Himalayas One: Manali
14/10/17 Manali Towns
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From the temple, Old Manali evening
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New Manali is booming,
hotels and holiday apartments are going up everywhere, steadily
filling in the skyline to block all but the highest peaks such as
Nasogi and Bashisht that still dominate the sharply rising valley.
For the last couple of hours daylight we explore the surrounding
park; paths winding under a giant conifer forest canopy and amongst
glades strewn with huge glacial dumped boulders. In a clearing we
arrive at an unusual temple: wooden framed construction with steep
teepee shaped granite tiled roof within a round outer pitched roof.
The doorway and beams are carved with figures and all around the
outside hang horned skulls of Ibex, blue sheep and other mountain
animals. Stooping through the doorway into the surprisingly small,
thickly plastered interior that muffles all the outside noise, I find
a simple shrine dug under the floor in one corner, opposite is a fire
pit and in-between the two sits a plain dressed man amongst an
arrangement of brass dishes of dye powders, grains of corn and puffed
rice, orange marigolds for people to buy and make offerings of.
We walk another
kilometre or two, crossing the river to old Manali. Steep streets
wind past hippy hangouts, chill zones, cafes offering real coffee and
agents selling trekking tours each pumping out there own solemn
variation of a Goan trance beat. Real coffee and chicken burgers can
wait as we push on into the oldest part of town where some of the
traditional half timber long house type buildings with jettied second
floors still remain, all be it amongst the concrete new builds and
extensions that seem to be smothering the valley. Livestock occupy
parts of the long houses and loose hay is stored in the upper parts
of some, or in separate ricks neatly billowing out between the wooden
beams on all sides.
We reach the temple at
the top of the village and look out over the rooftops at the awesome
peaks beyond, changing blue to ochre and deep orange as the clouds
spill over, the sun drops behind us and the crisp cold air rolls in.
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Prayer Flags, Rhotang La
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Start the day with
omelettes, two eggs beaten in a metal cup with milk, onions, salt and
chilli; fried on a gas stove with four pieces of bread soaking up the
mixture, folded up and served on a paper plate with chia, cooked one
at a time by a smiley street seller as we enjoy the cool morning air.
After we hire a car to take us up the Rhotang Pass, 3978 metres up,
gateway to the high Himalayas. Beyond here I imagine true
wildernesses existing in legendary places like the Spiti valley,
territory of wild blue sheep and the almost mythical snow leopard or
beyond the next, much more treacherous pass, Rangcha La, a few miles
on where landslides and avalanches cut of the civilisations beyond
for much of the year. Halfway up, our driver points out a tunnel
under construction that will bypass Rangcha La making the outlying
region easily accessible when it opens next year, surely this will
have a revolutionising affect on the region.
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Looking into the Chenab River valley; snow coming down.
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In truth the Rhotang
Pass is far from this kind of isolation and adventure, but a popular
attraction for Indian tourists, who pile out of cars in 1980's onesie
ski suits and long fur coats, hired on the roadside for a couple
hundred rupees. There are chia sellers, offers of rides on a mule or
photos with a yak, but most of the visitors aim for a selfie in a
snowy scene, in complete polarity to the landscapes where most of
them have come from elsewhere on the subcontinent. As slightly
eccentric looking Westerners with easels, paints and drawing boards
we however, begin to rival this awesome backdrop in the selfie
stakes. All this going on, hardly detracts from the epic panorama of
deep valleys, vast peaks spun with clouds that build and fade and
build with dramatic speed, sometimes clearing enough to reveal the
higher peaks hidden for hours. An animated landscape, shifting,
reinventing kaleidoscope, a never static, panning out on every side.
We paint and draw through flurries of sleet and snow, pausing only to
catch our breathe in the thin air.
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Rani Nallah
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Rani Nallah - Scale
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16/10/17 Beas River
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Beas River at the Manasula confluence
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We walk up river from
Manali Model this morning, over the steel girder military bridge
spanning the gorge and up river from the town to where views open up
towards the Solang Valley and snow capped Patalsu Peak in the North.
The extent of the river torrent in wet season is made apparent by the
200m or so width of the dry boulder strewn river bed. The main dry
season channel of icy clear water runs a bright cerulean blue in the
pools between the torrents. The valley is narrow and wooded with
mighty conifers that run up the steep valley sides. Brightly coloured
farmhouses cling to the river banks and high up the steep valley on
improbable terrain, precarious amongst the new build resorts and
guest houses going up all around. Above the road, golden bill magpies
flop from tree to tree dragging their long streaming tails, stray
dogs loyally trot alongside us, dropping away at invisible
boundaries. We find a way down onto the river bed, where tin roofed
shacks sprawl down the banks from the road, families finding space to
live below the flood line. A limping dog that tagged along a
kilometre back springs in to life at the site of hens scratching up
invertebrates. The commotion alerts some women washing clothes in a
brackish stream at the edge of the settlement, their clothes; lime
green, chilli red, fiery orange look brilliant amongst the neutral
grey river bed stones. I notice for the first time, a tawny coloured
cow motionless amongst the boulders behind me, a social plover reels
closely overhead, griffon vultures cruise along the rising air at the
edge of the ridge a thousand metres beyond. By midday it is too hot
and flat bright for painting, so we wait until early evening to find
a new spot at the confluence of the Manaslu river looking back up the
Beas. The Seven Sisters and the 5932 metre Hanuman Tibba peak rise in
the distance, snaring the first wisps of cloud seen all day,
reflecting the last colours of sun light.