THE KULLU VALLEY

While Abigail and Kierahn were still in Canada I took a weekend away from scorching, 40 degree Delhi, and flew north to the Himalayan states of Himachal Pradesh early one Saturday morning, taking a packed 50 minute flight and landing in the picturesque Kullu Valley.

I chose to stay in Naggar village which boasts a centuries old wood and stone castle converted into a decent government run hotel where I booked a chilly but pleasant room with gorgeous views. The castle clings to the edge of the mountain side, towering over the Beas River and valley below. The valley is protected on each side by massive mountains, their snow capped peaks clearly visible against the clear blue sky. Indeed, the sky and mountains, along with the clean air and friendly people are the principal reasons for visiting Naggar, a fairly quiet town, especially when compared to notorious Manali, the nearby haunt of backpackers, hippies and hash, another hour north along the valley.

Although peaceful by Indian standards, Naggar does attract a strange mix of visitors: Indian families and honeymooners, stopping by to snap photos of the views and castle, sometimes with rowdy children in tow sucking on popsicles; Russians attracted by the Nicholas Roerich museum, devoted to the Russian painter and mystic who made his home in Naggar and died there; and the occasional backpacker, perhaps lost on the way to Manali, too stoned to care. On the first day I arrived, the town was extremely quiet and I happily wandered through the narrow streets and surrounding fields, snapping pictures with the smiling locals, with both young and old happily posing. Kids played cricket in the apple orchards, women washed pots and and plates, and old men with scraggly beards and colorful hats smoked peacefully by the windows in their homes. These dwellings were mostly constructed of wood and stone, keeping with local tradition, making Naggar one of the few towns in India that has not been overrun by hideous concrete structures.

I also visited the Roerich museum, devoted to the painter and his family, who made India their home. Nicholas Roerich was a fascinating figure: a celebrated artist and mysterious mystic, who explored much of Central Asia and Tibet. He attracted devout followers and may have been a double-agent, managing to stay on friendly terms with both the British and Russians, arch-rivals in the quest for influence and empire in Central Asia. The museum contained some of his paintings of the Himalayas, as well as old photos of himself and his son, Svetoslav, who also lived in India, marrying one of the country's first movie stars.

That evening, I decided to have a beer in one of the local rooftop restaurants. Entering the terrace, I was presented with the comical image - surprisingly common in India - of two middle-aged white women dancing enthusiastically to an Indian electronica groove. They were dressed in traditional backpacker attire - scarves, cheap baggy "Aladdin" pants and loose cotton tops. They were soon joined, however, by a large group of their colleagues, Russians it turned out, about 20 in all. After about an hour of chatting amongst themselves, the group leader, a rugged type with a pony-tail and weathered face, began speaking authoritatively while the others listened, nodding their heads and closing their eyes. I began to feel uncomfortable, so I finished my beer and hopped over to the next restaurant.

There, I chatted pleasantly with two brothers who explained that they had just opened the restaurant/hotel one month before. It was a dream fulfilled, they said. The family owned apple orchards, but the hotel belonged to the brothers and they had financed its construction themselves. They were optimistic for the future of tourism in Naggar, though also expressed the desire for it to maintain its peaceful air. Needless to say, I wholeheartedly agreed.

We talked of the weather, and like almost anyone you talk to these days in any part of the world, they commented on its unpredictability in recent years. It was cold as we spoke, unusual for this time of year. In January, almost no snow had fallen for the first time in memory.

The next morning I awoke to a spectacular view of the brilliantly lit peaks, perfect in the morning light. After a potassium-overload breakfast of banana pancakes (with an unfortunate oniony undertone) and banana porridge, I set out on a hike, the route helpfully traced out by Abishek, one of the Naggar hotelier brothers. It was to take me to a Krishna temple and then two local villages, climbing most of the way before returning on a steep downhill road. I set off with the village names scribbled on a peace of paper, my camera and more bananas. A few minutes into my walk, I encountered three ancient, bent figures climbing slowly up the forested path with the aid of walking sticks. Like almost everyone else I encountered, they happily posed for photos and asked where I was headed - turns out they were on their way to the temple as well. I walked off ahead of them, but missed my turnoff. When I finally reached the temple, I could hear drumming and singing; the old men, impressively, had already arrived, though were far from alone.

