To
Hope is mixed with determination as you set off on the
journey to Kailash, the abode of Shiva. Yet, hope and
determination emerge later. As the thought of going on this journey germinates,
it is uncertainty and apprehension that grip you. Can I? Is it safe? Then you
think of those who have gone before you. Persons more advanced in age, with no
trekking experience, with no knowledge of high altitudes. They all made it back
safely. How? The answer lies in faith. Then you fathom your soul and find that
your faith was waiting to be fathomed. As the faith springs, it transforms
uncertainty into hope, apprehension into determination. You have taken the most
important step for this journey that takes you beyond this world while you are still
on your legs.
Money would never be a determining factor for this
journey of faith, notwithstanding the greed of the Chinese, who demand $500
from each pilgrim, and provide engineered problems in return. The National
Adventure Club had agreed to pay a substantial amount, which would cover the
official payments. In addition to the loot by the Chinese, a small sum of Rs. 8000 was paid to the Garhwal Mandal Vikas Nigam
for taking care during the long travel in
Yet, these are afterthoughts. As one filled the form,
one only wanted to have a glimpse of the holy Kailash
and a dip in the Manasavoar. Then, one waits with
baited breath for the response from the Ministry of External Affairs. Suddenly,
the postman delivers the package and things start moving fast. You go to a
clinic for your medical tests including the TMT, pour over the route details,
collect your things, put them in double-layered polythene bags and head for
South Block in
The briefing by an officer of MEA, then medical test
by ITBP doctor (they seemed to be influenced by Chinese behaviour,
the way they made us wait interminably in dark corridors surrounded by
patients; it is a wonder none of us caught an infection), then paperwork,
purchase of foreign exchange and finally a farewell by the Union Home Minister.
This took whole of three days. Finally, the morning of departure arrives. After
another seemingly endless farewell by a local group, we got into the bus after
stuffing the infinite amount of baggage. The worried faces of the families left
behind contrasted with the beaming smiles of the pilgrims.
It is the rainy season and the bus moves slowly, the
journey punctuated by a few more 'receptions' in UP. By evening of day one, we
are at Kathgodam, bathing, washing clothes and the
overzealous ones having their Bhajan session. In the
morning we shift into two smaller buses and head towards Bagheshwar,
at the confluence of two rivers. The ancient Shiva temple is an attraction for
some while sitting on the river bank and peeping into the future is for others.
Early morning shows us the glory of snow-covered peaks and the cameras start
clicking. Day two has begun which takes us, along the Kali river, (which
separates India and Nepal and which we shall follow as long as we are in India)
to Dharchula. It looks simple but the muddy mountain
roads, falling stones and the landslides make it a little different. Yet, how
small these become on a journey where the goal is as big as Kailash.
Dharchula is separated from Nepal by a foot-bridge, with rusted
signs on both sides, in English and Hindi in India and in English and Nepalese
on the other side. A sleepy policeman in his little post once in a while opens
his one eye to see who is going to the other side. There are a dozen shops on
the other side selling low-quality Chinese goods. There are a lot more on the
Indian side selling the necessities of life for which the Nepalese come over.
We were interested in neither. We bought are walking sticks which will be with
us for the next twenty days, and crowded the phone booths. After this, it will
be only the satellite phones at two places in India and one place in China.
The Kali is mighty and roaring at Dharchula
and a rock on the bank provides the ideal perch to transform the mundane
pilgrim into Rodin's thinker. The enormity of the
task resurfaces as you watch the river and realise
how small you are in this vast universe. But the die has been cast and now you
have only one option - flow with the river. After all, there are others like
you in the group of thirty and you are not the oldest, the weakest or the most
inexperienced. They will reach and so will you.
Next morning, the luggage is weighed (you have to pay
for what you carry beyond 25 Kg), then you hire a pony irrespective of whether
you want to walk or ride. This is the only place where you can hire one and the
little money spent even when you want to walk is a good insurance against any
mishap. After fixing up with you, the muleteers disappear and you get into the
bus to go to the road head at Mangti. But this is no
fiction and things do not always go as planned. There are innumerable
landslides and waits and finally there is one that has to be blasted with
dynamite before you can cross on foot. But why focus on the problems. On the
way, the ITBP unit rejuvenates us with Buransh squash
made from rhododendron flowers.
