Authors: Dervla Murphy
The leader of Pandoh camp is a dignified, elderly man named Lobsang Dowa, who speaks only Tibetan; but he has a most efficient interpreter who is fluent in Hindi and also knows a fair amount of English. This young man – Pasang – met me on my arrival, carried Roz up the steep stone ‘stairs’ to the level stretch of ground on which the camp is situated and then brought me on a ‘conducted tour’. He told me that these families have now been established here for fourteen months and the community has its own cobbler, tailor, butcher and vegetable gardens. It also has a dispensary tent, stocked by the Tom Dooley Foundation and American Emergency Relief, and until recently,
when the Tibetan authorities at Dharamsala quarrelled with the Indian doctor in charge, a Tom Dooley Foundation Mobile Medical Unit toured these camps about once a fortnight. This service helped to keep the health situation from deteriorating beyond control, as far as TB and injuries were concerned, yet its limitations were many and the fact that no other camp has anyone of Pasang’s ability to supervise the carrying out of the doctor’s instructions meant that his fortnightly visits were often wasted. Pasang has had no medical training, but has taught himself enough to be able to cope efficiently with minor diseases and mishaps – and to recognise those cases which require more specialised treatment.
There are 215 children from this camp in Dharamsala, Dalhousie, Mussoorie and Simla and I see no reason why they could not have been here at Pandoh for the past fourteen months. Educational
opportunities
equal to those available in the schools could be provided on the spot – and so could improved medical attention. Such a project would perhaps demand more organisation on the part of the relief agencies, but it would certainly require no more money than is being spent at the moment – possibly less – and it could avert a great deal of unhappiness.
One feels here that one has got as close to the Tibetan way of life as is possible; in contrast to this camp Dharamsala seems cosmopolitan. When the eighty-seven Tiblets who remain had been examined, and my findings jotted down, I took a stroll around the ‘village’, with its ‘streets’ of beaten earth between the rows of tents. The men who would be going on night-shift at 8 p.m. were sitting drinking illegally brewed ‘chang’ and playing dice or mahjong – Tibetans love gambling – and it was touching to see that their stakes were of Tibetan coinage; an act of faith if ever there was one. Many of the people used the old greetingform of rural Tibet, and on my approach bowed low and stuck out their tongues three times. Everywhere I was welcomed graciously, if at times shyly, but the comparative aloofness of the children was very apparent. Unlike their less fortunate brothers and sisters in the various nurseries, who cling to any passing stranger in the hopes of receiving some affection, these Tiblets had shown a normal childish timidity
when I first appeared. Yet while being examined outside the Dispensary tent they were as docile and uncomplaining as any of ‘my’ Tiblets at Dharamsala.
Tonight lousy sheep-skins have been spread for my benefit on the smooth earth floor of the Dispensary tent. I had brought bread and bananas for my supper (this being a prudent anti-dysentery diet), but Pasang insisted on serving me three eggs fried in rancid ghee – though eggs are both scarce and very expensive in this region. It remains to be seen how my inside will respond to this manifestation of hospitality.
From Mandi to Pandoh the Beas is on one’s left, going towards Kulu, but at Pandoh there is a break in the gorge and for a half-mile or so the river curves south, to find a way through the mountains. On the outskirts of Pandoh village a suspension bridge takes the road to the north bank and when the gorge closes in again, the Beas is on one’s right for the remaining twelve miles to Aut.
By eight o’clock this morning we were on our way – after the proudly beaming Pasang had served me with another three fried eggs – and we arrived here at six o’clock. Those sixty-eight miles were all uphill and involved so much walking that tonight I feel quite exhausted. But what a glorious region this is! Mild exhaustion is a small price to pay for the joy of seeing Kulu on a sunny winter’s day.