Dancing and clapping to the music were members of the Russian group. They had taken over a portion of the courtyard and were happily snapping photos and taking video of the event. I asked their Russian-speaking Indian guide what exactly the deal was with this strange scene: many of the men were topless and a woman walked around in spandex pants and a bikini top - not the usual attire seen in Hindu temples. (I wondered if they would dress the same way in a house of worship back in Russia, but as the locals did not seem to mind, I enjoyed the scene). I tried to get an unobstructed photo of the small temple, but there were too many Russians - so I shrugged and started snapping photos of them. Meanwhile the guide explained that they were a sort of meditation group from all over Russia. He wondered why it is that India sees so many foreigners entranced by its spirituality, when you would never see a large group of Indians traveling to the west for similar reasons. I agreed, shrugging. Then, being neither Hindu, Russian or topless, I again felt uncomfortable and took off.

Before I reached the village, I was intercepted by a young man heading in the same direction as me. On the way we had to pass by his grandfather's house, so we stopped in for tea. The house was made of stone, mud and wood and had a balcony running along one side. Here the old grandfather sat, a tiny figure with a gaunt, wrinkled face, smoking an enormous hash pipe while I was introduced. The extended family within the house - it was not entirely clear how my guide and the other women and children were related - were most welcoming, and tea was prepared. One young boy coughed incessantly, spraying myself and my tea to my dismay. Finally, we set off through the woods again surrounded by towering pines, the mountains to our back. Surprisingly, we came across more drumming, this time from a procession of local men. "It is for the gods," my guide explained. The scent of hash wafted over the strange scene. My new friend was heading to the village of Rumsu, where more "gods" would be in appearance. We split off after exchanging phone numbers. After taking more photos in a village, I moved off in the direction of Rumsu myself, the sound of drums echoing through the woods as I struggled to find the right path. Once again, a local youth came to the rescue, accompanying me to the somewhat isolated village made up entirely of the local stone and wood houses.

A festival of some sort did indeed appear to be underway, with colorfully clad women and children gathered in a clearing before a tent where a sound system was being set up. The men were scattered about in groups, with a large number clustered around a temple. As I approached them to take photos, I was shooed away loudly by a number of the men, the first time all day I and my camera had been rebuffed. Embarrassed, I quickly headed off back downhill to Naggar, part of the way bouncing on the back of a motorcycle, whose owner kindly offered me a lift.

The scene in Naggar was far different than the peaceful one I had found on the previous day. For whatever reason, the tourist hordes had descended and the single narrow road that winds its way through the town was clogged with taxis, jeeps and minivans and the incessant honks and beeps that characterise any such scene in India. A backpacker roared by on a Royal Enfield while young Indians flew through on their scooters and motorbikes. Families swarmed the castle and the tiny temple therein, snapping photos and scolding their children. Men with tight jeans and women in salwarkameez and sneakers strolled through the temple, looking somewhat unsure what to make of this rather tiny "castle". A gentleman enthralled with his own coolness posed with his arms crossed and a tough guy look, his oversized Ray-Bans reflecting the sun. Backpackers munched on dangerously stale-looking pastries and stroked their overgrown facial hair. On older foreigner sported red and saffron "sadhu chic" as he sipped tea through his long silver beard. A Russian walked into the pastry shop where I was having tea, and to my alarm, actually ordered a slice of the "organic" cheese that looked like it had been sitting in the (unrefrigerated) display case for at least 6 months. Clouds began to form over the mountains, the peaks themselves preferring to withdraw from the scene. I headed inside to take a nap while it rained.

I awoke early Monday morning to catch my plane back to Delhi, arriving a full 2.5 hours late on a disorganized flight that included a long delay and an unscheduled, ludicrous re-fuelling stop - all this for what was supposed to be a 50 minute flight. I arrived sweaty and late to the office at 11:30am and slogged my way through the day. The mountain views made the trip worth it, though I have vowed to never fly the airline in question again.