Exploring above McLeod Ganj

10^th June

Dharamcot

Making the most of weekends before the monsoons set in, I decide on another visit to McLeod Ganj, my anticipated destination being Dharamcot, a pretty village above McLeod Ganj – catering mainly for tourists.  One of its charms is much of it is not accessible by car! 

Following breakfast, Sarah and I travel together to McLeod Ganj, walking to Fatiphur, catching the bus to Dharamsala, then finding out, from a conversation with a monk, that none of the larger jeeps wish to go to McLeod Ganj, the traffic jams are too bad.  Sarah asks if I want to split a taxi (taxis can go via a shorter but incredibly steep road), and I agree.  I ask the monk to join us, and when he mentions that waiting for a jeep or bus is only 15 rupees, I tell him that we will pay – he is happy.  I sit in the back seat with the monk, giving Sarah, who is definitely the tallest of the 3 of us, more legroom in the front. 

 

Patiently being loaded

 My conversation with the monk starts with the mundane – where is he from, how old was he when he became a monk, but he manages to take the conversation to much more interesting areas – and he ends up telling me how the debating training of the monks trains the mind to critically analyse and challenge all thinking, rather that accept teachings blindly.  He mentions the matter of whether Buddhism is a religion of philosophy and when I ask him his opinion, he explains that he believes it changes, depending on the level at which one is studying Buddhism.  From a religion, to a philosophy, then back to a religion.  He apologises for his poor English (it really isn’t) which is self taught as his education was monastic, and back then English was not part of the curriculum.  A fascinating journey.

Well loaded and waiting patiently
doesn't look very happy

The taxi drops us 5 minutes walk from the main square – it would probably take longer to drive there – and we wander up and head our separate ways.  My plan is to walk to Dharamcot via the longer, but more gentle road, then return via the steeper but more scenic forest road.   A round trip of about 2.5km.

I set off up the Dharamcot road, dodging cars, motorbikes and tuk tuks and am stopped by a roadside shoe repairer (of whom there are many) for a chat.  The usual conversation is overheard by an elderly Tibetan woman who catches that I am going to Dharamcot and points me towards a set of steps going up between buildings.  A shortcut.  A Himalayan shortcut.  It will be steep.  It was.  It takes me to the forest road – the more direct route, of course I would want to walk the more direct route.  I walk slowly – it is very steep – and am joined by a group of young men from southern India, one of whom is quite chatty and tells me he is working as a shoe repairer to earn money to support his sisters through school, since his father is no longer providing support for them but is spending all his time drinking.

Yes, this really is in India

 I reach the junction at Dharamcot and wonder what next.  I don’t really want to go further on the footpath to Triund, so head along a road that seems to skirt around the contours of the hill.  I ask a couple of people if they know where it goes, and get little luck until the road more or less finishes and there is a small shop.  The shopkeeper provides the information that the trail continues around the hill to upper Dharamcot, then descends via a set of steps to Bhagsunag.  So I now have an amended plan.  I pause to watch the loading of the packhorses – these are being loaded with gravel for construction work along one of the paths.  Not an uncommon sight.

It is quite peaceful, and scenic, and the path, to start with, is mostly easy to follow.  There are points at which it narrows and squeezes between a couple of houses, or runs immediately behind or through someone’s courtyard, and then climbs up a steep bank under construction workers passing concrete from person to person up a bamboo scaffold, before resuming a more obvious path and joining with the steps to Bhagsunag.

The path climbed up a steep embankment under the men,
who were passing concrete up the scaffold in dishes

I pass a few other walkers, some local people and some visitors.  There are one or two requests for selfies with me, but not that many.  Occasionally I pass a family, with children who offer English greetings or whose parents prompt them to greet me in English.  At one point I pass a small group of young boys playing happily amongst the rubbish.  One is amusing himself by pouring water from one container to another and a second has a seriously ancient computer keyboard, and a slab of slate propped above it.  He studiously hits a few keys, then adjusts the slate;  this is repeated a number of times.  It is my guess he has observed someone on a manual typewriter and is mimicking that action.  Once again, I am reminded how simply and inexpensively some children can amuse themselves for hours.

!!

There are numerous cafés, some more substantial than others, many with stunning views.  It seems that this is an area very popular with those who missed the hippy era the first time round.  As I pass one café, one young man with dreadlocks and a dubious looking cigarette invites me to come in and assist with rewriting the menu for the café owners.  I decline.  Dubious cigarettes are strictly illegal here although I’ve been told the authorities turn a blind eye.  Still, I’d rather avoid anything by association, just in case.  Besides, I don’t like cigarette smoke of any variety.

I stop a little further down at a café that indicates no smoking and no alcohol and order a honey-lemon-ginger drink.  Not that I need a hot drink, but it is delicious!

There are several signs advertising laundry service – with many spelling as well as service variations, same day, some with washing machines.  If such a service were available locally to where I am living, I would indulge with my sheets and towels regularly! 

McLeod Ganj from Upper Bhagsunag

As I descend the steps further, the cafés become more intermingled with signs advertising yoga and meditation courses and offerings of other therapies, and then by shops, targeting tourists:  clothing, crystals, jewellery (including opportunities to participate in jewellery making classes).  I pause at a wine shop that has Australian wines in the window, but decide that storage has probably been less than optimal, so do not linger long.