So you walk to Mangti, the
muleteers reappear, you locate the one you had tied up with, hand over the
little backpack to him and start walking up the steep climb to Gala. Those who
had thought that hiring a pony meant you could ride it all the way are in for
some enlightenment. It is better to dismount voluntarily than be made to do so
involuntarily (which the unsophisticated call tumbling down) when the going is
rough.
The few hours to Gala and as you arrive you realise that it is much cooler than the sweltering Mangti. There is a satellite phone and it attracts a crowd,
as there will be no phone for the next three days. There is a cold water bath,
quick dinner and into the bed. Of course, the barracks with a dozen pairs of
smelly shoes and are not what one would desire but the shoes need protection
from the rain to give protection to feet the next day.
The routine of early morning departure starts here.
One goes down the famous (notorious) 14400 steps of Gala at the beginning of
the tough 25 Km trek of the day. This day one passes through Malpa, where the famous danseuse Protima
Bedi and her group were lost to the landslide. At
three places on the way, there are wayside shops where one can have some food
and tea. Yet, sitting at a point just 500 meters from the destination Budhi, some were mustering strength to cross that last bit
to welcome and warmth. More Buransh squash on
arrival, then dinner and sleep.
Early morning from Budhi,
one trudges up the ever-steep climb to Chhiyalekh. It
is almost like a staircase and never-ending though it is only three kilometers.
At the top, the ITBP is ready with hot tea and then off you go through the most
beautiful stretch of the whole trip. It is green and misty with clear streams.
Only the pull of Kailash takes you forward. Then
someone tells you that the shop at Garbyang has Samosas and you walk faster on the muddy, slippery track
near the village. Once at the shop, you try to delay departure with more tea
and more samosas. Yet, Gunji
is still a long way off and you are back on the bank of Kali river. Somewhere,
you turn a bend and there is the camp, which appears at hand-shaking distance.
Yet, it takes another two hours to reach there.
From Gunji, ITBP takes total
control. But first the doctor puts you through a medical test. One wishes they
would put better people as doctors in that grand organisation.
There was widespread dissatisfaction with his conduct particularly among the
ladies. As it is, asking a lady to subject herself to a medical examination by
a male doctor is not everyone's delight particularly when the spirits of the
bottled kind had put the doctor at a higher altitude than that of the place.
Yet, this is all in retrospect. An officer came and briefed us, with a map and
a pointer, about the journey ahead and then we spent time in the temple to
forget about the doctor.
Next morning, with a soldier with wireless set as
pilot and another one as escort, the sandwiched group moved on towards Kalapani. The trek was short and more or less level. This
is the place where Kali River emerges. Here, the Passports are stamped for
emigration. We were told of a hot water spring by the roadside though it turned
out to be a treacherous descent from the road towards the river. Yet, a hot
water bath after the cold, hurried one at Gala, Budhi
and Gunji more than made up for the effort. At night,
the ITBP soldiers had a grand bhajan session in the
temple and some of the group joined with gusto.
The trek from Kalapani to Navidhang took us through a valley full of wild flowers of
vibrant colours. But everyone was pushing ahead to
see the Om Parvat, the
miracle of nature where a huge mountain displays the figure of Om in snow against a dark background. The clouds deny the
pleasure to some groups and we thought we were equally unlucky as we looked
towards the cloud-covered mountain. Yet, inch-by-inch, the clouds drifted and
the sun came out shining over the miracle that Om Parvat represents. There were hurrahs all around, cameras
clicked and then everyone just kept sitting mesmerized by the sight. But as
evening approached, clouds covered it again and then the realisation
dawned on us that this was the last day in our own country.
