The Mother of All Drives - Part 4. Leh - Khardung La - Tso Moriri

Kyagar Tso. En route to Tso Moriri.

04 July 2001.

It had rained all night and it was still raining as we loaded up the Gypsy. We headed out of Leh at 7:30 am, giving us plenty of time to reach Karzok on the shores of Tso Moriri, or so we thought. We had barely gone a few kilometres when a strange buzzing sound began to emanate from the region below the steering wheel. The intensity of the sound increased as I accelerated and began to resemble an angry hornet's nest. Before this skewered our plans any further we decided to investigate. I looked for loose parts which might be creating friction and generating the sound but could find nothing. Fearing that the problem might lie in the bearings of the steering wheel which had been changed at Choglamsar only a few weeks earlier, we decided to stop at the Maruti Service Station where the repairs had been done. The facility was closed.

We made a couple of enquiries and were advised to seek help on the Leh - Kargil road! Not having a viable alternative, we soon found ourselves back in Leh and heading in the direction of Kargil. A mechanic at the Ladakh Auto Works was quick to diagnose the problem - it had nothing to do with the steering. The speedometer cable was the culprit and he soon had it fixed and we were back on track.

The delay had cost us an hour and a half, which meant we were now ready for breakfast. A fitting repast of omelets and eggs at Upshi gave me time to reflect on the events of the last couple of days.

01 July 2001. Shang Sumdo

We were in a state of bliss after our little trudge to the top of the lower of the two Kang Yaze summits a couple of days earlier
(see http://taccidental.blogspot.ca/2014/10/kang-yaze-trekking-peak.html ) and were camped in a lovely field of grass beside the Shang river. Earlier in the afternoon we had seen a herd of thirteen bharal as we trekked down the Chokdo nala and to see them scampering up an incredibly steep slope of scree was like an extra blessing being showered upon us.

Bharal in near perfect camouflage on a scree slope

In the evening, the guide Thondup and Hans, one of his clients, dropped in to say hello and return the pair of crampons that Hans had borrowed from me so he could climb Kang Yaze with the rest of his group. They invited us for some beers at their camp site which we politely declined as we were too lazy to move from the wonderful warm grass of our little meadow.

Shang Sumdo

L to R : Franklyn, Ravi and Franco. Tents were not needed that night.

02 July 2001. Shang Sumdo - Leh. Encounter with Goodwill Ambassador.

An hour and a half of flat walking on a gravel road brought us to Martselang, the entrance to the Hemis Wildlife Refuge. An official spotted us here and gave us a backdated receipt of Rs.280/- per head for the 14 days we had spent within its borders during our trek and climb. Two weeks earlier there had been nobody on duty at this check post! We paid our dues and hopped into the waiting Gypsy, emblazoned with the sign "Nezer Inexpensive Adventure" and were back at the Nezer View Guest House in Leh in about 45 minutes.

In order to celebrate our modest success we decided to treat ourselves to Chinese cuisine at a restaurant that evening. After the chow mien and the chili chicken and the fried rice had satisfied our cravings, we reverted to the old staple chai as the eatery began to empty. I noticed a young and lean male with slightly long hair nursing his brew at a table across from us. He smiled and came over to our table. "Good evening, gentlemen," he said. "Mind if I join you?"

We glanced at each other, shrugged our shoulders, and I said, "I don't see why not. Have a seat."

He pulled up a chair and sat himself down.

"Can you guess which country I come from?" he said.

I took one look at his visage and declared confidently,"Israel!"

He was visibly impressed. "How did you know?"

"Experience," I muttered.

He took a sip from his cup and then said,"I am sure you are wondering what this is all about. Well, I'll tell you. It is my mission to repair the unfortunate damage that some of my countrymen have done to the reputation of the Israeli nation around here by their thoughtless and sometimes brash behaviour. You can call me a Goodwill Ambassador for Israel!"

"Well, it is about high time," I responded and narrated the little incident we had witnessed a few weeks earlier
(see http://accidentaldriver.blogspot.ca/2015/01/the-mother-of-all-drives-part-2-raskat.html ).

For the last fifteen years or so I had heard stories from the local residents of the many mountain villages in Himachal Pradesh about young male and female backpackers from Israel behaving in ways that had caused minor friction in the host communities. Sometimes the consequences had been tragic: there had been reports of untimely and unnatural deaths of some of them. Most of the stories were hearsay and it was difficult to corroborate, but the fact remained that their reputation had been tainted.

The Goodwill Ambassador was obviously also aware of these tales and had set out to correct the imbalance. We chatted amiably for a while, he thanked us for our time, and then it was time to go. We had set an early departure for the Khardung La in the morning and were looking forward to what has been touted as The Highest Motorable road in the world.

03 July 2001. Leh - Khardung La - Leh

We were not the only ones making the pilgrimage to the Khardung La, as we soon found out. There were jeeps full of tourists, motorcycles, cycles, minibuses and regular sized ones, and vans all vying for space on the narrow road leading up to the pass. This was a change from the thin traffic that we had encountered on the Darcha - Leh sector. The road was fairly steep and once again I had to engage the 4WD gears to help our Gypsy to the crest of the Khardung La.

The mandatory self portrait for the records.

