Mcleodganj

We took a 2 hour train ride to Pathankot, where we caught a toy railway train. Don’t let the name fool you, ‘toy’ implies fun, and it was anything but. We boarded about 40 minutes before departure and already there were no seats left, so we ensconsed ourselves in the doorway and took turns sitting on the backpacks. The train chugged slowly up into the pretty Kangra valley but annoying fare-dodgers clung to the outside, obscuring our view. It would stop exasperatingly for 45 minutes at a time and our 2.5 hour journey stretched into 4, 5, then 6 hours. Gradually the passengers thinned and the train climbed and by sunset the Himalayas had crept into view and finally everything felt alright with the world once more.

That was until we got to Kangra, where we were supposed to catch a taxi for the final 25km to Mcleodganj. It was dark when we arrived and there was an alarming lack of taxis. Caught in a discombobulated moment, they pounced: two drunken, fly-by-night con artists who offered to take us to our destination for ‘just’ 1200 rupees (twice the going rate). In the absence of any other options we agreed. They bundled all four of us, backpacks ‘n’ all, into a beaten up Nissan Micra before both jumping in themselves and commencing to argue loudly in Hindi. We smiled fatalistically at each other. Then one of them, bemoaning the broken stereo, started to sing us his favourite song. Loudly. We started laughing hysterically; it helped to take our mind off the treacherous mountain road and the breathy smell of alcohol permeating the tiny car.

Anyway, we did finally get to Mcelod Ganj, and in one piece. It wasn’t quite the introduction to backpacking I’d hoped to give my parents, but they certainly earned their stripes! We had a few well earned beers and de-briefed.

Breakfast with a view.

The next morning we realised what a marvellous place we were actually at. Mcleodganj is a fantastic little tourist town built into the side of a steep slope. A minituare city of colourful town-houses strung with prayer flags and facing onto a rugged mountain-side with a snowy crest, from behind which peers a snowy white Himalayan peak. Each day we’d breakfast on the roof-top terrace against this dramatic backdrop, with eagles floating about not 6 feet above our heads.

Prayer flags and Mcleodganj below.

We did a day-trek up a nearby mountain, Triund. The sun was shining; the sky was blue when we set off. We started up a rocky path shaded with tall fir trees that slowly gave way onto a winding mountain path with terrific views of the Kangra Valley. Patches of snow began to litter our path until eventually the snow became the path and we were trenching through 3 feet of snow. The peak, once we reached it, was covered in an untouched blanket of white and we huddled round a fire whilst eating a noodle lunch.

This was halfway up to Triund…

…and this was at the top. A bit colder up there.

Another day we went off to explore the surrounding area. We stumbled across an incongruous British church with a shaded terraced graveyard cut into the hillside, into a village where we found slate-roofed huts, women carrying rocks on their head, goat-herds, and little boys with home-made bows and arrows. The little Indians mistook us for cowboys and one of them shot Amy. She lived though, and made them all pose for photos in retribution.

Those darn pesky Injuns.

Mcleodganj is the home-in-exile of the leader of Tibetan Buddhism, the Dalai Lama. And by a fortuitous clash of calendars, he happened to be preaching there at the same time we were visiting. Everybody is welcome, and for 2 days before the event the town started filling with purple-robed monks and European hippies. We awoke at 7am and joined the throng of people making their way to the Dalai Lama Temple. Unfortunately Amy and Dad were turned away for blatantly flouting the No Cameras rule. Mum and I managed to find a cramped square foot or so of concrete at the back of the courtyard and we could, if we sort of leaned to the left and squinted a bit, just see His be-spectacled Holiness delivering his sermon in Tibetan. Now, I’ve nothing but respect for the 14th incarnation of the Dalai Lama, I think he is a truly great person and a real character to boot, but we soon came to the conclusion that we were bored stiff so we pushed our way out and went for breakfast on our roof-top terrace instead.

The Dalai Lama is not the only Tibetan exile resident at Mcleodganj, the whole town has a decidedly Tibetan feel, with Tibetan street food and handicrafts for sale, and everywhere political posters of Tibetans self-immolating (setting themselves on fire) in protest of the Chinese occupation of their country. We visited the Tibetan museum to find out why.

