I realized I never put down in words the story about what was quite possibly the most exhilarating few days of transportation of my life which took place in northern India. I had made the decision while exploring Manali that I was going to make my way further north to Leh and visit my dear Angie. Manali, shangri-la incarnate, would not let me leave without a hint of the adventure that has been the foundation for all my solo travels. I spent the last days in Manali in a haze, walking through the woods, becoming acquainted with a python and a cobra, and reveling in the natural beauty that is India. I declined an invite to a mid-forest party, but the charas-induced techno beats traveled through the night and window to where I rested until the wee hours. I slept for a restless hour before hurriedly gathering my belongings and hightailing it out to the wooden temple and baths, where I was to meet a driver to take me to a 6:00 AM bus leaving for Leh. The bus, a 28-seater, was not what I was expecting to take me through some of the highest motorable passes in the world. I snagged a front chair, a wise choice in the end as it turned out that any seats beyond the halfway mark could have been springs for the way they tossed their occupants about on the roads. A little girl traveling with her mama and her two friends from England, had the worst time of it, but anyone sitting in the back, including myself at one point, was tossed up to 10 inches off the seat from potholes and ruts. But our two drivers had skills. Picture this: This wide bus would, without slowing, skirt around equally large tassle-encrusted trucks on dirt roads dropping thousands of feet into river valleys below. We only made it one hour outside of Manali, climbing, climbing, climbing, until we reached a stand-still. About fifty cars were halted in front of us. We passed three hours, moving 1/4 a mile. I wandered away from the bus, looking for some privacy to relieve myself, and continued climbing up the steep embankment alongside the road. I wandered through a work site where a second road was being built. I followed the road back down to see what was causing the standstill. It was clear as soon as I heard the tires spinning. At a hairpin turn, a small hatchback was spewing mud from the foot-deep soupy mess that was at one point the road. At least thirty spectators--mostly men--alternately watched, cheered, directed, and pushed as vehicles attempted the turn one at a time. When I returned to the bus, I was chided for wandering, but the drivers were so kind, I knew they were not very angry, just worried about where I was. Back on the bus, the collective feeling was exuberance to be moving again. Our momentum was short lived and it wasn't long before we were stopped again, this time on a ridge waiting for cars and Royal Enfield motorcycles to pass through a longer stretch of muddy ruts. While outside observing, suddenly the surrounding mountains disappeared in a blanket of white. An influx of clouds, rising from below, passed through us and above us until it was difficult to see more than three car-lengths. The blistering cold cut through my thin cotton tunic and I climbed back onto the bus to enjoy the show. We crossed the first of many mountain passes, edging along a ridge, passing through rivers crossing the road, catching glimpses of what I first thought to be a rockfall but in reality was a chocolate waterfall moving rich alpine soil down the face of a cliff. A distant road far below us stretched to the famed Spiti Valley, whose storied remote beauty I hope to witness sometime in the future.
Because of our delays, we had to take refuge at any guesthouse we could find along the way. I was glad for the extension. Since the beginning of the journey, I had not wanted to sleep for fear of missing any part of the ever-changing views through the bus' window. The next morning was freezing cold before the sunrise and cloudless. We drove along the rock-strewn valley floor surrounded by rocky peaks grey in the morning light. We stopped for chai at a remote post at the edge of a roiling river and the steam from the pots blew through the tent. The sun began to edge over the peaks, and the clear sky shown bright blue, brighter due to the high elevation.
During the bus ride, I had befriended the two drivers as well as several of the other passengers. The bus was configured in such a way that their was a cockpit area with room for about five people in addition to the driver, including a bench running perpendicular to the windshield. At one point, winding our way through a desert valley amongst wind-beaten mountains, I sat cross-legged on the bench, about two feet from the windshield. With Hindi music blaring through the speakers in the cockpit and my fellow passengers passing around, I swayed with the motion of the wheels moving over rough roads and winding back and forth up another slope. The brilliance of the blue sky was overwhelming, and the sun glared. When we stepped out for a bathroom and snack break, the altitude was apparent and the sunlight shone down relentlessly. We passed through a 17,000 ft + pass and the effects of the thin air were telling. Many of the other passengers yawned their way back to their seats, falling asleep soon after we cautiously traversed a sloped "shortcut" down a rutted mud road. I knew we were approaching Leh when the humorous road signs began referring to holy lamas and were written in Ladakhi, similar to the Tibetan alphabet. I was back in Buddhist India.
Arriving in Leh in the darkened evening, I attempted to work with my bus friends, but my solo instincts reemerged and I set out on my own to find a place to stay.