A mix of sleet and light snow greeted us on the pass. There was a booth manned by the soldiers stationed there dispensing free hot tea to one and all. My well known weakness for the brew made me join the long queue of hopefuls. Unfortunately, by the time it was my turn, the urn containing the tea was empty.

Ravi (in blue) chatting to the soldier

When I returned to the Gypsy, Ravi was chatting with a soldier who hailed from Maharashtra and who was obviously delighted to have the opportunity to speak in Marathi to a fellow native.

The crowd was a delightful mix of nationalities. There was a group from Brazil on a fleet of Bullet motorcycles and their trip had been organised by an Indian who lived there! There were Italians and Germans and French toiling their way up the tortuous road, clad in lycra and anoraks and pedalling stoically on their cycles; some came in groups, some came solo, but all of them came armed with steely determination. I was sure the heady atmosphere owed something to this enthusiasm in addition to its impressive altitude.

Franco above the notch of the pass

04 July 2001. Leh - Upshi - Chumathang - Mahe - Karzok / Tso Moriri

The road from Upshi to Chumathang along the Indus torrent was delightful, the rugged cliffs beside the route occasionally softened by bushes of wild roses clinging tenaciously to seams of soil sandwiched between layers of quartz and granite and sandstone.

Driving along the Indus between Upshi and Mahe

Lunch stop at Chumathang

Ravi (left) and Franco tuck into fried rice and noodles.

We interrupted a card game in progress at the Mahe bridge check post.  After the usual pleasantries and registration process we crossed the river and almost immediately drove on to a track of gravel and stones. There was a sense of entering an enchanted world.

Big fat marmots popped out of their burrows to look at us, some even ran alongside to satisfy their curiosity, while yaks grazed in the green pastures unconcerned at the passage of another four footed beast carrying four strange two legged creatures and grunting and creaking at every twist and turn.

Between Mahe and Puga

The sky was utterly and uniquely dramatic as it can be only in Ladakh. The miles rolled by and we did not encounter a single vehicle. A long line of sheep hove into view on our left and soon a body of water soaked in shades of aquamarine blue appeared. We had seen no road signs since leaving Mahe and were not too sure how far we might still be from Karzok and the shores of Tso Moriri. There was a yurt near the water's edge and I drove straight towards it.

The three dots are yurts at Kyagar Tso

As we stepped down from our vehicle a man emerged from the yurt. He was well built, clad in homespun garments and had a weather beaten face with wrinkles indicating many years of living outdoors in these harsh conditions. A strong wind blew his long matted hair and scraggly beard to one side. He looked as wild as the landscape around him and no one could ever doubt that this person absolutely belonged here.

I made a sign of greeting and said, "Jule". Then, in Hindi,"Karzok? How far to Karzok? To Tso Moriri?"

The man opened his mouth and said something in his native tongue that none of us could understand. I looked at the gaps between his stained teeth as he grinned and repeated my question.

He began to gesticulate vigorously with his hands, pointing repeatedly to the sandy ground beside his yurt. A couple of children and a woman now appeared from inside the structure.

"No, no," I said,"We don't want to camp here! We are looking for Karzok!"

He shook his head. We got back inside the Gypsy, yelled a cheery Jule to the wife and kids, and took off in a cloud of dust, hoping that Tso Moriri was somewhere around the corner.

After what seemed like a very long afternoon, during which we also had to stop to refuel from our spare jerry can, the limpid blue waters of what could only be Tso Moriri appeared through the windshield. A light breeze ruffled the surface and flashes of silver flashed from the wavelets generated. We stopped to touch the water and splash our faces with its cool essence. It was like being delivered unto the promised land! Karzok was now within reach.

The final stretch to Karzok along the shores of Tso Moriri

It was 7:15 pm when we drove into the collection of houses and lodges of Karzok. We checked into the  half finished "Tso Moriri Hotel", paying Rs. 400/- for two rooms for the night. Hot water was supplied to us in buckets to bathe in. A sensational feeling of rejuvenation followed.

An almost full moon bathed the vast expanse of the lake and the rolling mountains around it and life couldn't have been better.

to be continued.....

The Mother of All Drives - Part 3. Darcha - Bara Lacha La - Tanglang La - Leh

At the start of the More Plains.

The road stretched straight as an arrow across the More Plains in a classic demonstration of parallel lines merging at infinity. In this case, the perceived distance of infinity was substantially more than that at sea level, thanks to the incredible clarity of the high altitude atmosphere, the lack of smoke stacks and the lack of moisture.

Whooping with delight, I slipped the transmission into fourth and floored the gas pedal. The overloaded Gypsy lumbered forth, accelerating slowly. Soon we were going at a fairly good clip and the landscape whizzed past, the occasional nomad family glimpsed in a blur. It was the first time since leaving Solang that we had achieved a speed exceeding 50 kmph and I was elated.

View from the edge of the More Plains

Our elation did not last long. Suddenly, the steering wheel seemed to be possessed - the whole contraption began to vibrate violently. I slowed down. The vibrations continued. My three companions looked rather concerned. I knew what they were thinking: without steering control, the next turn on these mountain roads could be fatal. I pressed down on the wheel in an effort to stop the vibrations. Soon, I was leaning with my full upper body weight on it and it seemed to help. I drove slowly in this positively inelegant fashion for quite a distance before easing off the pressure. We were almost at the other end of the More Plains and the first curves were in sight.

