Call of the Wild - Chapter One

It was back in the summer of 2012, pretty much before than the formal inception of Wanderlust as a gang. But, the spirits were nonetheless free and friends already. It was considerably our first venture into the woods. For the four of us - Gour, Dadu, Prads and Me.

My birthday was just around the corner and Dadu was visiting us in B'lore from Calcutta. The brisk plan for the weekend getaway into the forests near the Karnataka-Tamil Nadu border was flashed green just over a couple of phone calls and a Swiss Cottage deep inside the Mudumalai forest was booked.

Just to add a pinch of clarity about the geography and slight brevity to the narrative, Bandipur National Park is located in the southern state of Karnataka - slightly barren in terms of flora - was once a private hunting reserve for the Maharaja of  Mysore.  The same forest, as it extends toward the state of Tamil Nadu on the northwestern side of the Nilgiri Hills is known by the name of Mudumalai National Park. Mudumalai is comparatively thicker a forest than Bandipur.

We started earlier than the sunrise and had reached close to the forests by late morning. Our stay was booked in Mudumalai, hence, the plan was to deny a stopover at Bandipur for whatever might have been the lure, as we would come back there the next morning.

We were already basking in the spirit of adventure and the nature’s charm at its utmost degree of mystique serenity was taking over our senses. The engulfing lush foliage, the murmur of the leaves in the sweet tease of the flowing breeze, the burble of Moyer river that runs parallel and the rippling sound of the small makeshift waterfalls touching down the road at regular intervals, all, were aptly juxtaposed with the frequent glimpses of prancing deer herds and the fluttering wings of the world's most colorful butterflies. Needless to say, it was just perfect for the cozy lap of mother-nature. Indeed, a gifted break from the humdrums of our banal city-lives.

We were slowly moving deep into the forest, quietly reminded by the road markers that animals have the right of way. Slightly ahead, we spotted a tusker on a stroll, on its silent rampage eating up every tree-branch or twig on its way. It was huge. The massive size of the animal tickled both, awe and fear, in all the four of us. But, we couldn't have been doing away with such an opportunity to capture the moment of wild amidst the wilderness, given the kind of lens-freaks we are.

We ran close, froze quite a few moods of the tusker on our cameras and realized its mahout was nearby. The elephant was not a wild, wild one. We were told, in that forest, it was probably the biggest 'yanai', that's what they call elephants in Tamil. It was a trained one. It helps find home to other wild elephants, when they get lost from their herds at times. 

For three of us, our first close encounter inside the forest was sheer blissful. Prads had almost started analyzing the elephantine gestures in his head with drawings inside his mind to presumably design his next animated character. For me and Gour, we were happy with the clicks. But, Dadu didn't say a single word and looked a bit alarmed. Almost evidently, he was a bit tensed and was trying to hide that behind his dark shades. With the friendly leg-pulling and the fun, we wheeled in deeper inside the forest.

By midday, we've had reached our deep jungle home and it was decided we'll gear up for a sunset jungle trek after resting for lunch for some time.  Our cottage was a cozy hearth, much like a big tent, camped just by the bank of a jungle brook. The swampy surrounding of the cottage must have helped invite ‘slytherin’ visitors but Prads was smart to have brought along carbolic acid to keep the reptilian friends at bay. So, there was less to worry.  Meanwhile, we were hungry and the lunch served at the cottage tasted scrumptious.

As we were gearing up with our lenses, water bottles and backpacks, Dadu said, "I think I'm not coming with you guys.  I'm damn sleepy..." And, we were like, REALLY! Well shielded with his excuses of past night's drinks and travel fatigue, he managed to convince us and didn't come for the trek up the jungle slope, into the frontiers, apparently where the predators dwelled. The rest of us, we were enthused a little too much for the experience that was in store -- to walk the lands of the tigers. We were excited and hopeful to spot one of the carnivores from close but we literally had no clue or idea what to do next if one actually gets up-close-and-personal.