I proceed, via the even more chaotic than last time parking area of Bhagsunag, in the general direction of the main square of McLeod Ganj.  In the parking area, one man asks if I want a taxi.  I point out that a taxi would be little use here – nothing is going anywhere, and continue my walk.

As I reach the shops of McLeod Ganj, I pass one where I previously purchased a shirt, and the shopkeeper recognized me and invited me in  - I had intended going in to buy a pair of cotton trousers anyway.  His offer of coffee, chai or honey-lemon-ginger was gratefully accepted and I settled into looking at trousers and drinking my second honey-lemon-ginger for the day.  I selected my trousers and he then proceeded to successfully sell me a very nice pashmina – not overly cheap, but I know much cheaper than I would pay at home.

Toys can be very simple!

I dodge the beggars – who have multiplied in proportion to the increased number of tourists – and decide it is well and truly time for lunch, and select an Italian café which has an excellent view from the terrace and some lovely-looking quiche. The taste matched the looks.

I decide to pay a visit to the Dalai Lama temple, and proceed down the incredibly busy road.  I manage to identify which of the two apple beer (non-alcoholic) on sale at a refreshment stand is the better, and decide it is a much nicer drink that the apple cider of a couple of weeks ago.

I am vaguely looking for an item I want to buy as a gift, but want to buy from a Tibetan vendor.  I pause at one point to move aside for yet another vehicle and one young man comments that it is way too busy – too many Indians.  Interesting.  He looks remarkably Indian to me.  Apparently it is a long weekend, plus the school holidays, so together that is attracting so many visitors.  He points out to me his shop, and tells me I should come back on Monday, when it is less crowded and visit his shop and drink chai with him. 

The temple is busy, and there are monks in one of the rooms, conducting a ritual of some sort.  I pause to watch and am rudely pushed out of the way by an Indian man trying to get closer to take photos.  My somewhat sarcastic remarks are ignored.  I visit the main temple; this place once again sends shivers down my spine.  The knowledge that it was built as an alternate to the Potala Palace for Tibetans in exile, and is the seat of the Dalai Lama in exile are both strongly emotive facts.

My visit to the temple was followed by more selfie requests - including one man I spotted trying to sneak in a selfie with me without me looking - an action which I treated as a joke and gave him heaps.  He responded with a sheepish grin, then asked permission - and several photos were taken with assorted extended family members.   

I contemplate my return options.  It’s a half hour walk back to the bus station / jeep stop and I know there will be traffic jams down the road from there, so I decided to walk down the “shortcut” road to Dharamsala – about 4 km.  And steep.   The sky over the mountains is black, and there is thunder, and enough large drops of rain that my umbrella is serving its intended purpose rather than the parasol it has been imitating on and off throughout the day, but the threatening downpour does not eventuate.

The walk is not too bad, apart from its effect on my knees, until I get to the section of Dharamsala town just before the bus station.  The cars pass pedestrians awfully close, and at one point a motor scooter edges round in front of me without warning and we collide.  Fortunately he is travelling as slowly as I am, so no harm is done. 

I remark to the group of young men behind me that I thought it was probably illegal to run down foreigners, and the ensuing conversation identifies them as Bhutanese studying veterinary science in India.  One is from the east, and I share that I spent 2015 there.  They ask what I thought of Bhutan – I tell them I am thoroughly in love with the country!

I allow a vegetable vendor to sell me some very fresh looking green beans, and then some tomatoes – since he doesn’t seem to want to give me change for my 50 rupees.  They will do for dinner – hopefully there are onions at school.

I finally reach a bus stop and wait for a Fatiphur bus.  It’s a few minutes in coming, and I join the crowd to play sardines.  There are a couple of ladies with babies who also get on, and one, whose baby is crying, finally manages to find somewhere to perch and discreetly feed the child.  I am not sure if this is embarrassing to the Sikh sitting next to her, or he is just being a wonderful gentleman, but after a while he gets up and offers me his seat. 

I’m pretty familiar with the road by now, but the bus is so crowded, it will be a bun fight to get to the door.  Another lady on the same seat asks my destination, and she kindly tells me that she will tell me where to get off.  Sweet of her. 

I eventually manage to wrestle my way off the bus – people are reluctant to actually get off to allow someone jammed behind them to alight.  After all, there might not be room to get back on if others push in front!

Back at school, Sarah confirms that she encountered traffic jams coming down from McLeod Ganj.  My decision to walk probably took no longer!  I cook vegetables for the 2 of us – adding fresh curry leaves from the tree beside the school gate and garlic, onion, chilli, and mushrooms from the vegetable supply in the kitchen – I did check with student Kunsang first, that no other students would be wanting to cook the mushrooms that night.  Mushrooms are regarded as a meat substitute.  My good friend Mr Google does not really agree that there is any scientific basis for this when protein content is analysed, but the taste is good!

I finish off the evening with a drop of Indian whiskey, courtesy of Sarah.  It’s surprisingly smooth.