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.

Blame it on the virus!

I don’t know why I took a long break from writing. It has always been so therapeutic to translate my thoughts into words, and words into stories and experiences. Was it the convenience of Instagram that allows me to add a couple of lines against a picture and hit “post” or simply the sheer apathy brought on by the pandemic? I’d like to blame both, but deep down I know that I’m guilty of a rather common ailment that afflicts writers… distraction! 

Documenting stories of my travels has always been a passion. That said, with no travels to document post-COVID, I let my passion wane. I convinced myself that most of 2019 was spent preparing for my travels to the Masai Mara Reserve in Kenya. Meanwhile, the lure of the Bandipur Tiger Reserve, which was fast turning into my home away from home, meant that I was too busy packing my bags just as fast I’d unpack them upon my return. When was I to write?

Excuses, excuses, right? This time around, I made up my mind to pull myself out of the impassivity that has clouded my mind, especially ever since the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic.

So, what next? Well, I’d like to spend a few moments lamenting on the lack of travel in 2020. As someone who made a beeline to the nearest jungle at the drop of a hat, being trapped indoors for months together is, for the lack of a better word, rather suffocating. One might argue that everything in India is opening up, including the safaris and there’s nothing to stop me from embarking upon another one of my wildlife trips. That’s not entirely true… there is something that stops me from finding material for my next article, and that is the rapidly spreading virus that seems to completely disregard humanity’s patience. 

Can you imagine, the impudence of these “invisible to the naked eye” organisms that appear to have overstayed their “unwelcome”, in this case? Patience everywhere is running thin, and I’m no different. I would like to pretend that the homemade concoctions of garam masala and turmeric will render me invincible to the Coronavirus or be like the neighbourhood uncle who firmly believes it’s all a hoax; but better sense prevails and I realize that the possibility of contracting the infection, if I were to tempt fate by traveling for pleasure, is very high! 

So, reminisce I will, by getting back to writing my travel experiences from the good old days when catching a cold was what it was...very common! When running temperate was nothing more than a mere inconvenience that was in most cases resolved by a couple of over-the-counter antibiotics, liberal doses of paracetamol, and of course, “mummyji ki khichdi”. 

I’m going to sign off on that note, and promise to be back soon with a blog on my 2019 trip to the Masai Mara.

 

For the love of Chai

Nearly nine years ago, somewhere in the Himalayas, a hawker handed me a steaming cup of tea as I stood, shivering in the biting- cold. As the hot, sweet, ginger-infused brew coursed down my throat, I knew that very instant that no matter how many cups of tea I’d glug in the years to come, nothing would ever come close to the feeling of absolute tea-induced nirvana I felt on that day. That was the day when my eternal love affair with the humble chai began.

Enjoying a hot cup of my favorite brew

Back in the old days, chai was something that was consumed during exams so that you could stay up late and cram as much as your sleep-deprived brain permitted. It was also something that my father consumed ( and still does) in gallons, cup after cup, while I watched in amazement, wondering if we needed to enroll him into some sort of chai de-addiction program.  Needless to say, my attitude towards tea could be best described as indifferent…until that memorable day in the Himalayas. 

Of course, my husband’s devotion to the brew further fueled my nascent addiction.  Now my day begins with a mug of this heavenly brew and ends with a one. 

My fondest travel memories are peppered with various instances involving chai. After  sampling everything from ginger tea, tea flavored with cardamom, and lemon tea, to the  watery cups brewed by those who have no idea that tea making is an art, I have come to the  conclusion that the tea prepared above the Deccan Plateau outranks the ones I have tasted  in the Southern parts of the country. I’m not surprised, considering a large portion of  Southern India comprises coffee connoisseurs. 

