened my mouth to say something, only a squeak escaping instead of words. Clearly, it was the alcohol talking. But at that moment, logic and reasoning had long since abandoned us. The realization that the drunk bloke was trying to mug us, hit us both at once. He groped into his jacket, trying to find something that would help him extort money from us.

My legs were shaky, and my brain had stopped functioning. All I could think was “Why did we have to stop here?”

Thankfully, my husband remained calm and responded, “You’re clearly lying. We didn’t hit anyone. We should let the police sort this.”

The man hesitated for a second, but wouldn’t let go so easily. After all, he was out of money and need his fix for the day. “I’m going to call my friends from the villages nearby” he threatened, waving a mobile phone in our face. The exchange between the two men had given me enough time to compose myself. “There are two of us,” I reasoned, “… and he’s just one person, and in a highly inebriated condition. We could easily overpower him and speed away.” From the look on my husband's face, I could tell that he had the same thoughts. But neither of us took the first step. Sure, it looks easy in the movies, overpowering the bad guy, throwing a few punches, and emerging the hero. But there were a lot of factors to be considered. Pushing, shoving or tackling someone who’s as inebriated as he was, could turn out to be dangerous. Besides if he had an accomplice somewhere close, then the situation could spiral out of control.

This was when he pulled out a knife from his jacket, the kind that’s used in the kitchen. I looked around frantically for help. Considering we were parked away from the main road, and that our mobile phones were tucked safely away in our bags, we didn’t have an option but to comply. Luckily for us, we never keep all our money in one place when we travel. I reached out for my wallet and fished out whatever I could find, which was around 800 rupees. He snatched it with amazing alacrity and looked expectantly at my husband, who proceeded to hand over whatever little that remained in his wallet, another 300 rupees.

Satisfied, the man shoved the money into his jacket, and thanked us, before speeding away. Now it’s not every day that you find criminals who’re polite, do you? Visibly shaken, but wiser from the experience, we headed home. Had it been for saddle bags, by back wouldn’t have hurt that bad, and we wouldn’t have had to stop for a break at that desolate bus stop. Needless to say, today, we’re proud owners of saddle bags and some essential common sense.

800 Kilometers and One Bike: Part II

As promised, I’m back with part II of 800 kilometers and One Bike.

In the first part of the blog, I described our ride from Bangalore to Bhadravati and to Chikmagalur. Now it was time for the second part of road trip from Chikmagalur to Kudremukh and back. Thankfully, this time, the cumbersome backpack was left behind at the homestay in Chikamaglur, and it was a relief to cover this stretch with nothing more than some water and a couple of biscuits in a small bag.

The plan was to cover the 212 kilometer (including the ride back to Chikmagalur) ride in one day, and return to the homestay well before dinnertime. After a hearty breakfast of Shavige bhath (rice vermicelli) and coffee, we were on our way to the abandoned ghost-town of Kudremukh.

First things first, anyone who visits Chikmagalur simply must add Bhadra Coffee Shop to their itinerary. A refreshing change from the loud, colorful, and overpriced coffee shops that are mushrooming in the city and along the highways, this quaint little place is just what the doctor prescribed for coffee lovers. If coffee is not your "cup of tea" then you can always sample the lemon juice, the greasy bread-omelette or the hot holige, among other delicious snacks this place has to offer. Located on the Sringeri-Chikamaglur State Highway, the coffee at Bhadra Coffee Shop is as fresh as it gets. I say this because this coffee shop is located right in the middle of a coffee estate. It can't get better than this. But it does! Besides being freakishly easy on the pocket, the place is clean and has simple outdoor seating, ensuring you enjoy your cuppa while listening to the sounds of the jungle.

As much as we enjoyed our little break at the Bhadra Coffee Shop, we still had a long ride ahead of us and decided it was time to leave. The skies were clear and gave no indication of the bad weather that was in store for us on our way back. But we’ll come to that later. One of the famous trekking destinations in the South of the Indian peninsula, Kudremukh derives its name from the shape of the hill, which looks like the face of a horse. Hence the name Kudremukh, or "horse face". Rich in wildlife, the Kudremukh National Park is a Global Tiger Conservation Priority center and boasts a thriving tiger population (although we didn’t see much wildlife on that trip). We maintained a steady speed of 60-90 kmph, slowing down at the bends at regular intervals. With every passing kilometer, the forest seemed denser, with massive trees and thick shrubs nodding their heads in the cool breeze that was blowing. The ride was simply spectacular!

The road, at one point, forks, with the left fork going towards Agumbe. Although we were very tempted to visit Agumbe, we simply did not have the time to make that detour. My suggestion for someone who plans a ride to Kudremukh, is to also visit Agumbe, one of the most picturesque places in Karnakata. The rainforest boasts several waterfalls, and the vegetation in many places is so thick that it’s impenetrable. However, Agumbe was not on the itinerary, and we continued towards Kudremukh. Bordering the Arabian Sea, the view as you ascend is simply breathtaking! You can also stop by at the Lakya Dam, built by the Kudremukh Iron Ore Company Limited (KIOCL), for some pictures.

On reaching Kudremukh, I was slightly disappointed. The town lies abandoned, with the ghosts of its past sadly beckoning visitors to witness what might have once been a thriving township. It was sad to see the staff quarters standing tall and proud, but ringing hollow with the sounds of the days gone by. We parked the motorcycle and walked towards what looked like a restaurant. Hungry and tired, some food would definitely help. More disappointment awaited.

The staff at the makeshift restaurant in the abandoned office told us that lunch was only rasam, rice and pickle. While I had not expected a 3-course meal, I had definitely not signed up for some strangely sticky rice and watery rasam. However, my rumbling stomach told me it wasn't the time for snobbery and that I should simply make do with whatever was available. After the meal and a bathroom break, we decided it was time to head back to Chikmagalur.

Barely 20 kilometers later, the clouds that looked white, cheerful and fluffy an hour ago, now looked dark and angry. Soon enough, big, stinging drops of rain had us completely soaked in less than 10 minutes. Stopping in the middle of the forest for shelter was out of question; so we decided that the sensible thing to do was to ride on. We weren't prepared for a downpour of this sort and the jackets offered little protection. To add our misery was the low visibility. Still, we rode on, slowly and cautiously, because one wrong turn or slip, we’d find ourselves tumbling downhill. I don’t know if it was that thought or the incessant rains that made me shudder.

But it's the rains that bring out the beauty of the forest. Rich in flora and fauna, the protected forests are home to a wide range of animal, bird, and insect species. In fact, a trek through the forests and you may just end up with leeches enjoying a hemoglobin-rich meal that’s generously provided by you! Thankfully, that wasn't something we had to worry about.

It was near dusk by the time we reached Chikmagalur, and we were really looking forward to a hot meal of biryani and kebabs that our hostess has promised. Satiated and happy, I drifted off into the night, dreaming of jungles and motorcycle rides.

The Where, When and What:

Where to Stay: You could stay at one of the hotels/ homestays in Chikmagalur. The other options are the resorts and retreats at the foothills of Kudremukh, although I cannot vouch for those.

When to Go: If you’re planning to ride up, the best time will be between October and February, when the sun isn't beating down mercilessly. Be prepared for unpredictable downpours though.

What to Do: Kudremukh is popular among trekkers; although special permits from the Forest Department are required. You can also visit Lakya Dam and the Hanuman Gundi Waterfalls.

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.