Looking back on the road - seen here as a faint line on the slopes to the left - leading up to the Tanglang La

Downshifting on the gears, I turned the steering gingerly. The Gypsy responded. With a sigh of relief, we continued. The Tanglang La, the highest pass (at 17,582 ft above sea level) ) on the Manali - Leh road loomed ahead many kilometres away and we kept our fingers crossed. It was cold and windy on the pass and a brief snow shower welcomed us. We lingered just long enough to thank the powers that be at the small shrine built and maintained by the Border Roads Organisation, the omnipotent entity without whose sterling work travel on the northern frontiers of India would be impossible.

The multi-faith (Indians should be proud of this!) shrine at the Tanglang La.

Leh was now only 111 kilometers distant and it would be downhill from here all the way.

Flashback to 14 June 2001. Rohtang Pass - Darcha

The escape from the hordes thronging Rohtang Pass was well timed and all four of us sighed with relief as we glided down to Khoksar and headed for Darcha. Every time that I have crossed the Rohtang Pass, the meaning of Rain Shadow has been driven home. On the Manali side of the road, rain falls copiously and the landscape is green and verdant, forests clothe the hillsides and clouds lie in the hollows. On the Lahul side of the pass, a sea change is immediately noticeable: the air feels drier, the hills assume a more rugged profile, the colours of the slopes take on more earthy shades of brown, beige, russet and ochre. The clarity in the air accentuates every ridge, every slope, every rock and pebble and imbues the world around with a subtle divinity.

We stopped briefly at Tandi bridge to refuel and as we turned off the road which leads further to Udaipur a shiver of anticipation ran through my being: the route from here onwards would be new to me. I had passed through Udaipur en route to climb Menthosa in 1986 (see http://taccidental.blogspot.ca/2012/08/menthosa-climb.html ) but the road to the Bara Lacha La and beyond would be a new experience. We reached Darcha at dusk and found a lodge on the roadside where we could spend the night.  The night was cold and chilly and the place was extremely quiet. We were the only tourists here and we savoured the exclusive solitude. We retired to bed early with instructions to the tea shop owner next door to wake us up at 4 am with a brew. I anticipated a long day ahead and it was imperative that we cross Pang before the authorities closed travel on the Pang - Leh section at 3 pm.

15 June 2001. Darcha - Bara Lacha La - Pang - Tanglang La - Leh.

It was well below freezing as we motored out of Darcha in the dark at 4:30 am. We drove in silence as the headlights picked out stretches of the road ahead, its feeble artificial glow competing with the splendour of the dawn as the world around us began to light up slowly. At Patseo, we crossed an Army check post where my license and the vehicle documents were checked and our passage registered. This ritual would be repeated many times on our way to Leh and we soon had a drill perfected: as soon as I spotted a check post ahead, I would slow down and come to a stop, Ravi would hop out with my license and the documents and trot briskly across, greet the soldiers with a cheerful smile, make small talk, complete the formalities and trot back to the Gypsy. Ravi had been born with a permanent smile and it was great to have him on board.

Approach to the Bara Lacha La

As the Gypsy laboured up towards the Bara Lacha pass I had to lock the front wheel hubs, engage the 4 WD gears  in Low mode and nurse the vehicle up in second gear. We were heavily loaded and I do not think the Gypsy had been designed to carry such a weight. A small bus carrying a group of BSF (Border Security Force) men and emblazoned on the front with the Swaraj Mazda logo soon overtook us as we crawled slowly towards the top of the pass. I envied the bus its diesel heart and the torque that it could pump out!

Suraj Tal - just before the crest of the Bara Lacha La

The music of Phil Collins and UB40 kept us humming to their beat, the reggae of the latter especially suited to our leisured progress.

At the Bara Lacha La. L to R : Franklyn, Franco, Ravi.

We stopped for a couple of pictures at the pass before beginning the long descent to Bharatpur, the oddly named collection of teashops and dhabas. The name was totally at variance with the more local names of the other stops on the route. A motley collection of vehicles was parked here, headed for Leh or Manali. There was a bus which had come all the way from Kashmir and I could only admire the stamina and fortitude of both the passengers and the driver for undertaking such a rigorous journey in the spartan comforts of public transport.  Suddenly, I noticed a truck mounted on a Tata 407 chassis which looked very familiar. On closer inspection, it turned out to be the same one I had seen at Auli a few weeks earlier on my return to Joshimath from the Bagini Glacier trek
(see http://accidentaltrekker.blogspot.ca/2014/04/bagini-bouquet.html ). I said hello to the crew, they were the staff of Rimo Expeditions, the outfit which had been in support of Harish Kapadia and Suman Dubey's expedition to the Nanda Devi Sanctuary and whom I had also bumped into at Auli!
(For Harish's account of that trip see : https://www.himalayanclub.org/hj/58/9/nanda-devi-juggernaut/)

Ice still covered parts of the fledgling Tsarap river as we descended from the Bara Lacha La

A Lahuli girl in one of the dhabas whipped up omelets for our breakfast in record time. Thus fortified, we drove onwards towards Sarchu, enjoying the rugged scenery. There was one more social call to make a few kilometres before Sarchu. We drove into a flat meadow dotted with tents and a sign declaring North Quest Adventures. Vijay, an acquaintance of Franco's, who managed this campground, pulled out some chairs while his staff plied us with biscuits and tea.