We started for the border at Lipulekh
at 1.30 at night as we were asked to be at the border by six in the morning. We
were at the pass at the appointed time but there was no sign of the group from
the Chinese side. There was no choice but to wait in the sharp icy wind which
always blows at any pass. Finally, at nine, the party appeared. Their bus had
broken down which was not uncommon, as we had to learn later.
The incoming group had horror tales of the treatment
in China and was relieved to be back to the motherland. We walked a kilometer
before being stopped by a Chinese patrol. The officer got down from the Jeep
and asked for my passport in halting English. He was visibly alarmed seeing the
visa stamps of Japan and South Korea on it. Then, the guide explained that we
were nothing but a bunch of pilgrims and he let us go. Quickly, we were made to
mount ponies (which we were avoiding) and taken to the road head where the
ramshackle bus was waiting for us. Those who brought our bags would not let go
of them till something was paid. We had US dollars and Indian rupees and they
were happy even with the latter.
Passing over dirt tracks and through rivers without
bridges, the bus took us to Taklakot, a town with
Indian name and which was briefly occupied by Kashmir General Zoravar Singh who somehow did not like the idea of Kailash being under anybody's control other than an Indian.
He was soon killed by the tribals. But the ruins of
the fort towering over the town still bear the Indian name of Taklakot as does the town. Here, we had our first taste of
Chinese tea and another taste of bribery as the local police demanded an extra
dollar from each pilgrim. The place of stay was reasonable except the dry
toilets, which had not been cleaned for a month. There was no water in the
bathroom. The food was Chinese vegetarian and made you feel hungry a few hours
later. The market had preponderance of non-vegetarian food, which the pilgrims
shun. So, out came the biscuits and matthis from the
north Indian bags, Khakra from the Gujaratis and plantain chips from the south. Deprivation
and sharing had begun which lasted throughout the stay in China.
Next day was spent in paperwork and currency change
and then the morning thereafter, we got into the ramshackle bus again. A few
hours later, we were on the banks of Rakshasa Tal, the unholy lake adjacent to the holy Manas. By tradition, one does not even touch the waters of
this lake. A short distance ahead, we reached Zaidi
on the banks of Manasarovar. It was not sunny. Yet, a
few brave ones took a dip in the freezing waters. Others contented themselves
by washing the face and then we got on board again for a bumpy ride to Darchen, the base for the Parikramas.
Darchen is a small settlement made much larger by a tented
market. Small pool tables lying in the open (and getting drenched) were a
surprise as was the enthusiasm of the local youth for playing on the wet
flannel. I had expected Tibet to live up to its expectation of being a cold
desert. Yes, it was cold and a desert but it rained for days on without end.
Later, on returning to India we learnt that it was a freak cloudburst that had
played havoc washing away bridges in Kinnaur. At Darchen, we found it irritating as it made our forays to
the tented market less enjoyable.
The small group of rooms where we stayed was besieged
by Bhutia women clamouring
to catch our attention with all kinds of stones and a clear desire to bargain
for hours. Yet, the city dweller cannot resist the temptation of real stones,
polished bright, and soon, out came the wallets. We thought we made a killing
though I am sure if we could understand the excited chatter of those colourfully dressed, butter-skinned, tall and handsome
women, they were having the last laugh.
At Darchen, the group was
divided in two, as in the parikramas, the
accommodation is barely for 15. One group left by bus for Manasarovar
parikrama, while we spent the night in our
mud-plastered rooms at Darchen listening to the sound
of pouring rain. We were told that departure shall be early in the morning but
there was no sign of the yaks and their drivers. Finally, at nine we decided to
move on, leaving the guide to catch up with us when the yaks arrive. It rained
the whole day and the yaks caught up only when we had reached Derapukh, the camp for the night. We were wet, tired,
hungry and it was dark when we arrived. There is no shelter on the way, there
are streams, which have to be waded through, and the lightening in the shelterless plain was scary. Yet, like everything else, it
looks terrible in hindsight. At the moment, it was all about cracking jokes and
cursing the Chinese hosts in a light vein. There were bright suggestions that
if permitted, our philanthropists would create comfortable shelters on the way.