This ‘Valley of the Gods’ – to give it its alternative and more appropriate name – begins at Aut, where the Mandi-Larji gorge ends, and continues for about fifty-five miles. At no point is it more than a mile wide and at every turn of the road its beauty increases. The last twenty-five miles from Kulu town to here are almost as lovely as the Hindu Kush – and almost as desolate. By this stage one has risen to about 5000 feet and as the road climbs the final 1000 feet to Manali the landscape becomes really wintry. Many bare oaks and elms and chestnuts stood out blackly against the evening sky, flocks of rooks and starlings flew noisily towards their roosts and dry leaves rustled along the road before the wind. Yet some trees, down the valley, still glowed in autumn reds and yellows, looking rich and splendid against a dark
background of distant pine-forests. On the lower slopes patches of new snow dazzled from clearings between pine-trees, while the white brilliance on sharp, remote summits was almost painful beneath an intense blue sky.
I had hoped to find a Tibetan camp near here, but it’s further up, towards the Rothang Pass, so I’m staying at a rest-house where there is no food, water, light or heating. There’s only one answer that I know of to this sort of situation and luckily I noticed its source on our way through the bazaar – ‘Spirit Merchant’! Having purchased some of this gentleman’s wares, as a Christmas present to myself, I’m now slightly drunk and very warm, despite six inches of snow outside.
We passed several camps today where ragged prayer-flags were flying, and of course I at first assumed them to be Tibetan, but on investigation I discovered that they were the winter settlements of some Spiti nomads. The inhabitants of Lahoul and Spiti are racially, religiously and linguistically akin to the Tibetans, though their remote valleys and plateaux are now politically part of India. The only way for an outsider to distinguish between Tibetans and Spitis is by studying the women’s aprons; Tibetan aprons have horizontal stripes, Spiti aprons have perpendicular stripes. Similarly, when pilgrims from Ladakh came to Dharamsala to receive His Holiness’s blessing we could distinguish them from the Tibetans only by noting that their women wore aprons both front and back.
In Spiti as in Tibet, the yak is the most important item of livestock and these nomads bring a supply of dzo butter with them on their annual migration – so it was while being entertained in one of these camps this afternoon that I first sampled the genuine Tibetan buttered tea and tsampa. Contrary to popular opinion this is not a revolting mess but a palatable and sustaining meal. But I took four
sulphaguanidine
as a second course, because of my present delicate condition – which has not been improved by that surfeit of fried eggs.
On my way through the bazaar to patronise the Spirit Merchant I called briefly at the local Mission Hospital where Dr Snell, his wife and two nurses – one of them an Irishwoman – do what they can to care for the local Tibetan workers. Dr Snell remarked on the Tibetan
susceptibility to TB at these altitudes and gave it as his opinion that though the roadworkers in general now show such cheerful energy it can only be a matter of time before the combination of heavy labour and protein deficiency breaks their natural stamina. When one remembers the amount of protein consumed in Tibet this seems only too likely.
The road-surface from Mandi to Kulu town is excellent and from Kulu to Manali it remains tolerable, but Dr Snell informed me yesterday that no road – only a rough bridle-path – exists between Manali and the tiny hamlet of Rahola at the foot of the Rothang Pass. So as the distance is only ten miles I decided to walk, leaving Roz at the rest-house, where the decrepit but amiable chowkidar swore to guard her with his life. Actually this path, though rough and stony, is no worse than many of the main roads Roz endured on our way through Persia and Afghanistan – and it’s a lot better than some! Yet I was glad I hadn’t risked taking her today since our spare-tyre situation is precarious at the moment.
When I left Manali at ten o’clock this morning last night’s snow had almost vanished, but it was cool enough for me to need a sweater. From the rest-house the bridle-path descends through a wood of giant pines, crosses the narrow young Beas by a cantilever bridge and turns left up the north bank of the river.
Yesterday’s trek was superb, but today’s had a unique quality – not only because of its beauty, but because for hours on end I was
surrounded
by that strangely moving stillness which pervades unpeopled mountains with the force of a living spirit.