Bharatpur

Ravi taking advantage of a photo-op between Bharatpur and Sarchu

Vijay (left) plays the genial host at the North Quest Adventures camp ground.

Things went fairly smoothly after the steering wheel incident at the start of the More Plains, but we kept our fingers crossed nevertheless as we descended on the snowbound stretch below the Tanglang La. Sighting a herd of yaks cheered us up as the snow gave way to gravel lower down. Soon evening chai was called for and we pulled in at the 3B "restaurant" which was constructed from the ubiquitous old parachute cloth covering almost every tea shop on the route. As we waited for the tea an olive green Army Gypsy came to a halt outside and an extremely smart looking lady officer dismounted, accompanied by a private. She had a baton under her arm and her cap was planted authoritatively on her head. Though a ragged bunch in comparison, we almost sprang to attention like a couple of soldiers. She acknowledged us with a curt nod, spoke briefly with the tea shop owner, and strode out as quickly as she had come in.

"She is a doctor," whispered the chaiwalla to us as we sipped the refreshing liquid from the cups he now offered us.

Descent from the Tanglang La - the black dots in the middle distance are yaks

At Upshi the road joined the one coming from Mahe and as dusk fell we could finally see the mighty Indus as it flowed northwest towards Leh. It was almost dark when we passed through Shey, the famous whitewashed chortens looming and vanishing as the road took a slalom course through the monuments.

At 8 pm we arrived in Leh, almost fourteen hours after having left Darcha. We were tired and hungry and longed for a good night's sleep and almost immediately fell victim to the solicitation by the son of the owner of the Nezer View Guest House!

The next morning we drove to Choglamsar to a Maruti service station to have the steering wheel problem looked into and to contact a muleteer for the pack animals we would need for our trek from Martselang to the base of Kang Yaze, the peak we planned to climb. For that story, see http://taccidental.blogspot.ca/2014/10/kang-yaze-trekking-peak.html

Car wash at Choglamsar

For the moment, we were content to let the two enthusiastic boys wash down the grime of the journey from the Gypsy after the bearings supporting the shaft of the steering wheel had been replaced. These two boys were the most cheerful lads I have ever seen working in an auto repair facility anywhere in the world!

We left the vehicle in the premises of the Hotel Horizon on the evening of 18 June because our guest house had no parking space. It would remain there till the next phase of the drive. In the meantime, we had a mountain to climb!

to be continued.....

View from Nakee La

Refuelling en route

The Indus river at Choglamsar

The Mother of All Drives - Part 2. Raskat - Solang - Rohtang Pass

Hanuman Tibba 

12 June 2001. Raskat - Manikaran - Kullu - Manali - Solang.

Chaman Singh's house overlooked the courtyard of the local primary school. The cheerful chatter of excited children filled the air as they prepared for a few hours of learning while we checked that the car tyres had air in them and that there were no oil leaks lurking on their underbellies. Chaman's wife stuffed us graciously with a liberal helping of aloo parathas and chai. Thus fortified, we were ready to face the perils of the road once again.

Ready for school!

The school

Our host Chaman Singh Thakur

The overnight rain ensured that the drive back to Manikaran was less dusty than the afternoon before, but the ensuing mud on the road plastered our vehicles with fresh coats of various shades of brown. Thus decorated, we motored happily onwards till a long and stationary line of vehicles brought us to a grinding halt. As is the custom while driving in India, we got out of the cars, stretched our legs, relieved the hydraulic pressures that inevitably build up in certain sectors of the anatomy as a result of cold air and the constant bumping, then decided to investigate the cause of this massive traffic jam on a very narrow mountain road.

After walking for more than half a kilometer past the parked vehicles, we found the reason for the long line-up. The overnight rain had caused a landslide to block the road. Even as we watched with the throng that had gathered, workers were busy trying to clear the obstruction: mud and stones and a rather large boulder had come crashing down the hillside, creating a mini crater which was filled knee deep with water. One of the workers had carved a narrow channel to let out the water which gushed out in a muddy brown ribbon, gradually exposing an imposing bed of thick, glutinous mud. Other workers jumped into the fray, scooping and hurling out the mud with large tins slung on a pair of ropes attached to each side for two people to work in unison.

Meanwhile an excavating machine was busy clearing the larger stones, its loud throaty growl echoing from the cliffs around while a slim spiral of black diesel smoke wafted upwards into the clean mountain air. There were cars, buses, trucks and vans waiting on the other side as well. People waited patiently and no one seemed to mind the delay that this incident had caused them.

The exception to this arrived suddenly on the scene in the form of a young Israeli with long dreadlocks mounted on a Bullet motorcycle, weaving through the crowd of vehicles and people, till he was at the edge of the crater. Obviously he was in a tearing hurry to go somewhere because he ignored the assembled onlookers and even the workers who tried to prevent him and drove his motorcycle straight into the mud bath where predictably he got stuck, submerged up to his knees in the thick mud, his Bullet puttering out unceremoniously. After everyone had had a good laugh and muttering "Serves him right", some good souls helped this rather immature and reckless youth out of his predicament.