Around 3:30 in the afternoon we started with our guide in a small group of eight-nine odd heads. And frankly, it will be kind of a futile effort to try narrating the exact intricacies of the journey’s experience. The songs of the wild winglets, the unfamiliar hoots and chirps of the unknown aves were for a constant company. The thin forest trails were deceiving enough to have led to nowhere inside the forest territory and we were repeatedly told to stick together. The captivating smell of the jungle flowers and the zest to capture the colors of nature through our lenses were persuading us to override the warning again and again. 

The first amusing thing that greeted us inside the forest was a squeaking ball of fur hanging from a high branch. It was a giant Malabar squirrel. I could have never imagined a squirrel as big as that one, if we had not seen it.

As usual, engrossed with the cameras, Gour and I, were left behind and was lost, yet completely oblivious of that fact.  Meanwhile, we had found something extraordinary. It was a huge tree that appeared like a giant African baobab with its trunk resembling a face, a human face. Had we not been lost, we would probably not have seen something like that. I thought it was something like that comes in fantasy stories of some demigods being cursed into a life on earth as a tree, serving its punishment. But again, thoughts are thoughts and an imaginative flight means no practical limits. When we realized we're lost, it was late. We were already an-hour-long-walk deep inside the forest and it would have been stupid to try figuring out the way back ourselves. We chose to wait thinking our fellows might spot the missing two and our guide might trace us back where we have been left stranded. We were lucky; they did come back for us.

My nitpicking nose for a journalist was not helping me entirely believe on all that our guide was saying. He was a middle-aged Tamil man, who has spent most of his life in and around the Nilgiri forests and working as a guide. He had is fair share of stories inside his bag about those close encounters with tigers and wild boars. He said, "Stay close. There's something nearby." The way he said it in a scampering low voice, we could understand, it was probably something serious. It looked like he had smelt something. We marked his words and followed suit. However, the slightly unwarranted skepticism in me was raising eyebrows on how much his words can actually be believed. Come on! He has been doing it for a living, so probably he can be given a leeway to beef up a suspense scene just to add kicks to the journey. But then, at that particular part of the forest it was actually a belt of dense long grass -- a righteous habitat for tigers. It was getting dark and the sun had sunk behind the hills.

We moved in further with nothing yet in sight. Then all of a sudden, there was a quick loud rustle of dry leaves at a distance and a chain of howls screaming thru' the silence of the forest. "It's a pack of wild dogs," the guide said. "Must have been feasting on the leftovers of a tiger's kill. That’s what they do."  For a moment, I won’t deny, it had sent a shiver down my spine.

He drew our attention to something, couple of yards away. It was a fresh carcass. It sounds like an oxymoron, I know, but it was the flesh-ripped skeleton of an antelope, lying on a big patch of darkened blood stain.

It was quite obvious, that big an antelope can only be a tiger's hunt. Yes, we were standing at a place where perhaps, couple of hours ago, the big cat was having its supper. A few pug marks here and there confirmed our assumption. Thankfully, the heavens timed it right that we did not comprise the carnivore's meal.

It was already beyond sunset. We were asked to pace up as it would not be safe to ramble inside the forest after dark. In order to save us some time and tire, we chose a short-cut route that called for a river crossing. It was a typical hilly stream, not much deep but filled with strong under-currents. With broken branches and hands for support we crossed the running waters. 

It was another 45 minutes of walk to get back to the mainland and we were told from there the route will be pretty much straight. However, the path didn't seem as straight as we thought it would be. Minutes later, our guide, who was walking in front at a visible distance shouted back to us to hold and stop. We couldn't decipher what has happened at first, then we realized the way ahead takes a downward slope and our guide came back to us running and said "this road is not safe as there's a mad elephant tearing and knocking down the forest belt ahead." He was worried we cannot take this route, but going back again all the way in the former path would definitely get us trapped within the forest in the darkness. It was a precarious situation. We didn't know what to do.