In these regions the landscape changes its aspect dramatically. Between Manali and Rahola one is in a different world from that of the lower Kulu valley – a world of broad, vivid green moors, bounded by the silver-grey rockiness of its mountain walls, their white crests encircling the horizon. On some of the precipices isolated pines grow from what appears to be bare rock, and this phenomenon occurs right
up to the 10,000-foot summits of the lower peaks. The effect is extraordinarily beautiful, as these simple lines of rock and tree sweep upwards in harmony. All day the sky remained quite clear but the few wisps of white cloud that did go drifting over the highest peaks looked dingy beside those immaculate snow-caps. It was very unpoetic of me, but I couldn’t help thinking of ‘Persil Washes Whiter!’ Even up here at the head of the valley it got so hot around midday that I had to remove my sweater and walk in shirtsleeves; but now, at 7 p.m., the frost is severe.
There are only twenty-three Tiblets in this small camp, which is sheltered by a straggling copse of pines on the river-bank. Next week these workers will be packing up and moving down to the Kangra valley until the worst of the winter is over.
The camp-leader’s tent, in which I’m receiving hospitality, accommodates a family of eight – granny, her two sons, their wives and two babies of seven and four months. Granny and I are to share
sheepskins
tonight so it’s likely that by morning my already considerable stock of vermin will have acquired companions. Happily lice and bugs don’t discommode me to any great extent, but dearly as I love the Tibetans it is impossible to get accustomed to the nauseating odour of that rancid butter with which they lavishly oil their hair and anoint their bodies. When used on the hair this repulsive unguent is alleged to deter lice and when applied to the body it keeps out the cold; yet however practical its uses may be no one save a Tibetan could ever become resigned to its stink. I’m sitting beside a wood fire now, writing by flame-light with wood smoke tears streaming down my face – but at least this acrid smoke does something to obliterate the butter stench. Even the babies’ almost bald heads have been plastered with the ghastly stuff. In all these camps Tiblets’ heads are similarly treated and, having had scores of them laid on my bosom within the past few days, my shirt is now so saturated with grease that even when walking through the wide open spaces I cannot get away from the stink.
It’s interesting to observe that the unexpected arrival of a foreign guest does not throw Tibetans into the state of embarrassed confusion common among Indian peasants in similar circumstances. This may
be partly explained by the fact that Tibetan peasants have no conception of standards other than their own, whereas Indians are uncomfortably aware of the style to which Westerners are accustomed. But one
suspects
that it is also connected with the Tibetan temperament and with their freedom from religio-social taboos; these people display a splendid mixture of ease and formality while receiving you into a simple tent and before many moments have passed they manage to make you feel completely at home. There is no English speaker in this camp, but the language barrier has long since gone crashing and we’re all the best of friends on a system of smiles and gestures.
As usual I brought my own food with me today but – again as usual – I’m not to be allowed to touch it. A form of porridge is now being cooked for supper and into this Granny has just thrown handfuls of chopped onions and dates, while I looked on with the resignation of despair. By all natural laws the diet of the past few days should have completed my internal disintegration, but instead I seem to be rapidly returning to normal.
Christmas Eve in the Workhouse – scene as before – rancid butter and wood-smoke and eccentric porridge for supper. Fortunately I bought myself another Christmas present on the way back through Manali, which was a horribly extravagant thing to do – yet perhaps such extravagance is forgivable when there’s no one else around to give me a present. Indian whisky is about the same price as Irish whisky, but that’s the only point of resemblance between the two distillations. My plastic mug is showing signs of
melting
in a very odd way since it began to come into nightly contact with Indian whisky – which may account for the brew’s curiously chemical flavour.
I left Granny and Company at half-past eight this morning and by walking briskly was back with Roz at eleven o’clock. Then we enjoyed the twenty-five mile freewheel back to Kulu town, before branching off for an eight-mile trek to this camp. There are fifty-eight Tiblets here, the majority in excellent health.
Today several men passed us carrying water in bear-skins. I’ve seen
pig-skins used thus in Spain and goat-skins in many places but
bearskins
were a novelty to me – and those bears were so massive that it takes two men to carry a full skin. I just hope never to meet such a skin containing its original owner!
What a splendid Christmas Eve this is – truly a silent night, and a holy one, in the shadow of these mountains.
What a Christmas Day! If I live to be a hundred I am unlikely ever to ‘celebrate’ the festival more strangely. Really I’m in no condition tonight for diary-writing, but it’s best to get it all down while the details are fresh in my mind.