The man operating the excavator nudged the last big boulder with consummate skill into the jaws of the metal bucket and the road was now free of obstruction. We all cheered. Filling up the ditch took another hour or so. Without further ado, the traffic began to move and very soon we drove into Kullu and onwards to Manali. Our destination for the day was Solang, further up the highway, to rendezvous with Franco Linhares, the fourth member of the Drive to Ladakh quartet.

Franco had arrived in Solang a few weeks earlier where he was conducting Outdoor Leadership courses for a company. We drove into Solang just as he had finished work for the day and he helped us settle in for the night.

13 June 2001. A SMALL WALK TO BEAS KUND.

Since this was Cheryl and Rosalyn's very first trip to the Himalaya, it was only fair that they be introduced to the joys of hiking in the hills. With this end in mind, we drove the short distance to Dhundi where we parked. There was a little tea stall under the canopy of an old parachute here. A quick cuppa followed and we were ready to walk.

I soon realized why this small hike to Beas Kund is so popular with most people I had met. It is easy to approach and in the short space of a few kilometers brings you up close to the glaciers below the peak of Hanuman Tibba, traversing flower filled meadows en route. The views back down the valley are also quite splendid. This was a great introduction for Cheryl and Rosalyn who had never experienced anything like this in their lives. They were thrilled and I realized how much I had begun to take things for granted after many trips to the mountains. Looking at everything with their fresh perspective was a good lesson in humility.

Franco lends a chivalrous hand to Sushma

The view down the valley

Deo Tibba rises behind the ridge

That evening we drove to Manali for a dinner of delicious momos, topped up our fuel tanks and bought an extra 30 liters which would come in handy for the long stretch between Udaipur and Leh where there were no fuel pumps.


14 June 2001. Solang - Rohtang Pass.

The plan was that Raj and the girls would accompany us in his little white car up to the Rohtang Pass where we would part company. The girls would have a modest altitude record (13,050 ft) in their resume and could return to Delhi contented while we would get down to the business of descending to Lahul and driving on to Leh.

A cold rain began to fall as we climbed past Marhi towards the pass. The road was pockmarked with potholes, but this did not deter the hundreds of vehicles heading upwards. We soon passed little stalls offering warm hats, jackets and boots for sale and for hire to the thousands of tourists determined to reach the pass. As we neared the top, a section of the road had an impressive snow bank as a white bulwark which stretched for a couple of hundred yards. Some entrepreneural soul had seized the opportunity to carve out a pair of throne-like recesses in the snow and offered these seats briefly for a fee to the hundreds of freshly married couples who regularly make Manali their honeymoon destination every year. He was doing brisk business as the line up of cars along this stretch attested, delaying us further.

Eventually we reached the top of the pass and I was shocked at the transformation I saw from 16 years earlier when I had passed that way. In August 1985, the pass was a desolate place with wind and rain as we crossed it in a public bus (see http://taccidental.blogspot.ca/2012/06/lion-peak-seed-is-sown.html), there was no one in sight, and the bus driver had stopped expressly at our request so we could take a few pictures.

Now, it resembled a mini Kumbh Mela, with hundreds of people milling around and a chain of tea shops and small eateries and vendors roasting corn on small portable coal grills and "guides" soliciting the tourists. There were ponies available for hire for those who did not wish to walk to what the guides called "Snow Point". Everyone seemed to be heading for  Snow Point! Though it was highly amusing, I could understand the underlying desire of a tourist from the plains who had never set eyes on snow to want to experience it at first hand and have a tale to tell the folks back home. If you consider that India has a population of over a billion people, and that perhaps more than 98% of that number live in places which will never see snow until the next Ice Age, you can begin to comprehend the mania that we were caught up in! Since Sushma, Cheryl and Rosalyn also belonged to the 98%, we joined the trot to Snow Point!

We walked and we walked and we walked and there was no sign of any snow anywhere. The sleet and the wind stung our faces like little insects while our boots squelched on ground that was a sea of mud. We stopped someone who was on his way back. "How much further is it to Snow Point?" we asked him. He laughed derisively and said,"What a load of bullshit this is! There is a patch of old snow which looks more brown than white and it will take you half an hour to get there! These guides are taking everyone for a ride...."

By this time, Sushma was so cold that she had ceased to talk - this was serious, because under normal circumstances you had to gag her if you wanted her to shut up! Though she lives in Delhi, she has always considered the winters a challenge. More importantly, the futile trek towards Snow Point was eating into the driving time for the Ladakh Quartet. Sensibly, we decided to turn around and headed straight for a tea shop where we warmed up with a farewell round of chai.

L to R : Aloke, Ravi, Franklyn, Franco, Rosalyn, Sushma, Cheryl, Raj

We wished Raj and the girls a safe trip back to Delhi, fastened our after-market seat belts, turned on the cassette player so that Dire Straits belting out Sultans of Swing drowned out the buzz of the multitudes. I pointed the Gypsy in the direction of Lahul, engaged the gears, and cruised down the empty north side of the pass. We descended out from the clouds and into glorious sunshine. I took it as a good omen for The Mother of All Drives.

to be continued....