Free Tibet. Previously I had looked on it as a jingoistic saying, the preserve of hippies and students (a bit like Che Guevara posters), but this harrowing little exhibition changed all that. To occupy a country is one thing – the rapacious Chinese do need things to burn, and Tibet is rich in natural resources – but the systematic eradication of 2000 years of Tibetan culture is a little hard to swallow. Ancient ruins destroyed, relics defecated on, people tortured and killed, religious leaders kidnapped; all because the idea of a Tibetan identity is an effrontery to the mono-ethnic communist state. The peaceful Tibetans are being consigned to the history books and are fighting back in the form of non-violent protests and self-immolation. We all left with a disturbing sense of the wrong-doing on the part of the Chinese, and sadly the futility of peaceful protest on the part of the Tibetans.

Anyway, rant over. We have had a great 2 weeks with Mad and Steve but have now gone our separate ways. Gladly, they loved India as we do: they took a cab back to Amritsar, already plotting their next visit. For us, our visit is not yet over; we took the bus to Shimla.

Who’d a thought it? The Best Chai in Asia right here in Mcleodganj.

Oh yeah – we also did a cooking class. Delicious AND educational.

Amritsar

We headed to Amritsar, in the Northern Punjab region, where we were to meet my parents – a.k.a. Steve and Mad – and spend a few nights in the town, home of the Golden Temple and the Vatican of the Sikh world.

We stayed in an upmarket hotel – a Christmas present from Ma and Pa – which was a welcome dose of luxury (hot showers, air-con, mini-bar, fresh linen – we couldn’t believe our luck, especially given that the night before we stayed somewhere which neglected to give us even pillows!) The first day we spent just catching up in the hotel bar, and the second we went to see the Golden Temple.

Inside the Golden Temple.

Entrance to the Golden Temple is free, free on condition that you remove your shoes and socks, and don a ridiculous orange bandana; a small price to pay, we felt, even with freezing rainwater underfoot. The whole thing is constructed out of white marble, inlaid here and there with gold inscription. You enter through a clocktower onto the focal area, a rectangular marble walkway around a still reservoir – the holy water of the Amrit Sarovar. A temple, purportedly gilded with 750 kilos of gold, floats resplendent and serene in the centre, and is reached by a bridge full of shuffling Sikhs and orange-headed tourists like us.


One of the most endearing aspects of the Sikh faith is a welcoming inclusiveness; everybody is welcome to visit the Golden Temple, irrespective of religion, to enjoy the place, stay the night and – I reckon the best part – eat a free lunch. You grab a stainless steel thali plate and take your place sitting on the floor of the dining hall. Vegetable curries, chapatis and dal are cooked in enormous cauldrons by volunteers (the whole place is staffed by volunteers, every Sikh should volunteer at least once in their lifetime) and a guy comes round to dish out the food to between 60 and 80 thousand people each day! Not only is it suprisingly delicious but, as an advert for Sikkhism, a masterstroke: no evangelising, no preaching, the only thing rammed down your throat is more chapatis, and yet you leave with a wonderful impression of what their religion is all about. Sikhs are now my new favourite.

Bwaaahaaaahaa! – look at those two.

We also went to see the Wagah Border Ceremony, that is the daily – daily, mind you – ceremony to mark the closing of the border between India and Pakistan. None of us knew what we were expecting, but it definitely wasn’t what we got.

A flag waving patriot.

On either side of the border a large brickwork gateway, one was hung with a picture of Ghandi, the other adorned with minarets and a picture of a famous Pakistani (presumably). Each led onto a large ampitheatre filled with perhaps 3000 flag-waving people. Dancing girls and an MC whipped the crowd of each nation into a patriotic fervour. Ostentatiously clothed guards enacted an elaborate fandango full of stomps, high-kicks, posturing and cross-border gesturing, whilst the two crowds exchanged football-type chants. Us foreigners were sat in our own pen and generally not encouraged to join in, rather just sit there gaping at this audacious spectacle unfolding below. It was brilliant! A bugle sounded the end of the ceremony as the flags of both countries were slowly lowered.

The Wagah Border Ceremony. Indian side.

Amritsar itself was a bit of a disappointment. It probably didn’t help that it rained solidly for the first day and all the filth of the city coagulated into a toxic sludge, but actually there really is not much to do there, so we were happy to be leaving for Mcleod Ganj.

Steve-O and Mad’s first tuk-tuk ride.

We could’ve taken a 6 hour bus to Mcelod Ganj, but I thought it might be a bit much for the ‘rents, so we opted for a train and taxi ride instead. Had I known what a nightmare the journey would be, I would’ve gone for the bus. Twice over.

The annual family day out at the Pakistani border. My 2 brothers were busy so we took some Chinese girls instead.