When we left Raison at 7.30 a.m. the sun was just up, but not yet over the mountains, and the bitterly cold air numbed me as I freewheeled down the valley. By 8.30 we had reached Bhuntar, six miles from Kulu town, and here I chanced to notice a weather-beaten little signpost pointing off the main road and saying – ‘Jari: 14 ms.’ On seeing this name I remembered that Jari was the next village to Malana – a unique settlement which I had supposed to be nearer Spiti and inaccessible during winter. I was then making for a Tibetan camp some twenty miles away, but when I realised that Malana lay so near the temptation to explore was too much for me. I said to myself, ‘Dash it, this is Christmas, why not take a short vacation?’ So I left the main road, crossed the Beas by suspension bridge and headed up the Parvati valley.
Malana is an autonomous community of some 600 people, who live on a 9000-foot plateau, independent of all outside influences, and one of the many remarkable things about them is their language. Some philologists claim to find definite links between Malani, Magyar and Finnish; it is also allied – more understandably – to Pharsi. Archaeologists and anthropologists estimate that the Malanis have been living on this remote plateau for about 5000 years, and their religion, a primitive form of Hinduism, consists in the worship of the god Jamdagnishri – also known, more pronounceably, as Jamlu. Jamlu is believed to be a sort of demon-spirit and, like the Malanis, he has an
independent nature and does not pay homage even to Raghunathjee, the principal god of the Kulu valley, to whom most other local gods do reverence. All the cultivated lands around Malana are regarded as Jamlu’s property, the Malanis being merely his tenants. The village treasure is also his property, and the treasure-house is rumoured to contain uncountable quantities of cash, jewels, gold and silver ornaments and the silver images of a horse which are the customary offering to this particular god.
To the Malanis their territory is known as the ‘Valley of Refuge’ and unsubstantiated oral tradition says that the original inhabitants fled there during some long-forgotten crisis. Now, out of gratitude to Jamlu, who protected their ancestors, these people unquestioningly offer refuge to anyone fleeing from any sort of trouble – though only caste Hindus are permitted to enter the village itself. This provision of sanctuary is occasionally of use to local criminals, who know that the villagers won’t hand them over to the police.
The Malanis have never had anything to do with any ruling power and they take no part in the life of the nation. A committee of eleven elders governs the community, and when the Government of India insisted on opening a village school twelve years ago the elders forbade anyone to attend it – though for the past five years it has had one pupil. When anyone falls ill they are taken to the chief, who asks them what moral wrong they have done to cause the illness (5000-year-old psychology!) and gives them a magic brew of herbs. If they die despite this brew the wrong done is presumed to have been too heinous for reparation in this life and they are then cremated after the orthodox Hindu fashion, on the banks of the little Malana nullah. On the death of the head of a household his goods are divided equally between all his children, who are expected to contribute a share each to keep their mother in the state to which she was accustomed. Marriages are arranged on the usual Hindu basis, but divorces may be had simply by paying Rs. 20 (about £1 10s.) to the wife – an unusual deviation, since throughout India proper they are very difficult to obtain. Theft is unknown in this community and any crime is rare, but if there is a question of one of two people being guilty both parties bring a lamb to
the chief, who slits the animals’ throats and inserts an identical quantity of cyanide into each slit – and the owner of the lamb which dies first is regarded as the guilty party.
The Malanis collect the roots of a plant used to make incense, and many medicinal herbs which they sell or barter, but most of their cash comes from hunting the musk-deer. This animal abounds here – though being very fast and elusive it is extremely difficult to shoot. I was told today that one musk is worth Rs. 1000 (£75) and that so far this season the Malanis have shot thirty-five male deer. These figures sound almost incredible; if they are true then the Malanis’ austere mode of life is from choice, not necessity! Or does most of this cash have to go into Jamlu’s treasure-house?