The Mother of All Drives - Part 1. Delhi - Bilaspur - Raskat

En route to Tso Moriri, Ladakh

PRELUDE

I got my Learner's license at the rather mature age of 35. I bought my first car, a used Maruti Suzuki Gypsy, in November 1990 - it turned out to be a lemon! Thousands of rupees and a month later I convinced Rajan, who was the proud owner of a full fledged License, to accompany me as I took my father-in-law and his friend on a fishing trip to the shores of Mulshi Lake, beyond the village of Ambavane. The road beyond INS Shivaji was a dirt track and 20 km later we were covered liberally in the red dust so typical of these hills. We camped by the shores of the lake, were visited by a leopard in the night, and my father-in-law did not catch a single fish!

On the return journey we had a flat tyre on the dirt road and I was glad that Rajan was around to help jack up the vehicle and put the spare tyre on.

A few years later I was driving back at night with Pradeep Nambiar and Vijay on the Barvi Dam road. I was elated after a day in the hills and took great pleasure in negotiating the innumerable bends on this route as it wound its way through the patch of forest which clothed the slopes above the reservoir. Spotting wildlife on this stretch had always been an added attraction, and I kept my eyes peeled for signs of sudden and surreptitious movement. With adrenalin flowing, I took the next bend at a fairly good clip, battled with the steering as the vehicle spun out of control, balancing on the two wheels on the left hand side like the stunts I had seen in James Bond movies, before landing with a thud on that side. Vijay, who was sitting at the back, shot through like a missile and landed between Pradeep and me. There were hissing sounds and the smell of leaking gasoline permeated the night air.

Miraculously, our limbs were intact, and we managed to crawl out of the vehicle. We stood on the road inspecting the damage: The windscreen had shattered, the bonnet and the two side doors had buckled in to form new contours. Other than that, everything else seemed okay. With a combined heave, we pushed the Gypsy back on to its four wheels. Pradeep noticed that the radiator fan was jammed against the unit. With a little effort he managed to free it. We tied up the doors with our handkerchiefs after wiping the blood off my bruised elbow and I cranked the engine. To our collective surprise, the beast came to life, but with a hesitant purr. I switched on the headlights and they worked, though the angle of illumination had now changed and only the patch of road about 8 feet ahead could be seen! It was pitch dark and very quiet on this road - in the half hour that had elapsed after the crash, not a single vehicle had passed our way. Only the night sounds of the jungle suggested that the world around us was still alive.

It was well past midnight when I reached home, chugging along at a modest 30 km per hour. In those days before the cell phone revolution, my wife Margaret had no clue as to our whereabouts or our fate. My little son, in his innocence, had declared, "I am sure dad is dead!" a few hours earlier when I had not turned up at the promised hour. What he had not reckoned with was that there were still a couple of things on my bucket list which were not complete and it would be in my interest to stick around a little longer....

I had dreamt of driving to Ladakh for years. Suddenly, in the summer of 2001, I had the time and the means. There was one little problem, though - I had no car! I had sold my faithful Gypsy to a friend as I was on the verge of emigrating to Canada. In those fledgling days of the Internet in India, I somehow got on line via a crackling and asthmatic dial-up connection and found a Maruti Gypsy with aftermarket hardtop and airconditioning listed for sale by a marine officer in Delhi.

For a little over ten years I had used my old Gypsy in Mumbai and it had taught me the basics of getting out of some tough spots  in the dirt roads of the Sahyadri. I had learnt how to seal a fuel tank leak with soap and a radiator leak with haldi (turmeric) powder and how to leverage the drive shaft out of a deep rut with a log of wood.

Gopi (left) and Satyabrata Dam (centre) watch as I squeeze my Gypsy between a rock and a hard place on the track from Kulangwadi to Igatpuri, November 1999. Franklyn Silveira (back to camera) supervises operations!

My friends who had shared some of these adventures with me, had also on occasion risked their lives and limbs at my hands. I was therefore a little surprised when three of them agreed to come along on this road trip. The attraction for them of course was the promise of a trek in Ladakh and perhaps a little Himalayan summit. None of them knew how to drive and in the event of mechanical failure were mentally prepared to abandon the vehicle wherever it might come to grief and walk away with their belongings. As a token gesture, Ravi Wadaskar (with whom I had shared a wonderful climbing adventure three years earlier - see http://taccidental.blogspot.ca/2014/02/the-chango-chronicles-1998-third-time.html ) offered to take a couple of driving lessons before leaving Mumbai, just in case he had to take over the steering wheel from me!

The ground rules having been set, I enlisted the help of my brother Raj in Delhi to give the Gypsy the once over, fix a roof rack to accommodate all the extra trekking and climbing paraphernalia, and attach a protective shield crafted from chicken wire mesh and HDPE to the exterior of the fuel tank.