"Is there no way possible that we can stealthily walk past the mad elephant?" asked Gour. "It's on the run so can we not avoid its path and run past it too?" It made sense. Or, at least, that was the only option that we had. I thought to myself, this might gift us that one moment of fame, to frame a wild insane mammoth on its riot. I'm sure; the same was going in Gour's mind.  We were forbidden to make the slightest of noise and we trod ahead.

Elephants have always fascinated me. But, I never had delved deeper into their lives. It was the first time, I learnt that sometimes elephants are so attached to their partners that they go mad or even might die if one passes away or gets lost. Same was the story for our mighty friend here. It was a bull elephant that had lost its partner couple of days back and was found to have turned frantic. Our guide had heard about it in the morning from the forest rangers and now, fortunately or unfortunately, it was there, blocking our path. As we tried making our way, we could see the animal at a distance, slightly lower in a slope, going crazily berserk and banging its head against almost every tree and taking them down. I'm not sure why, was it sorrow, was it pity, but it was for one single time I actually didn’t care to take a snapshot. The camera kept hanging round my neck and all I did was to see the big creature running amok in sorrow. Our guide said, "it has been two days. By now it should have calmed down but it hasn't. If this continues, this one too will die soon." It felt weird.  On this deep jungle trot, in a land far away from my home, how could something be so sensitively emphatic that I feel bad for a creature, way bigger than me and way beyond my breed?

And then, someone in our group, a dumb college kid, used his flash to take a photo of the animal on rampage. It happened as was expected. The blinding light of the camera flash had attracted the elephant's attention and it charged on us. We had nothing to do but to run for our lives, literally. Some stumbled, some almost fell, but everybody ran their fastest. Luckily for us, the mammoth was too preoccupied on its own to continue the chase and we were left panting and alive. It was another first of its kind in our kitty.

Famished and tired, we completed our eventful jungle trek. We reached back to our cottage discussing what all Dadu had missed and that he should have come along with us. Guess what, we could hear him snoring from outside the cottage door. Despite all the weary, we broke into a raucous laughter. And then, there was more to come…

Penned by - Koustav
Pics Courtesy - Koustav, Gourav, Pradipto

Tales of A Himalayan Vagabond - Chapter 1

Before I share my experience of the solo ride to the top of the world, I must thank all my buddies. You know you deserve it. But I thank these 5 people from the core of my heart:

1. Moon - For giving me the best and the most essential gift, the rucksack

2. Prado - For everything. Right from hunting down the army shop to packing my travel gears

3. Toko - Giving me the sturdy Sikkimese jacket. At 17,400 ft when I was half covered in snow, it was the reason why I survived

4. Sunny - Waiting for me @ bangalore airport for over 2 hours to bid me farewell

5. Sagnik: For helping me to get the all important bus to Manali at 15 minutes past midnight

Day 1: 15th Sep - Manali

Last night I boarded the bus from Chandigarh to Manali. Technically speaking, I boarded it today as it was past midnight. The bus was full with foreign tourists. I felt like a stranger in my own country. Saw the corner seat unoccupied and happily parked myself there. Soon the night and the bus advanced, and I dozed off. As I went into a slumber, beautiful dreams started to play in my mind. I pictured myself standing on the roof of the world and touching the sky. I saw a desert in the sky and a camel walking past me with a milestone which read, you're on the highest motorable road. Very rudely I was awaken from the heart of my psychedelic dream by a blowing sound of a horn. My watch told me it was 9 AM. Looked outside of the window and was enslaved by the magnificent vistas all around. Himalayan range all around and the persistent Beas river cascading its way through it. That's how I was welcomed to the city  of Manali. While watching the beautiful Beas river, I couldn't help but think about its source, the Rohtang La, which also happened to be the first high altitude pass of my journey. They say the excitement begins 15kms from the Rohtang top. My mind returned back to where I was. Manali is a pretty but bustling city. It forms the lifeline for all adventure seekers, as there are numerous roads from Manali which knocks at somewhat hidden passages of the Himalaya. 