The fourteen miles from Bhuntar to Jari were all uphill, through yet another indescribably lovely valley – and it was yet another perfect day of clear, deep blue skies and warm, golden sunshine, with the air so pure that merely to breathe was a joy. It’s not surprising that the Kulu valley and its side valleys were chosen by sages and saints in Vedic times for meditation and prayer – I’d choose them too, if I were given to either meditation or prayer! And Mr Nehru, a regular visitor to Manali to get away from it all, is evidently in agreement with me.
*
Each of these valleys, and each hamlet in each valley, has its own tutelary deity, and as the region has been virtually untouched by modern developments of Hinduism the local religion remains strongly tinged with animism. Throughout all India’s history the Kulu valley (known as Kiu-Lu-To in the days when it was at the southern boundary of Kublai Khan’s Empire) was never conquered or occupied till the British came; in recent times the area was called the State of Rupi and had its own rajah (usually a pretty degenerate type) until the line faded out in the 1920s.
The road we travelled from Bhuntar was part of one of the old
trade-routes
going from India through Spiti and Tibet to China. It’s no more than a track and has the worst surface we’ve met since leaving Gilgit, with the difference that if you went over the edge here you’d only fall 500 feet, instead of 1500 as in the Indus Gorge. The Indian Government
is now investigating local uranium deposits but so far has not determined their value – or isn’t telling if it has! Large notices, warning All Unauthorised Persons to keep off the relevant sites, come as a shock when they suddenly appear in this otherwise unspoiled region. For two miles this morning, about halfway to Jari, the cliffs on my right were gigantic walls of rough, red marble and the track was strewn with red chips and dust, producing a fantastic effect in the brilliant sunshine; I walked through a dream-like rosy haze and even the emerald river, flashing along the valley floor far below, appeared to have changed colour. Between Bhuntar and Jari we passed two tiny hamlets, where the people were as grim and dour as elsewhere in Kulu: I don’t ever remember travelling among such unfriendly peasants as these. Yet when you stop for tea, or to buy fruit or cigarettes, they are courteous – it’s just that they give the general impression of
not
wanting strangers around the place. Aloofness is quite against my principles as a traveller but I’ve abandoned the habit of saluting passers-by, since the response is always a cold stare.
At 11 a.m. we reached Jari, which was just what I had expected it to be – an impoverished huddle of disintegrating mud and wood hovels where milk was scarce and fruit, eggs and sugar were unobtainable, but where the surrounding beauty was so exhilarating that to a nonresident nothing else mattered. Going straight to the Forest Rest House I received the chowkidar’s permission to leave Roz there for the night and then asked him to show me where the path to Malana began. The poor man obviously thought me off my head (now I know why!) and said ‘Malana ne! You go
Manikand – yes
?’ (Manikand is famous for its hot springs and is approached from Jari by a seven-mile bridle-path.) I was shaking my head and firmly repeating ‘Malana – I go
Malana
,’ when such a fantastic coincidence occurred that I can only regard it as a Christmas present from Jari’s tutelary deity.
Two constables of the Punjab Armed Police suddenly materialised beside me to enquire into my presence in a Restricted Zone, and having sorted that one out I enquired into
their
presence, since tiny hamlets don’t normally have resident policemen. In reply they explained that they were about to conduct an election agent to Malana, as the three-yearly
Punjabi state elections are now in progress. At that point we were joined by the election agent, a plainsman from Chandigarh who was shivering despite layers of woollen garments and what felt to me like hot sun. His present duties were evidently not suiting him in any way and he wore a distinctly martyred expression – which temporarily changed to one of astonishment when he saw me talking to his
bodyguard
. On discovering my destination he looked rather startled and said, ‘But
why
are you going there?’ I answered, ‘Because I want to,’ which seemed to me a flawless reason; yet it obviously struck my companion as hopelessly inadequate, if not actually insane. The agent then pointed out, in words of one syllable, that people only went to Malana under compulsion. ‘The Malanis are dirty savages,’ he concluded, ‘and the way is very tedious.’ I discounted both these statements, realising that by Hindu standards I too was a dirty savage, not having washed for a week. In reply to my query as to why a Punjabi election agent had to visit this autonomous community I was told that the Malanis are now citizens of Asia’s biggest democracy and have to be given the opportunity to vote. I next asked what happens when the election party reaches the village and the agent said that they put up a notice (which no one can read), improvise a polling booth (which is pointedly ignored by the villagers) and then spend two nights and one day gambling mildly together before returning to Jari! We were now joined by a friend of the agent, who was accompanying the party to make a four at cards and dice; to me the whole thing was enchantingly Gilbertian and I happily received their reluctant consent to my accompanying the expedition.