Yet, given the uninterrupted heavy rain, we would never have reached Derapukh if there were any shelter on the way.
But the biggest shock was yet to come. I was the first
to reach Derapukh, which is just the camp. As I
entered the room meant for us, I saw the foam mattresses on the floor completely
soaked by the leaking roof. This was roof over your head in a new light. It
took away your bed. The rest of the group arrived and most of them were
shivering. At 17000 ft, soaked bodies show the route to hypothermia and the wet
mattresses would have helped in that journey to disaster. I found an abandoned
hut and we all huddled into it trying to keep warm by rubbing our limbs and
doing some exercises that soon left us breathless in the thin air. Yet, the
diversion was worth the trouble. There were three rooms in the camp, one for
men, another for ladies and the third for the caretaker. The third was dry but
that worthy refused to share his room with the worthless us. Finally, the two
large polythene sheets, which I always carry during trekking trips, came handy.
These covered three soaked mattresses each and eight men shared these for the
night. Fortunately, the rain had stopped and the roof was shedding only an
occasional drop. The ladies were a little better off as only seven of them had
the luxury of sharing three polythene-covered mattresses.
Around midnight, we heard the excited voice of L.O.
(Liaison Officer) cursing us for sleeping like lazy bones when the Kailash was bathed in moonlight. We rushed out to see the
unforgettable spectacle of the moon over the summit and the Mount shining in
its full glory. We tried long exposures but shivering hands do not go with such
efforts and none of us carried a stand. Yet, for an hour we stood outside in
freezing wind drinking the spectacle that will stay with us till we breathe.
We were tired and stiff in the morning though the day
turned out to be bright. We had a council of war and decided something that is
not permitted on this journey. We decided to take an unscheduled halt at Derapukh to dry our clothes and bones. The yak drivers were
too happy with this decision, as they would get an extra days’ wages without
doing any work. We stretched ourselves in the sun, got heavily burnt and
watched Kailash for the whole day. Some of us even
crossed the hump between the glacier and us though there is a taboo against it.
Next morning we started on the most difficult day of
the whole trip. We had to walk 25 Kms., cross Dolma Pass at 19500 ft. ford an ice cold stream walking on
a single log and walk over soft snow without any helpful markings for quite
some distance. As we neared the pass, we came to spot where you see piles of
old clothes and shoes. Perhaps the place was symbolic of casting off some of
your worldly attachments. Over a period of time it got transformed into a
ritual of casting off unusable possessions. I decided not to add to the pile
that was a rather unwelcome sight in these serene surroundings.
As we neared Dolma Pass,
even the yaks’ steps became laboured. Clouds of vapours issuing from the nostrils of these massive animals
made them look rather surreal. At the Pass, we saw groups of Tibetans doing the
Parikrama in anti-clockwise direction against our
clockwise. As they approached the Pass, they showered small squares of brightly
coloured paper with prayers written on them. For
them, the rock at the Pass represents Dolma, for us
it was Parvati. There was a Sadhu
who was doing the Parikrama in scant clothing and
some in our group adopted him as the priest and had long ritualistic worship
running into more than one hour as we waited for the entire group to arrive at
the Pass. Then we handed over water bottles and 5 Yuan each to the yak drivers
who went down to the Gauri Kund,
a small lake just below the Pass, to get its water. How the lake was not frozen
when everything else was remained a mystery to us.
The descent from the Pass is along a narrow trek and
has to be done on foot even by those who rode the yaks. As the yaks come
thundering down, it is difficult to find a little niche in the rock to let them
pass. I later gathered that in the previous batch, one person tumbled off the
track and broke his ribs. Fortunately, two members of that group were doctors
and they somehow trussed him up and brought him back under sedation. We
descended safely though the walk through soft snow gave several anxious moments
when somebody’s foot would suddenly disappear as the ground underneath gave
way. After descending for more than two hours, we came across a tent where we
could buy jugs of salted green tea. Refreshed, the going became smooth with
grassy plains along the river, which was gradually widening. The L.O. and
another person somehow strayed on the other side of the river while it was
still a trickle and now they had no option but to almost completely undress,
put the bundle on the head and wade through the chest deep icy water.