I checked into a dirt cheap hotel. Being an off-season, got a fantastic room with a view at just 400 bucks. The view of the mighty Himalayan range took my breath away. High above in the sky, Rohtang Pass was tightly embraced by the threatening looking clouds, teasing you to come and explore either its beauty or wrath. I whispered that I am up for the challenge, but today is not the day. I went out to meet the bike rental person who runs the shop by the name of Manali Bike Rentals. A very cheerful looking fellow. I had spoken to him before leaving Bangalore and had specifically told him that I have no co-rider. He remembered that and had specifically chosen a newer bike for me, a black Royal Enfield Classic 350cc 2012 model. There were doing some last minute checks and informed me it will take them a couple of hours. I thought of utilizing this time and have a quick lunch besides going to an ATM, buying medicines, et al.

Saw a young boy running a Bengali shop, New Neelkamal. Most Bengalis have a fascination with the word 'New'. Anyway, went inside the shop and ordered a plate of luchi and alur dom. Asked him how did he managed to start a Bengali shop out here. His story is nothing but fascinating. Originally from Midnapore, ran off from his home and family as they were forcing him to marry and look after their small farming plot. He took a local train to reach Howrah and quickly boarded the train which will exit Howrah at the earliest. Ticket-less, he survived the TT and the painstakingly long journey to reach where the train was supposed to reach. Figured out it was Kalka and that he had boarded the Howrah-Kalka mail. People there advised him to somehow reach Manali, which he did, and find some work. After 3 years of working as a cook in some other hotel, he managed to open his own.

With his proud smile he served me luchi and alur dom. He asked me about my plans. I nonchalantly told him Ladakh. He asked me where are my friends? At the hotel? I replied to him by saying " No, I'm alone. Taking a bike". He was left dumbfounded and thought of me as a mad man.

Meanwhile, the bike was ready and I took it out for a spin.  There was a very friendly tip the bike had to offer me, "Leave Home". I realized for the rest 12 odd days, this mean machine will be my only companion. I thought of riding towards Rohtang so that tomorrow I would know the exact direction. The bike performed well and as I was beginning to get comfortable, it started drizzling. Crossed a bridge over Beas. The drizzle, gushing sound of the river, chill in the wind and the roaring Enfield. Can life be any better?

I rode till the point where the ascent to Rohtang la begins. The mountains were so tall that it dwarfed everything else. Right there, I saw an Indian Oil tanker being towed down. The windscreen was completely shattered and the engine bonnet was smashed. Took it as a gentle reminder from Rohtang La. It is ready to welcome me. I knew that it would be a thrilling challenge, but I had mustered some strength and knew in my heart that I'm up for it. But I whispered, "Today isn't the day. See you first thing tomorrow morning at 13000 ft".

THE WANDERER AS THE SEEKER

The Himalayan Vagabond: Prologue

I didn't head off to Ladakh in search of adventure. Yes, there you have it, the truth. Unlike many, my expectation from this trip was to discover. Come out of the comfort zone and experience life in the lap of nature.  What drove me to Ladakh was not just the desire for a thrill. It was plain curiosity and the joy of travel - the fulfillment of encountering a new culture while sitting on a bike with the engine just humming along. Adventure just happens while you're at it. Though, I had maps, 3 of them, but in reality I never knew what lay ahead. That alone takes care of the desire to experience thrill. Whenever I had to cross those 7 high passes, I was thrilled. Reasons were plenty, but primarily because I had no co-rider, no supply vehicle,  no technical know-how and no network coverage. If there's a problem, I will have to face it. And of course things went wrong. There were no roads, numerous water crossings, impassable passes and extremely cold temperature which led to snowfall.

