Life on the mountainside has been going well. I’d envisioned myself sitting on a rock by a river, or trapped in a chatty hostel vibe, but- of course- it has been neither of those things. On my first morning here I re-met the Iranian (Amir), who was just heading out with another guy, Shri from Kerala, to a village (Malana) nearby. So I went along with them, removing the question of what precisely I was going to do in this village by the river. We made our way to the road and got on a bus playing lively Hindi pop, making the journey more exciting. I had a sensation of ‘really travelling’, as in the old days. We had to wait for a taxi to take us up the road to the village, so I bought some fondant-filled pastry tubes (specific name unknown) and shared them with a mutt who looked as tho he’d seen better days. The car took us up higher into the hills, more funky tunes, more hairpins and sheer drops, trees in blossom, big views of the valley. The trek to the village was short but quite intense- down to the river, across the bridge, up the other side. The village is famous for its Untouchables (we weren’t allowed to touch them, or anything else around us, except for the ground): either they were especially holy, or they believed themselves to be directly descended from Alexander the Great, who’d obviously quite liked it here on his long-ago rampages. Some of them did seem to have a particular ‘look’, but I haven’t seen many people from these regions to compare the Untouchables with, nor do I have a strong idea of what Alexander looked like (wasn’t he a blonde?). They seemed (literally) standoffish and the village was a wreck of mud, snow and litter. There were some impressive carved temple-halls (built recently to replace the old ones that burnt down), but the atmosphere wasn’t welcoming. There wasn’t an obvious place to have a tea, only a steady stream of guys asking us if we wanted Cream (the famous charas they grow here). At first I couldn’t understand what they meant, but I would have gladly accepted a pint of milk. 

I’ve never really known what to do in these kinds of places- a village, out of the way, everyone going about their business, while a few tourists poke their noses around. However, I liked seeing the Indian tourists who were plying the path to and and from the village, especially the groups of guys, fashionably attired: shades, trainers, caps, leather jackets (draped over the shoulders in some cases), the odd portable speaker providing a soundtrack. They seemed young, fairly innocent despite the swagger, the odd one trying just a little too hard to be cool… on a mountain track, on the way to look at some of their incredibly remote and traditional countrymen. All sorts of locals are in this area sightseeing: bespectacled couples in sensible jumpers, the cool guys, the garrulous groups of school-leavers, Punjabi bikers in bright turbans and scarves covering their faces, roaring past with flags waving from the front of the bikes. It’s like travelling twice- I see the local area, and those visiting: two worlds. Like going to the English countryside and observing the rural-types and the middle-class ramblers clashing over right of way in the pub car park.

After climbing up and around the snow and plastic-choked paths for a while, we decided to head back down the path- probably the more interesting part for me. It was nice to be using the legs, away from the city, in the fresh air, looking at the snow-capped mountains. A fourth guy jumped in the car back to Kasol with us- he hadn’t much liked the village either. He was pompous and mildly likeable, and referred to the idiocies of Trump a number of times, which I found pleasantly out of context. We deposited the proud pontificator somewhere near Kasol, then we mooched around the town for a while, admiring all of the cake-filled bakery displays. Post-smoke munchies are clearly good for business. There were lots of ‘hippie shops’; we browsed a few in search of various garments. I was freezing and needed a cheap coat, and got some multi-coloured mittens too- I have no idea why. Amir bought a dazzling poncho. Shri bought some kind of bone key-chain/talisman. Some backpackers strolled past, looking quite exotic to me, at this stage of dislocation from the west and the world itself. But these foreign specimens were greatly outnumbered by the Indian. Maybe it’s the season? Apparently Manali is hot for weddings. Here it’s hot for weed. Maybe this is the future of Indian tourism: The few scraggly westerners (headband to sandal in tribal fabric), haggling over cake, being absorbed by the local crowd. Eventually we got back to the hostel, where I braved the sitting room, had a beer, talked with the group about the day’s adventures. I looked at some photos of the dutch couple at a weed processing place. Then a delicious chicken biriani arrived, courtesy of the kind and buoyant hostel workhorse Raju. I was okay with the chat, I just wouldn’t normally choose to put myself in a situation like that as I wouldn’t actively enjoy it that much. Still, at least a performance was put in, and I feel that I’ve done my hostel duty- and the day out with Amir (dreamy and jolly) and Shri (kind and easy-going, with a great habit of addressing us regally as ‘dears’) was a success.