A couple of years ago, during my trip to Pench National Park, I remember how surprised I  was by the brutality of the weather. It was towards the end of November, and the  Bangalorean in me didn’t cope well. Had it not been for steaming hot cup of tea doled out by an enterprising hawker at 6 in the morning, I probably would’ve had to pick my constantly chattering teeth off the ground!  That said, irrespective of the weather, I ’ve seen tea lovers like me head to the closest chai-wallah for a cuppa.

Sometimes, it’s not such much about a great tasting brew, as much as it’s about the circumstances in which it’s consumed. 

I was in the Kutta side of Nagarahole National Park one afternoon, bored and tired of waiting for the safari vehicle that was monopolized by a local politician and his extended family. An hour passed and there was no sign of my ride. The unrelenting April heat did little to keep my annoyance in check, and I soon found myself in a rather irritable mood. 

“Madam, tea beka ( would you like a cup of tea)?” 

Those magic words! 

I turned around to see a smiling chai-wallah standing with a small steel tumbler of steaming tea. I accepted it immediately, feeling better already. The flavor, though slightly bitter from the over brewing, was infused with a hint of cardamom. Not the one to complain, I glugged it down, paid the guy, and prepared for the long wait. The vehicle, of course, never turned up. Somehow, it seemed that a cup of tea lightened the disappointment marginally. 

Not surprisingly, this unassuming cuppa has come to my rescue not just when I’m cold or tired, but also during uncomfortable social gatherings that demand unnecessary conversation. 

“So beta, what’s your salary?” a vaguely familiar lady at a boring wedding once questioned, between mouthfuls of rasgulla.

I watched the syrup trickle from the corner of her crimson mouth before finally responding in the best possible manner under the circumstances.

 “Hmmm… slurrrrp!” was my response, as I took an extra loud and long sip of tea, before pretending to find a biscuit to go with it. 

Speaking of uncomfortable social situations, here’s something that my extended family uses to fill the awkward silence between conversations when they’re entertaining guests. This incident dates back to the time when I was barely fourteen. 

My cousins and I, as was practice before the days of the internet, spent our summer holidays together, either at an aunt’s house or sometimes at my place. One such summer, while we were glued to a popular Bollywood flick playing on the rented VCR, one of the cousins suggested I make them some tea. The closest to anything kitchen related I had accomplished back then was spreading jam on toast. 

“But, how difficult is it to make tea, right?” 

The prospect of experimenting in the kitchen, with the older people safely tucked away at one of the numerous weddings they attended, seemed too good to pass up. 

I enthusiastically made my way to the kitchen, picked the nearest vessel, added the mixture of water, milk, tea leaves, and sugar, and proceeded to let it brew. So far so good right?

Well, I’d almost nailed it, except that no one told me that a pressure cooker does not qualify as the right utensil to make chai. In my defense, it was an unfamiliar kitchen, and I had no idea where my aunt stored the pots and pans, and therefore I picked something that could hold and cook the concoction. 

The shrill whistle from the cooker brought my cousins to the kitchen. Dumbfounded, one of them quickly turned off the stove and started to clean some of the tea sprayed on the tiles. Needless to say, I was not allowed into the kitchen, any kitchen for that matter, for several years following the incident. Of course, the brave cousin who’d requested tea that fateful afternoon did consume a couple of sips, not out of respect for my feelings, but mostly because he was curious about the pressure cooked chai. 

My family still uses this story as a conversation filler, much to my embarrassment.

I could wax eloquence about the time in Bandhavgarh when I washed down scores of paneer pakoras with several cups of hot, sweet tea, or the time when my husband and I hailed down a chai-wallah on MG Road, just for a quick cuppa after a late night movie; but I don’t think I’d do justice to this delightful drink. 

Whether it’s weddings, funerals, business meetings, or the expression of a weary and tired traveler as he enjoys a steaming cup; whether it’s the buttery, salty Kashmiri chai, or the sweet, spiced tea prepared in the Northern parts of the country, I believe that the humble chai, coupled with some bhajjis or crunchy biscuits is the glue that binds our beautiful and diverse country together.