If the Himalayas are the best playground for a road trip, then the road from Manali to Leh is the epitome of wheeled adventure in India. With a deadly combination of stunning vistas, mind-boggling scenery and high roads, all you need to do is rent a vehicle and head out. The adventure begins soon after you leave Manali and start towards the first of the 5 high altitude passes - Rohtang La. 

Though a lot of people prefer 4x4 SUVs for the journey, do this very trip on a bike. The sensation is a lot more intense since you're completely exposed to the elements. You ride so high that you are often higher than the maximum permissible ceiling for commercial skydiving (15,000 ft).

In my 10 days of travel,  wherever I went, people offered me their help and hospitality, no matter if they are rich or poor. A local offered me his bedroom for my night stay, army jawans gave me food and insight, etc. However spectacular a landscape may be, it is the people that matter the most. It is they who make travelling a destiny for many souls. And it doesn't prevent or lessen adventure, if you are worried. It just adds some sugar to that piece of cake.

Some highlights of the trip:

1. The cheerful 'Juley' greeting from everyone on the streets, perfect strangers smiling at you

2. The unpredictable weather - cloud, rain, snow&sunshine within 5 hours in the same day

3. Crossing the second highest motorable road on earth when it was snowing

4. The blues of Pangong Tso, a hundred different shades all at the same time

5. Making friends with other travelers, many of them sophisticated world travelers who lose their world-weariness in Ladakh and give in to its quiet charm, some for months on end…

The Coorgie Trio - Part 1: Tibetan Escape

The weekend of Good Friday...  another long weekend knocking our doors and we had absolutely nothing to do. Over the usual adda, someone came up with the idea of a weekend retreat and after days of debating, procrastinating and lobbying within the group, we finalized on Coorg just 48 hours before take off. A small but merry group of Gour, Shreya and me started off at early hours of morning with three printouts of map, 2 bags and 2 bikes. 

The first stop, was the breakfast at Mysore Road’s Kamats, an ritual common for Gour and me from our business trips to Mysore. The time on Mysore Highway was pretty uneventful, until  we hit Srirangapatnam and asked around for a shorter route to Hunsur which can save us few kilometers  Little did we know that we will end up in a dirt trail which made the next few kilometers pretty exciting. Once we were back on the highway, it was one long straight drive ending in Bylakuppe. 

Bylakuppe turned out to be a surprise. The Tibetan refugee colony turned out to be a town spread across kilometers  and had everything from a fully fledged marketplace, farms, monasteries and a peaceful, beautiful lake in the middle of it all. After a few diversions, we reached our first checkpoint, Golden Temple and the guest house adjacent to it. Now, most of the tourists tend to stay in Coorg and drop by to see the temple for few hours in the day. However, our decision to spend a day here turned out to be a really good one. After a quick lunch and visit to the temple, we set out to explore the colony. Once you have spent a few hours in colony, you really forget that you are in the middle of Southern India, the buildings, people and whether remind so much of the towns like Dharamshala (minus the altitude). With the help of a friendly biker, we found the lake, named simply as the Camp 2 lake. Its full of large fishes who eat Tiger biscuits, sold at MRP by monks. The day ends early in Bylapkuppe, like we found out when we went to then adjacent Peace Cafe at six to watch the sunset over a cuppa. 

Next stop was a nice little restaurant called Potala Kitchen in the Tibetan market. The food is amazing, undoubtedly the best Chinese I have ever had. After filling up with Momos, Thupkas and Soups, we headed back at the guest house. It wasn’t even nine and the town was sleeping already. With no street light on and only a large set of starts lighting our path, we made it to our rooms and decided to spend some time at the balcony overlooking the small establishment. In a few minutes, we saw a group of Monks dancing in the temple courtyard. There was no music, but the sight was beautiful. The caretaker of the guest house, another monk told us the monks practice every night after their daily routine for a festival in May. We slipped out of the guest house, and made our way to the courtyard. For next one hour, we sat in a corner and watched them dance. Though we were sure we will be asked to leave since the visiting hours were long over, no one gave us a second look. After an hour, another monk politely told us they will be retiring for the day, and so did we. 