The last couple of days were taken up by a hike. Amir departed for Manali in search of a french girl he’d attempted to woo recently, defeated by a rogue wave knocking off his spectacles. Shri suggested heading off to a campsite up the mountain for one night. I’d bought my warm coat, had my knock-off rucksack (enough zips still intact). No reason to say no. So off we went- a crowded, jolting bus for a hour, a procurement of rubber shoes (for there would be snow) and a sturdy stick (for it would be steep). I felt pretty hikish: scarf protecting sunburnt neck, cap, staff for warding off inquisitive goats, rubber boots swinging from the rucksack. There turned out to be a few little cafe-shacks on the way, so we were able to have a few teas and some instant noodles on the way up. We passed through a village where an old man, upon learning I was English, began to give Shri (who seemed pretty knowledgeable about Indian history) a lecture on how the British were gods for saving Hinduism (presumably by stemming Mughal power). So it’s nice to know I have a village in the mountains ready to receive me. The walk was rocky and steep, but again the views were great and we were passing a lot of interesting path life. We crossed the river and steadily climbed up through the forest on the other side, navigating tree roots, path covered in pine needles, views down to the river, trees in blossom. There were patches of snow and landslide rubble to navigate, but nothing too treacherous. It felt good to be heading somewhere, a bit out of breath, sound of river and breeze in the trees. We shared the route from time to time with the cool young brigade, walking in trainers. I got some good photos of them, and they were always polite and friendly and keen to ask me questions.

We got to the top late-afternoon and headed up to the hot spring for a dip. The camp was spread out on a large hillside, mountains all around. A spectacular setting. We had some tranquil moments in a relatively empty pool, enjoying the view and the heat of the water, perfect after the hard walk. The late afternoon light was on the snowy peaks; all was still apart from the cawing of whirling crows. Soon the pool the filled with boisterous lads, splashing, taking photos. It was supposed to be a holy place, next to a temple, but there wasn’t much point trying to enforce the ‘silence is best’ signs. Post-bath, it was chilly. We found good lodgings- real pacha’s tents with a great view of the mountain. We met some nice guys there, two also from Kerala. Later various groups gathered in a warm cosy room with a wood-burner in the middle and ate, smoked, talked. I was feeling tired from the walk, the bath, the heat of the room. I just propped myself up on the cushions, ate momos, half-observed. Shri was on good form: this was the first time he’d seen snow, and he tried a bit of weed too. I took myself to bed early and buried myself beneath the blankets.

We were up early- hard to sleep long in the cold. We had a chai and an omelette and made our way back, just as the sun was breaking over the mountains and flooding the campsite. It was peaceful in the pine forest- cool, soft light, plenty of tree-life to look at. It was nice to take photos of scenes that didn’t include concrete. It was sobering to see locals tripping up to the top carrying various equipment (poles, bedding, the odd case of Coke); obviously the season is just starting and the camp expanding. I tried to enjoy the views, and I was in a good mood, but of course it was all a bit hazy. I just ignored any strange sensations, and tried to make the most of being in this place, a rare spot void of plastic, car-horns, ugly buildings. I remember doing some hiking in Georgia, just after the detachment started in 2016: that was harder- long walks in amazing scenery, feeling heavy-headed, dizzy, unable to be present in the landscape at all. A bit of a waste; quite demoralising to be in a beautiful place and not be able to enjoy it. But I did enjoy this little hike. It was a refreshing change to be ‘in nature’ after the recent random relay of big cities. And Shri was good company- calm, thoughtful, not too talkative. On the other side of the river we saw a small festival getting started at a temple: a couple of drummers, men in glittering sashes, others bathing in the waterfall, goat blood on the path, women walking along the paths dressed in bright saris. We also passed a lot of animals being herded along the path and had to make way for various groups of cows, goats, sheep, donkeys and their stick-wielding supervisors. Nice to be able to observe these animals in fragrant proximity: One sheep contemplating a crowd-surf off a wall, a burst of Alsatian chasing large goat, a donkey putting its lips to a cool rivulet, seeming not to drink.

So a walk of reminders: of how I felt squeezed of energy after hot springs in Japan, and how I tried to sleep in my wooden hut in Japan in winter (buried under blankets), and of other hikes: those in Tasmania all those years ago, scented nostalgically with eucalyptus, and the less positive experiences in Georgia, at the start of this ongoing and rocky chapter.