With a payload of about 350 kg plus four male adults, the Gypsy would have its work cut out. The rather heavy after market metal body was already a burden on the vehicle and I am sure the the original Japanese designers of the Suzuki Jimny SJ410 (on which the Maruti Gypsy was based) never dreamt to what lengths the Indian market was prepared to stretch their little creations! With the 970 cc engine pumping out a rather modest 45 BHP, I was hoping to nurse the little beast over and across the Rohtang Pass into Lahul and thence over the Tanglang La to Leh and on to the Khardung La.

I needed to do a test drive before the Ladakh adventure. A trek to the Bagini Glacier in Garhwal which I had planned with my friends Kum Kum and Jayant Khadalia and their son Kunal fell fortuitously into place - see http://accidentaltrekker.blogspot.ca/2014/04/bagini-bouquet.html

I picked up the Khadalia family at New Delhi railway station and we drove to Joshimath over two days, stopping at Rishikesh for the night. At Joshimath I discovered that the roof rack I had acquired at Kishangarh in Delhi had partially collapsed. Ignoring this minor inconvenience we drove to Jumma where the Gypsy was left outside the army camp for three weeks while we completed our trek.

I parked the Gypsy near the hot sulphur spring above Tapoban while we enjoyed a refreshing bath on our return from the Bagini Glacier

An attack of Delhi Belly on my return ensured that the roof rack replacement be postponed a couple of days.

DELHI - BILASPUR - 10 June 2001

Delhi in summer is as close as you can get to Dante's Inferno without shuffling off your mortal coil. Franklyn Silveira and Ravi Wadaskar shuffled off the August Kranti Rajdhani Express at Delhi's Nizamuddin Railway station where I waited for them. We added their humongous backpacks and a couple of kit bags full of ropes, tents and climbing gear to the cargo space behind the Gypsy's rear seats and some on to the roof rack. Raj led the way out of the chaos in his little Maruti 800 super compact car. His wife Sushma and her school friends from Patna - Cheryl and Rosalyn - managed to squeeze themselves and their luggage in the little car. Heading for Ring Road, we were soon motoring out of Delhi by afternoon, with the airconditioning insulating us from the oppressive heat that baked the asphalt outside.

Cooling off with coconut water near Ambala. Left to right : Me, Cheryl, Rosalyn, Raj, Franklyn, Ravi.

A rather long detour due to road construction after Ambala found us jostling for space in dusty small town roads with pedestrians, animals, motorcycles and scooters, cars and vans and buses full of hardy peasants. Finally with a sigh of relief we cruised into Mohali and then raced towards the Siwaliks just after the sun had set. Stopping briefly for dinner at a dhaba, we arrived at Bilaspur late in the night. We checked into the Hotel Kwality where a bunch of male revellers, in a room next to where the girls were sleeping, shattered the peace of  the night with their loud guffaws generated by their lewd male banter. The still waters of the Gobind Sagar lake nearby rippled with a tremor of embarrassment.


BILASPUR - RASKAT - 11 JUNE 2001

Glad to be leaving Bilaspur behind, we took to the road early and when the increasingly cool breeze of the hills had whetted our appetites we stopped for breakfast at a little dhaba overlooking a river. Taking the turnoff for Manikaran at Bhuntar, we soon left the broad waters of the Beas and exchanged it for the narrow gorge whence flowed the turbulent Parvati, carrying the combined runoff from the glaciers at its head as well as the Dibibokri, Tos and Tichu valley systems.

View from the breakfast dhaba

For me personally, this was my fourth trip up this road since I first crossed the Sara Umga Pass way back in 1985 (see http://taccidental.blogspot.ca/2012/07/sara-umga-la-follow-sheep.html ) and I noticed how the little villages had changed with the influx of mainly young Israelis and Italians. The cafes, especially at Kasol, now boasted signs and menu attractions in Hebrew, and a couple of up-market resort-type hotels had also materialised catering to the prosperous and increasingly mobile Indian tourist. A sumptuous lunch at one of the latter establishments put us in a good mood for the rest of the drive to Manikaran. Crossing the suspension bridge over the river, we continued up the gravel road to the village of Raskat where I was hoping to meet up with Chaman Singh Thakur, an old acquaintance of mine. A little crowd gathered as we parked outside his modest dwelling.

The road between Bhuntar and Manikaran

After a few enquiries, we were told that Chaman now worked in a government school at Burshaini, further up the road and that his wife was out tending their fields. Some of his children helped us unload our luggage and carried it up to the wooden veranda that ran along the side and back of the house. While the rest settled down, Ravi and I jumped into the Gypsy and drove to Burshaini and located the school. We met the principal of this small local school and waited in his little office while he dispatched someone to summon Chaman.

A few minutes later, Chaman came in, smiling from ear to ear. We shook hands and hugged, his homespun sheepskin coat as warm as his welcome. The principal was very touched that we had come such a long way to meet one of his employees (Chaman worked as a general help around the school) and immediately told him that his duties for the day was over and he could go home. A triumphant Chaman rode in the Gypsy beside me as we caught up with each other's news. He asked me about the members of the Indo-American Parvati 1996 expedition during which he was the porter sirdar. ( See http://taccidental.blogspot.ca/2014/02/mantalai-magic-part-i-getting-there.html and http://taccidental.blogspot.ca/2014/02/mantalai-magic-part-ii-climbs.html).