The morning starts early in Bylakuppe, and we were up and ready with them. With our
bags packed, we went to the temple for a more relaxed visit and were amazed at the magnanimity of the place. For an camera enthusiast like Gourav, this place has many things to capture, which he did beautifully. 

We left Bylakuppe energized and elevated and rode to our next destination. Once we hit the highway again, it felt like we have come back to India from an ancient land, the realization was too much to absorb in a single minute. The roads remained breathtaking, scenic treasures around us as we started to gain altitude. After another hour of driving, we were at our next check point, a charming little homestay called ‘Coorg Nest’ located just before the town of Madikeri.  

Old Manali - A Dazzling Conjurer

This September was the beginning of a love affair with magical Himachal Pradesh. Manali is 70 kms from Rohtang Pass, which was the gateway for my Ladakh road trip. Well I have loads of things to share about my road trip, for which I will write a separate blog.

This post is about ‘Old Manali’, which is a charming part of the town filled with a variety of eccentrics from all over the world. Interestingly, this fascinating place was not a part of my travel itinerary. However, I had some free time on my return day to Delhi, and went off with a traveller, whom I met while having chicken momos. He was closely related to the lineage of being the Flower Children. I had initially slotted just about an hour, but charmed by the atmosphere, I ended up spending close to three hours there.

Old Manali is, in fact, very close to the popular twin and is nothing but a long, winding uphill. having said that, once you spent 15 mins there, you will begin to realize that it’s the hub of so much life, activity and energy. It forms the epicentre of the free-spirited world. non-conformists, hippies, quaint restaurants, trance music and the sound of the river running through….these are the spells that Old Manali casts. Your trip is also inspired by a puff or two or more of ingenuous herbs.

The cosmopolitan culture is reflected in the cuisine. You can get Israeli food in Shesh Besh, a marvellous cup of coffee in Dylan's roasted toasted and then there's the German Bakery, whose products are not from Germany at all. But his breads, pies and cookies are out of this world.

One very interesting feature about the old town is the artwork done there. Randomly! On the walls of restaurants, on signboards, on floors even. It could be retro or comical or classical or even dark graffiti, depending on what the artist felt like then. There is even a shop selling chillums. I’ve never seen such artistic ones.

So many colorful impressions, so many different people and things to experience, to sample; the Old Manali experience still seems incomplete. But for that, I must go back and need to spend more time.

Anyone interested to explore this conjuring place with me, do 'hash-tag' your name.

Cheers!

GOA - Loss Of Innocence : A Tale from a Hippie's Diary

Fellas, since it is Monday and 'back to work' schedule of our lives, I thought of rekindling the happy spirit at the start of the week. Below is a note on Goa. Not the one in its present diminished state (though it still is one of the best places in India), but the reminiscent of its legendary days. This post has been taken from 60Kph's blog. Read on and share.