The grassy patches made the yaks self-willed. The
riders sit on these beasts without a saddle and there is no rein. There were
just a few drivers for more than twenty yaks and so the decisions were all left
to the quadrupeds. Whenever an animal spotted a good grazing area, it moved in
that direction. If it got too far, the driver made a noise and threw a stone at
it. The noise was harmless but the rider had to duck to avoid becoming the target
of the stone. With many hilarious episodes that proved that yaks had bigger
brains than their drivers, we finally arrived at Zongzerbu
when it was getting dark and rain had reappeared.
The beds here were dry, there were even cots under the
mattresses. We knew the worst was over. We had made it and survived. There was
mutual praise and congratulations. Next days’ trek back to Darchen
was almost level and walking at the lower altitude of 12000 ft now was
effortless. It was a fresh looking group which sauntered into Darchen. The other group had completed the Manasarover parikrama in
scheduled time and they had to wait an extra day at Darchen
because of our overstay at Derapukh. But who bothers
about a schedule when the object of the quest is the eternal.
After a brief halt at Darchen
and parting with some some more Yuans
for the stones offered by the Bhutia women, we
boarded the bus and started on Manasarovar Parikrama. Three hours later we reached Hore,
a small village with a shop. While some refused the luxury, we motivated the
shop owner to prepare vegetable fried rice. It was the first decent meal since
we had since we left Taklakot. We acted as doctors
for the local population dispensing liberally from our large stock of
medicines. In the morning, we left by bus again for Qugu,
a monastry on the banks of Manasarovar.
On the way, we had to cross Chhugu, a largish river
that had swollen due to the cloudburst. The bus had to be pulled out by a truck
that was working on the construction site of the bridge nearby. We were told
later that the previous batch could not complete the parikrama
as the water level was too high and they had to turn back.
Qugu is ideal for a dip in the Manasarovar.
It was sunny the next day and even the most faint-hearted among us got in and
submerged his head in the cold water. We saw flocks of large pink ducks on the
lake which folklore has transformed into the mythical swans that feed on pearls
on the banks of this holy lake. The lama at the monastry
was not beyond a little capitalism and ran a small shop from where we bought Thangkas. Next day we reached Zaidi.
That day and the next there were more opportunities of sunshine when more dips
could be afforded but it was too good to last and next day afternoon rain
started again as we waited for the other group to arrive from Darchen. Finally, together again, the batch reached Taklakot by evening.
We had to stay a Taklakot
two extra days as the next batch was held up in India due to the cloudburst and
washing away of bridges. Finally, the news came of their arrival at Navidhang and we left a little after midnight for the
exchange in the morning at Lipulekh. The two days
gave us the opportunity of shopping for jackets at Taklakot
and a trip to Khojarnath, said to be an ancient
temple of Rama, Sita and Lakshman. The Chinese claim that it is a Buddhist temple.
There is an adjacent Buddhist monastry that has
images covered in dust and cobwebs though it is in use and there were butter
oil lamps lighting the place. The priest at Khojarnath
gave us lamps for one Yuan each for lighting before Lord Rama.
The return journey was swift with Taklakot
to Lipulekh, onto Navidhang
for breakfast, to Kala Pani
for lunch and to Gunji for dinner, all in a day’s
work. Next day brought us to Budhi again in pouring rain.
Budhi to Gala was very tough as rain had caused many
landslides and we had to take detours and keep rushing to avoid falling stones.
Next day brought us to Mangti but the bus could not
come here now as a bridge had been washed away. After trekking half way and
crossing the point of the collapsed bridge, we found a jeep, which brought us
to Dharchula. Finally, the next day saw us begin the
road journey back to Delhi via Bagheshwar and Kathgodam. Yet, this is one journey that never ends. The
pilgrim continues on it forever, in his thoughts.