One of the most pleasing features of life here is that for a trek like this people simply stand up and go, minus the tiresome paraphernalia of picnic-baskets, cameras, binoculars, night-clothes, first-aid kits, etc., with which Westerners would fussily encumber themselves in similar circumstances. But there was one important preparation to be made for this particular expedition. It is a grievous offence against the Malanis’ religion to bring leather into their territory, so we had to remove all leather objects from our persons. The police took off their belts and replaced their rifle-straps with ropes, the agent’s friend
grumpily exchanged his leather fur-lined cap for a woollen balaclava and the agent himself almost tearfully abandoned his long leather gauntlets. My boots were of rubber and canvas so when I had pronounced myself ‘clean’ we set off.
From Jari the path descended to river-level, through dark pine-forests where unmelted snow made the steep path treacherous to our rubber boots. Then we crossed the wide, rapid nullah by a nonchalant bridge of frost-slippery planks and were again in sunshine, at the point where the Parvati nullah is joined by the more turbulent Malana nullah, which we were now going to follow up its narrow ravine.
This stage – a gradual five-mile climb – provided such a remarkable concentration of hazards that the business of avoiding death occupied 90% of my attention and the beauties of the ravine impressed me only during our rest halts. The agent, on his third visit to Malana, was our leader – if so decisive a title may be bestowed on a man who viewed the whole performance with frank horror. As we struggled upwards I admitted to myself that the Jari chowkidar had been right. Guidance was indeed necessary for this track – to prove the human animal capable of following it rather than to show the way, which in most places could be lost only by falling into the nullah or scaling a 2000-foot cliff. Among the more stimulating diversions was a cow-hair rope hand-bridge which made me feel like a trapeze artiste without the net, as the torrent thundered hungrily down its bed of boulders beneath my dangling feet. After this came a brief respite – some hundred yards of firm silver sand on which we walked five abreast beside a shallow, more subdued nullah, where the clear green water was like a liquid jewel.
Here one could relax and appreciate the vividly coloured, densely forested slopes of the ravine, where the rest of the party nervously imagined leopards and bears lurking behind every second tree. But this carefree phase did not last long. Soon we had climbed again and were edging our way along a path hardly eighteen inches wide: in places it had crumbled away completely and been casually replaced by a few branches. The nullah was now 300 feet below us, and from this path looked very easy of access by accident. After about half a mile we descended again to find another test of acrobatic skill; a giant pine
trunk had been laid against the cliff where the path ended, to serve as a ladder down to river-level. The ‘steps’ once hacked in the wood had long since been worn away and, as this part of the ravine is permanently shadowed, the whole trunk was covered in ice. To us it seemed a suicidal contraption; looking down I wondered whether my imminent death would come from a broken neck on the rocks or through drowning in the nullah. Then I went over gallantly, following the agent and hoping for drowning. But of course instinct took charge where intelligence had failed and I found myself sensibly sliding down the trunk, with arms and legs wrapped firmly around it, so that within seconds I was comparatively safe on a vast slab of rock that sloped steeply towards the water. The police followed, their complexions perceptibly ashen, and on landing beside me the elder one promptly vomited in reaction. I hadn’t gone to quite this extreme myself but I couldn’t have agreed more!
For the next quarter of an hour we had to leap goat-like from rock to rock in the midst of the swirling nullah – yet this seemed a mere parlour game after the tree-trunk ordeal. Then we came up against a gloriously foaming waterfall and stopped to rest beneath a cliff so high and so precipitous that its top was invisible. At this stage it was not clear to me where we went from here; the alternatives seemed to be a struggle through fifty feet of crashing water or a climb up this monstrous mountain, which had obviously been designed for the exclusive use of monkeys.