It goes like this. Hippies put a place on the map, then tourists come, then they build hotels on top of the hippies. It's the natural progression everywhere, but in Goa it took the longest time. Every single thing carries the seeds of its own destruction. That's time. A cycle of destruction and renewal. As for the particular direction in which Goa went, it has to be the residue of previous programming.  From the hippie diaries:  The good ship Konkan Shakti, deck class, two dollars. Beautiful ride (Bombay to Goa): saw many dolphins. Under the canvas awning at the stern, a hundred chilams ignite. Only a month previously had sworn not to go to Goa. Goa now a haven I am hurrying towards, to recover equilibrium after the unsettling psychological pressure of Indian cities. Woken before dawn by irritating hawkers. On the white ferry building, in red letters, a sign: Welcome to Goa. Goa had that run-down, old-Portuguese, lost-world vibes. They had sculpted and gardened it, they brought the cashew and the chilli. And they'd only left in 1961, a few years before the first freaks arrived. The Goans missed that old western connection, so when we arrived, they liked us. We were no threat, and they didn't mind sharing their paradise with us. Before the jeep roads were built and the beaches patrolled, it was a free country, a smuggler's coast. Goa was in Goan hands. They were so laid back: Hello, hello, with a vague gesture in the air. They practised Sosegado, an attitude which made manana seem excitable. Sosegado meant something like, maybe after the day after tomorrow. It was an Island, a rest from India, which, however much one liked it, was rather like being bombarded from morning to night. India exhausted any idea of proportion, but Goa had it. The scene began, I am told, in 1966, with twenty or thirty people. All origins need a myth. After the second war, all the Germans interned for the duration by the Portuguese went home, except for five: these men opened small businesses, married local girls and smoked hashish. When the first foreigners after the war began to arrive, around 1966 or 67, the five Germans fraternised with them. This makes the five Germans the first Goa freaks. Our first sight of Goa was the Jungle, and the waterways. Our senses were suddenly open, aware, freed. There was the scent of the tropics, the fireflies at night, the sensuality of everything. Suddenly your senses were open to jungle Asia: in its way, this was a kind of “spiritual awakening.” There were perhaps sixty Westerners living in Anjuna, in houses, not in huts on the beach. They were not there merely to hang out: it was a community of people trying to get the old shit out of their minds, the useless stuff they had been taught. Each had his own way, and followed it by himself. Everyone, western, Goan, was a teacher, and everything was, too; you could learn so much from the place. The people had had nearly five hundred years of experience of westerners, in the shape of Portuguese, and many were Catholic: but first they were animist, believing in and worshipping ancestor spirits, and mixing this with Christianity. Why go to Goa? Congenial people. Fewer people. Such a thing as an empty beach. You'd see a few people a day, instead of few million. You could swim in the sea without any clothes on. You simply couldn't do that in India, unless you were a Naga sadhu. Other things you could do: on the beach you could make love. Where else could you do that? On a railway platform, under a lungi? The Goan people were so patient with these nuts living around them. It could be like a psychiatric hospital, I tell you, with all kinds of trips and gangs going on. It was the acceptance, the patience of Goans that made that scene possible. It's a phenomenon specifically of Goa that such a very open foreigner scene should coexist so well usually with the local one. Goan society is stable, traditional and resilient. It was accommodating and ready to change. Now there's two-week package tourism, which will touch them not at all; the big hotels will get the money, and the human relationships will never begin. His fame spread to the West, and he got himself a whole new audience. Letters came to Germany saying, "If there was a God alive on the planet, wouldn’t you want to see him?" Planeloads of Germans were flying into Bombay, straight into Pune, having taken the colour. Bhagwan's (Rajneesh) disciples wore variations on the sannyasin's traditional saffron. Rajneesh's people began to come down from Pune -- we called them Poonatics -- and soon there was a constant flow of them. And later on, the people who did go to Pune from Goa only went for the girls. I have a postcard, printed in Bombay in 1972: it is captioned "Arambol, adobe of hippies"and bears a perfectly unfocused photo of naked people disporting themselves with a Frisbee. By the early seventies, thousands of foreigners were spending the winter in Goa. Indian tourists, too, had begun to visit the beaches, but in their clothes. I do remember seeing a group of bemused Bombayites observing a beach yoga session, and being called perverts by a nude woman in a turban. There had always been parties, but a party was a log of wood, a bongo and a guitar. And a chilam. It was only when electricity arrived at the beach and the WHO sent speakers (despite the legend, they didn't ever come themselves) and the band plugged in, that this vicarious electronic scene began. Once you've got loud rock and roll, nobody talks to one another, and this was one of the factors that had made people leave Europe in the first place. (In Europe talking meant going to the pub to discuss what was on TV the night before.) People came to India looking for a right way to live, a human way, and in Goa they liked to sit around a fire of an evening doing what the rest of India was doing, telling stories, singing, gossiping: but the minute you had some raging rock and roll band on, you were back to the same old shit you'd tried to escape in the first place. At first Goa was a place people stopped in for Christmas, for relief from the rigours of travel. Then it was settled, and then as a resort settlement, GOA ACQUIRED A SEASON. To everything there is a season: a seed is planted, it sprouts, grows to maturity, withers and dies. In some ways, what you learned from India depended on what you’d gone there as, and for. If you went as a racist or something, you simply came back as one, and England was a relief. If you went for a romp, you came back with nothing but happy playground memories. We had fun, sure, but interesting fun, not the simple tourist variety. But then, India was not a tourist destination. We didn’t want to distance ourselves, nor did we want to study Eastern culture formally, we were simply interested in being in that other world, in living in its as authentically as possible. That’s how you grow, through that kind of lived experience. India expanded your consciousness. But it did, it gave you a much broader base of experience from which to see your own world and act in it. Broader, because in India the experiences tended to be extreme, heavenly or hellish. It was a rare instance of foreign invasion of India not interested in loot. They weren’t on the make, they came here to blend in. One of the things that inspired the India trip was the lack of spiritual nourishment at home. By spiritual nourishment I do not mean that people were seekers after enlightenment. Enlightenment in the East was simply something that might hit you at the bus stop by mistake. Then it might disappear. Then it might return …… You too, baba, sitting there, you’re coming to Asia because you’re getting some kind of nourishment here you’re not getting anywhere else.

