October 6, 2016

Mountains. I love them. They feed me, nurture me, protect me, inspire me. In continuing my journey through India, I know I need to continue down from the mountains, through this lush valley, into the state of Himachal, and eventually to Rishikesh where I plan to spend a week doing yoga and relaxing. I have already come down from my high point of over 18k feet to Manali at 8k feet. The difference in climate, oxygen, and concentration of people is blaring. A further departure from the mountains means even more people, even hotter weather, even more traffic…everything that I’m bracing myself for.

I inquired about a bus. It was about 350 miles from Manali and takes about 16 hours (the roads are windy), leaving at 6pm. The cost was Rs1400 ($21.00) which seemed very reasonable. Even though it is a luxury sleeper bus, I really have been trying to avoid public transportation. However, I’m told that the roads simply are too busy to cycle. So after much lament…I committed, only to learn that the next bus did not leave for 2 days. I’ve already been in Manali for 4 days and 2 more might just send me over the edge. Manali is a comfortable tourist town with all the accommodations one could need. Good food, hotels, aforementioned good health care. However, my bike is growing moss (you know…because it isn’t rolling). Most people only spend a day or 2 here before launching into their Indian mountain adventure. I needed to get moving. I asked someone else how the roads were out of Manali. “Roads are fine. Stick to link roads. No problem,” said a person in a different travel office. Well, that’s 1 vote against cycling and 1 vote for cycling. Ride on, I say!

The next morning, I set out of Manali, along a secondary road that paralleled the main highway. It was a single lane, nicely paved, 30 mile decent through the canyon, passing through tiny towns along the way. Children in uniforms walking to school. Men walking to work. Shop owners opening their doors for the day. This wasn’t so bad. The only traffic jam was as a traffic lamb. Yes, at one point as I was zooming down this single lane road, I came around a corner to find approximately 80 goats / sheep, stretched from one side of the road to the other, migrating their way down hill, that had completely shut down the road. I was overcome with the feeling of simplicity and gratitude for this experience knowing that the road that I was paralleling was a busy highway.

My luck ran out shortly after the secondary road joined the main road at the town of Kullu. Mind you, it’s not Delhi or Mumbai, however when one is used to seeing 3 vehicles per day, anything more is a cardiac event. Buses, trucks, cars, motorcycles, tractors…every imaginable motorized contraption zoomed by me, blowing their horns, on busy streets too narrow to accommodate that speed, obviously with someplace to get to, while taking several years of my life expectancy with them. “Hold your line,” I tell myself. “They see you and will go around you.” Harrowing. White knuckles. People stepped blindly off of curbs, not expecting a bike. I locked up my brakes. Cars pulled out in front of me, knowing that they are higher on the food chain and that I will stop. I locked up my brakes. Buses passed around blind corners, in town, at speeds that would prevent them from stopping if something got in their path, because they are the highest on the food chain. Again I locked up my brakes. Breathe. This is India. You signed up for this.

Ninety minutes, 20 miles later (and 2 years removed from my life expectancy), I made the turn off toward the town of Banjar where I hoped to find some quiet accommodations. The traffic was gone as was the 2 lane road. Peace again. Until the tunnel of doom. I don’t know how it happened and looking back at the map, there clearly was a diversion road. I definitely did not see it because if I did, I would not have literally risked my life. It was the longest and absolutely scariest 2 miles and 20 minutes of my entire life. I’ve done plenty of adrenaline induced things either accidentally or by choice. This far and away exceeded any.

As I rolled into the tunnel, I expected it would simply and promptly go around a bend and pop me out on the other side. It did…2 miles later. Immediately, as I went around the corner, the light from the entrance was gone and there was no light at the end of the tunnel. Imagine the feeling being in total darkness, except for the occasional flickering light hanging from the roof of the tunnel or the speeding head lights clouded with dust coming toward you. It was 2 lanes wide, filled with the diesel exhaust of racing buses and military trucks. Regardless of being concerned about being able to see where I was going, the much larger concern was about being seen by any vehicle either approaching from the front or rear. Indian drivers are scary enough when I know they can see me. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone to use the flashlight. I wondered…how long could this tunnel be anyway? This will be good enough, I reasoned. After 5 minutes of pedaling with 1 hand on my handlebars and the other on my light, I realized that I was in for a much longer ride. Every pedal stroke I was certain that I would see that elusive light at the end of the tunnel. Nope. Through the haze of approaching headlights clouded by dust and exhaust, I noticed an elevated side walk on my left. I quickly dragged my bike up on it, while a person whom I did not even see, walked past me. Quit messing around. Dig into your bag and pull out the head and tail lights. My heart was racing from adrenaline. My lungs were wheezing from lack of clean air. My eyes were burning.  I attached my front and rear blinky lights and confidently (sorta) pedaled along the sidewalk, which was barely wide enough for my handle bars, through this tunnel of doom as vehicles screamed by. Fifteen minutes later, I saw that elusive light at the end of tunnel. After being in near total darkness for 20 minutes, the outside world was blinding. I exited to the looks of sheer astonishment from the several men on motorcycles who had evidently passed me in the tunnel. There’s 20 minutes and 2 years of my life that I’ll never get back.

Back in the world of light, the nicely paved road climbed gradually along the rushing river until I arrived in Banjar. It was a narrow town built into a steep road, a road steep enough that I had to push my bike through town. I found the first guest house and walked inside to inquire. “Hello, I am the receptionist,” said a young Indian boy with terrific English, dressed in a clean, white, collared shirt. “How old are you?” I asked in a confused manner. “I’m 11 years old. Would you like to see the room?” he responded matter-of-factly. “The room is Rs1000 ($15). It is the only room available. All others are much more expensive. This one over here is our VIP room and is Rs1500. I would not lie to you.” I offered him Rs800 but he wouldn’t budge. That’s what I get for trying to barter with an 11 year old. After the day I had, I didn’t have the energy to do anything other than take a shower and lay down, so I took it.

I recouped and realizing I needed food, wandered down the street to a small restaurant. It was owned and run by an older man, likely in his 70’s. He had heavy, droopy eyelids that reminded me of Yoda. They also likely carried with them the weight of years of experience and wisdom. “Mind if I smoke?” he asked as I entered his restaurant, as I’m literally staring at the wall with the words “No Smoking” prominently painted in 3 foot font. I chuckled. “No problem.” He promptly served me up a hearty plate of what I have come to expect and crave: bottomless rice, dahl, mixed veg curry, chapati, and chai. The price? Rs60 (about $0.90). His English was quite passable and he mentioned that he saw me come into town on my bicycle. I’m slowly coming back to life. After the usual discussion of where I’m from, where I’m coming from, where I’m going, and how do I like India, am I alone…I bid him Namaste and promised to see him in the morning for breakfast before leaving town. “Tomorrow, road very steep,” he says with his hand pointing up at a 70 degree angle. Good to know I haven’t left the mountains yet.

Traffic lamb

Tunnel of Doom

I guess everyone stops here for chai

Watching a movie and this was displayed on any scene showing smoking

Feeding the locals