When we reached Raskat, his wife had already returned from the fields and was busy preparing a meal, the children gathered excitedly around us, and Sushma was grinning with the glow of satisfaction as a result of her very first bathe in a Himalayan waterfall down the slope from Chaman's house.

We chatted late into the night after dinner and finally snuggled into our sleeping bags on the veranda. My snores were thankfully drowned by the soothing and muted roar of the Parvati far below.

Later in the night thunder rumbled across the heavens and sheets of rain came cascading down the verdant slopes of the valley. This event would have an interesting consequence the next day. In the meantime, I retreated further down my sleeping bag and wallowed in the blissful warmth.

(to be continued)

My Gypsy being towed by a friendly farmer's tractor near Chandwad when the carburettor seized while returning from a hiking trip to Rajdher and Indrai Killa

Jet Lag Can Kill!

It was a cool evening in June 2008 and my little Honda Fit purred comfortingly, the houses on Williams Road catching the afterglow of a west coast sunset. As always, it was a pleasure to be driving on Richmond's flat, straight roads, lined with maple, cherry or oak trees, especially since it was a mere 24 hours since I had left the chaos of Mumbai traffic. There was one problem, though. I was so drowsy that the beauty had no effect on me. I was in danger of falling asleep at the wheel. The twelve and a half hour time difference was playing havoc with my body.

To combat the situation, I punched the buttons on the door handle till all the windows were in the fully open position and a cool, invigorating breeze blew through the cabin and jolted me awake. I had not really wanted to go back to work on the Monday morning after my return from India the previous afternoon, but the boss thought I needed to come in and sort out the chaos my section had apparently descended into in my absence. I am a great believer in the dictum that Nobody is Indispensable, but expediency took precedence over good sense in this case and I had relented.

I made a right turn on to No.3 Road and again a left on to Ryan Road. Though it was nine o'clock in the evening, there was still plenty of light in the sky on this ninth day of the month. I slowed down as the road began its meander at the edge of South Arm Park. In a about half a kilometer, I would be home.

I cannot recall at which precise moment I dozed off. But I do recall in graphic detail the moment my eyes opened and I saw the tree enlarge itself through the windshield, the sickening thud of impact followed almost instantaneously by a loud hiss and the air bag inflating and hitting my face and chest with the force of a water balloon. Still conscious, I watched incredulously as my little car spun around and bounced back on to the road where any oncoming traffic should have sealed my fate that night. Instead, it was very quiet except for the loud scream of a man walking a Great Dane and who was now yelling,"What the f***!!" The tree had saved his life and he was running hell for leather.

My Honda Fit suffered similar damage and there was no windscreen left

His wife, meanwhile, had stopped and watched me. I could see hot gases and steam rising from the crumpled bonnet. I took a quick inventory of my limbs: they were all present and didn't seem any the worse for wear as I slowly flexed each one. I un-clipped from my seat belt and checked my door. It was jammed. I reached out and opened the passenger side door, extricated myself from the wreck and for what seemed like a long time stood looking at the smoking innards of what, just moments ago, had been the only brand new automobile that I had ever owned.

"Excuse me, are you all right?" the woman whose husband and dog had fled the scene, asked me. That broke my trance-like state and I mumbled, "Yes, I seem to be all right."

The actual site of the accident 4 days later

The impact had taken the bark off

As the after shock hit me I collapsed back into the passenger seat and tried to collect my thoughts. The woman stopped a man driving past. He used his cell phone to call 911. I couldn't find mine.

Within ten minutes, an ambulance arrived, lights flashing and siren wailing and parked about twenty yards away. Two men rushed out the back holding a stretcher between them. They told me to stay completely still, while they checked for broken bones and immobilized my neck. Suddenly my cellphone rang from somewhere near the center console. One of the paramedics picked it up and spoke to my wife who was on the line.

During the ten minute ride to Richmond Hospital, they tried to hook up a saline tube to my veins. But there seemed to be a hitch finding the right place on my forearm. They asked me a couple of times,"Sir, how fast were you going? The impact seems to suggest that you were doing quite a clip." I insisted that I was driving slowly since I knew the road had curves, this was my regular route home, that I was suffering from jet lag and had dozed off momentarily. They nodded but did not seem convinced. By this time we were at the hospital and the jabbing needle had still not found an inlet, so they stopped trying and instead wheeled me straight into a room where I lay supine and immobile. A nurse pulled some curtains around the bed, asked me a couple of questions while she checked me for injuries, told me the doctor would see me soon, and trotted off.

Slowly it began to sink in that I was indeed very lucky to be alive. What if I had been driving on a busy road when I dozed off? What if the tree had not been in the way, I would surely have hit the man and his Great Dane. My wife and son arrived a little later, driven over by my sister-in-law and her husband. I could see the relief on their faces when they saw me relatively unhurt.

Two hours later I was discharged and went home with only a lump of a bruise on my upper left chest where the air bag had made first contact and a slight cut on my arm.

As the first post on this blog I decided to share my cautionary tale in the hope that it will convince frequent flyers and ordinary people who undertake long transcontinental flights crossing many time zones that jet lag can have very serious consequences. I flew as a flight attendant for 28 years and my body could never cope with jet lag. My advice: Don't Fly and Drive!

My little Honda in happier times!