Engine, Spirit and the Himalayas

“All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost; the old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not reached by the frost. From the ashes a fire shall be woken, a light from the shadows shall spring; renewed shall be blade that was broken, the crownless again shall be king” – J.R.R. Tolkien

Many people have asked me these questions:
Wow. A trip to Ladakh. But, why on a Bike?
What do you mean when you say that it might be a solo ride? 
Have you really thought through it? Are you aware of the risks?
What’s the point of taking a vacation and expose yourself to hardships? We already have our plates full, don’t you think?

Instead of replying to these questions, I usually ask one back – Do you really know who you are? Honestly, very few people, that I’ve come across, do have an answer to that. An answer, which is devoid of your name, sex, caste, family, education degree and job. The real ‘you’ has been in a limbo for a long time. 

I believe that an open road is a place where you find out who you are. Every decision you make has an immediate and palpable effect. This is not just about finding your way; it's about the decisions that shape the experience in its completeness. How will I overcome this obstacle? What will happen if I accept this invitation? What do these people and places have to teach me? That's what the open road means, and that's why no two journeys on it are ever the same.

A bike trip to Ladakh will not be a tale of heroics and machismo. Rather, it should be a human tale on two wheels, challenging, unpredictable and meandering.  The majority of the route will be wonderfully miserable. It will be tough, as your body and mind get hit by wave after wave of emotions. One shall expect physical hardship and extreme conditions. A ride that will take you to the Eldorado, to places where life will appear so different, to surroundings which will appear so serene and the best part is the feeling of liberation from the chaos of the urban world, no phones, no emails, no meetings, where you only answer the call of the mighty mountains.

For most bikers, riding in Ladakh on the mountain roads which wind their way through the Himalayas is a challenge. Everybody can do it but not everybody does. It takes courage of a different kind to actually set out on this special road trip. The hurdles a motorcycle and its rider face when on these high altitude roads are positively uncountable. Whether you ride solo or you ride with a bunch of people like yourself, I believe, this adventure will affect you as an individual.  Call it philosophy or call it spirituality, either way, you will be a changed person by the time you reach home. Reason is simple. Nothing can ever prepare you for the experience of life on the road: the petty squabbles, the extreme hospitality, the unexpected joys and dangers. 

I’m not going to talk about how one should take this trip. Frankly, I have no right. I am due for one in the next couple of months. Whatever be the scenario, I will take a shot at it. I do not know whether I will make it to the top of the world or hit a roadblock before that. But if I do succeed, I will ensure to stretch right up and touch the sky.