At 2700m above sea level, I thought for sure I was going to die. I felt so dizzy and lightheaded that I was absolutely certain I would faint any minute now, bash my head against a rock, and tumble down the mountain into the valley below. Although we had trekked all this way and my body was screaming for me to stop, it wasn't my weary leg muscles that couldn't cope. It was my lungs, which are next-to-useless in normal circumstances, and as thoroughbred Capetonian lungs, are used to the pampered lifestyle of oxygen- and moisture-rich air. What helped immensely was that my trekking companion was a mountain goat born in the hills and with the patience of a saint. On the plus side, stopping every 30 metres or so to catch my breath meant that I could truly enjoy the magnificent view. Far beyond the forest below, McLeod Ganj, Dharamsala, the capital of the Tibetan government-in-exile and our residence for a couple of days, could be seen.
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| Don't let my smile deceive you. I'm about to freefall into the trees below. |
We'd taken an overnight bus from Delhi departing at 6pm, and arrived the next morning at around 5am. We forewent the most luxurious bus, the Volvo, as certain among us *coughmecough* lives in a perpetual state of brokeness. Despite that, the seats were comfortable, the air was breathable, and the stares were minimal. Even the unsubtitled Pujabi movie they screened was so overdramatic as to be understandable. Sleep was difficult to attain, however, owing to the extreme bumpiness of the twisty-windy mountain roads. I'm sure if it had been daylight and I was able to fully experience the speed of the bus and the height of the potential fall, sleep would be the least of my worries.
I struggle to describe my first view of McLeod Ganj. Imagine arriving soon after the sun has risen, when the air is still hazy so as to give all colour a pastel tinge, as if seen through frosted glass. The song of unseen birds greets the dawn. Now imagine a steep mountain slope, full of deep-green cedars, with roads cut into the cliff-face, and houses that seem to cling to the verdant incline as if for dear life. "Impossible!" you might think. "This goes against all laws of gravity!" Yet there it is. Now imagine snow-capped peaks in the distance, framing the picture in front of you, and a valley below as far as the eye can see. This is Dharamsala, a holy place for Hindus and Buddhists alike. And who can blame them? Every viewpoint delivers a postcard-worthy scene.
After a few hours' nap filled with gratitude for an immobile bed, we had breakfast in the sky, that is to say, on the top floor of a restaurant overlooking the valley below. I'm not exaggerating when I say, the breakfast itself, though slow in coming, was the best I've ever had. This is probably due to the fact that I haven't had bacon and sausages in close to 3 months, and certainly not in combination with fried egg, mash potato, toast, jam and coffee. That breakfast may have changed my life.
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| Breakfast in the sky. |
The breakfast was symptomatic of one of the downsides of McLeod Ganj, though. Everywhere you looked, there were
gore, foreigners like me with pale skin, sun hats and cameras. Some were unclean-trippy-hippy-backpacker types, others retired-oldies-out-to-see-the-world types (dressed in khaki-and-white, of course!), and others were the same kind you'd find at Khan Market on any day of the week. In fact, I saw more foreigners in that little town than at Khan Market, Connaught Place or even Humayun's Tomb. Although McLeod Ganj was clearly picturesque and remote, in no way could it be described as an "undiscovered gem". I'm pretty sure the number one contributor to the Tibetan GDP is tourism.
And we, too, were tourists, although my companion had been here before. On our first day, we walked up to Bhagsu waterfall, which, although pretty, was not unlike many other waterfalls I'd seen before. The real fun part came when we decided to follow the stream downhill by climbing the rocks instead of following the man-made steps we had taken to get there. Slipping, sliding and leaping from one rock to the next, my problem-solving mind enjoyed figuring out the safety:efficiency ratio of each potential path, while my limbs just focused on keeping my weight on my feet and my backside pain-free. I would advise, if you are planning on doing the same, not to wear the well-worn leather pumps you got from Woolies five years ago, because those don't really offer the optimum level of grip. I found myself taking the safe route more often than I'd have liked.
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| A FUCKING WATERFALL!! YAAAAY!! |
To get back to where we began, the only reason I found myself close to death (I believed) on a mountain face, was because this was the primary reason for the trip. My friend had been to McLeod Ganj several times before, but had never trekked to Triund. I, in my ignorance, when invited to come along, said, "Yeah! Sure!" knowing full well that my lungs are worse than a chain-smoker's and always have been, and hoping that this time would be different. And it was, for the most part. I complained minimally, mostly because I believed "It has to end soon, right?"
Wrong. It doesn't end. It doesn't end till you find yourself struggling not to slip on the ice on the steepest part of the mountain, or on the mud that inevitably forms around it. It doesn't end till you realise your totally inappropriate footwear (running shoes, this time) have given you a blister in the flatness of your arch that is threatening to pop and unleash its world of pain. It doesn't end till the quite literal hand-holding of your friend is the only thing that keeps you moving. It doesn't end till you think you cannot possibly go any further, and yet you can. It doesn't end till the words to the song you've made up and sing to yourself in your head are "Just one foot in front of the other" over and over again.
And then it ends. Shaking the temptation to collapse to the ground, you are drawn to the opposite edge of the plateau, where you are rewarded with a panorama like no other. Snow-capped Himalayan peaks lie beneath heavy clouds of matching white and grey, and you find yourself wondering about the centuries-old depth of collective human experience. Who was the first person to climb these mountains? How many have attempted it, how many succeeded? Did anyone ever climb these mountains for any other reason than to test the limits of personal achievement? I imagine fur-clad cavemen stalking saber-toothed tigers. These mountains are ancient, and inspire thoughts of how life was in ages gone by.
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| Made it! |
The next day, your body will stubbornly refuse to move. The electrical signals passing from grey matter through nerves over synapses will be ineffectual. When you do move, you will groan like a slave beneath a yolk every time you get to your feet. But unlike a slave, you have already received your reward. You did something you never would have believed you could, and saw a sight few have ever seen. You have deepened the trust in a friendship you never knew you needed. And you have faced your fears, the distrust of your body that you've carried since childhood, and to your surprise and delight your body has delivered.
Your only disappointment will be, that after all that physical exertion, you didn't lose more weight.
