Here's to changing plans

There's me after roughly six hours of hiking up the slopes of a mountain whose name I'm sure I remembered at less altitude. Raju, my spry little guide told me that he was "most-certainly-sure" that this was above 4000 meters. Turns out he was right. It's really too bad that Manali doesn't sell the "I skied the roof of the world" t-shirts. Though all in all it amounted to little more than 30 minutes of skiing. The view made up for the crackly ice sheet that had me going from carving to plunging into waist deep powder. Watching the town's one helicopter buzzing overhead dropping a swedish group wherever their heart desired didn't even manage to disheartened me somehow. There really is something in skiing a hill beside your ski tracks going the other way.

Manali really made me stop and fall properly in love with this overpopulated, overfriendly country. I through my bag into the tiny auto-rickshaw after my nine hour trip from Palampur and arrived, exhausted, at my suddenly boarded up hotel (which I had called earlier that day) to laugh hysterically. What else could I do? The town had been abandoned by tourists for Goa's heat and the guest house-ridden Old Manali resembled the image of Eastern Europe portrayed in Eurotrip with the garbage blowing in the wind...and I had planned to stay for 10 days.



But, as always, India grabs you by the wrist and this time it was in the form of a shopkeeper who must have spotted me in hysterics and thought he'd give me a room to shut me up. Ended up spending seven nights sleeping in his empty guesthouse, eating with his entire extend family in one of the converted rooms downstairs and paying little more than $3/night.

Anand, my host, and I became fast friends after he showed me with glowing pride his pair of Rossignol Bandits that he had double padlocked in the windowseat. Said that it would take time as proper ski touring season isnt for a couple of months (oops) but he'd find me a guide.


In the meantime, my pet stray dog Rocky and I hiked up to the local "ski lift" to see what was what. Took three hours, several surprise attacks from other mangier looking strays and gaping at kids flying down snow-spotted hills/cliffs in makeshift wooden sleds but we made it up to Solang Nullah.

There, among the throng of hundreds of ski-tarded Indian tourists I spotted a western lady decked out in a fancy parka, gold earings and looking very out of place at the bottom of the paraglyding hill. Rocky and I lounged on the sun soaked lodge balcony and got talking with Paula, a Zambian daughter of ex-pats now living in Pune with her husband who should be flailing through the sky at any moment. He soon landed along with their daughter's best friend from Sydney who was not surprisingly surrounded by young eager Indians looking for a picture or two to show their mates. I let Paula know their intentions and what they were going to most likely tell their mates, from experience, and she quickly rushed off to warn Basia.

Was great to meet some other english speaking travelers and though Paula, Scoobie (Peter) and Basia were hardly backpackers we had loads to talk about over tea and a zorb with Basia. What's a zorb? Voila!



The kind folks even agreed to let Rocky jump in the back of their car, despite their driver's repulsive throat clearings from the front. We did a little tour of the town. Hot Springs, spiritual museum.

"Imagine your body is a car and your soul is the driver" -curator


"He must be driving a rustbucket then" - Basia

Oh! and witnessed an overturned tractor and helped push the thing back over to clear the mile long traffic line. On top of all that they offered to have me for dinner at the local five star hotel. Wow! Anand would have never beleived this!! Taught Basia how to properly eat Indian food with her hands, took a bit of persuading but the waiters loved it. Played pool, us against the parents which ended in a lot of laughs as Scoobie and I watched Basia and Paula try and hit the right balls. The parents packed it in early and left us for a last game. That last game took a couple more hours and a walk through the starlit park. You know when something really clicks with someone...anyway, they left the next day for Delhi. Paula and Scoobie back home to Pune and Basia to travel with a wealthy Indian man who took her to the palaces of her dreams without any intentions, we're still trying to figure him out.

I was left to rockclimb, hike and dunk myself in the scorching hot springs.

"It burns like fire for the first few minutes but you get used to it after...no, you never get used to it" - Man from Oxford who claimed he'd ridden himself of sexual desire.

As promised, Anand got me up the hill, for a very large price but hey, its the Himalayas, doesn't cost anything in my books. Basically, found ways to distract myself from looking over pictures from day one with her. My flight to Bangkok approached all too fast and I took the night bus to Delhi and said my goodbyes to Anand and his family which had sortof become mine.

The night before my flight I skyped Basia, now in Pune, and she asked if I would delay my flight to come down and see her. Hmm, probably gonna cost too much I thought. Might as well give it a go though, you can only be more dissapointed I figured.





"Hi there Jet Airways, could I possibly delay my flight thats leaving tomorrow evening for 10 days time?"





"Do you mean your flight that leaves in an hour?"





"Uh what? Oh no, ohhh oops. Well, yes then that would be splendid! How much do I owe?"





"Nada sir, now you go down to Goa with a uni graduate for a romantic gettaway that unfortunately can't go any further than bliss for a week, okay?"





"Okay!!"

From Golden Temples to Sunsets

Amritsar, and more so the Golden Temple, seems to be like one of those places that loads of people mean to visit but as they leave the 'A' section in their Lonely Planets they thankfully forget the hidden treasure. I do beleive, and you can quote me, that every foreigner in town could proudly boast that they were staying in the same Golden Temple residence. A good hint was the bandanas everybody got to cover their heads inside the holy place.

Sikhism: Whereas some religions don't let you near their holy place without being one of them, Sikhs take the pains to feed up to 60 000 people a day, lodge a good 10 000 and serenade several million by loudspeakers. The kitchens file you in to sit on long carpets and despite the growing need to flex your legs everyone crosses them in penance...yet the food makes it all worth it. Dal, sweet rice, chutney, potato and chapathis are slopped onto metal plates to no end, Oliver Twist's dreamland. To give back Karan and I tended to clean fifty plates, peel as many potatoes and make as many oblong chapathis to dissaproving looks from the pros.

The temple itself was picture heaven and regardless of hour or temperature, the lake around it would be filled with eager Sikh pilgrims going for a dip in holy water that I'm sure is never cleaned. Watched the passing of the Guru Gobind Singh (holy book) from the golden temple to another along a (golden) causeway was packed every night and crack of dawn. First time an Indian girl every laid a hand on me was then when a spry Sikh teenager shoved me out of the way of her camera-phone recording of the bi-daily affair. Before slogging back the 9 hours to Palampur, Karan and some Danish girls and I zipped up to witness another daily celebration at the Attari Indian-Pakistan border. The marching and cheering, singing and dancing was enough to get a feeling of the emotional connection between these two ever-warring, ever-linked countries. The guards of each country, sporting fan shapped hats and opposing colours goosetepped their way toward each other at the gates to shake hands and return, entirely friendly, yet shockingly competitive. We were annoying alloted to the foreigner grandstand and later realized we would have been the only ones not shouting the songs from the main stands, making India seem a little too soft to the touristless Pakistan.

Back chez Bobby in Palampur, Karan and I designed our legacy to be left at the school. Though put under considerable pressure by the dazed Principal to spend five days painting the God of education on the walls, we held our own and finished a two time lines running down the hallways. The students eagerly slopped far too much paint on their cardboard pallets and helped add illustrations to the global and Indian events. Hardly anybody focused in those last few days and I could always spot a few heads poking through classroom doors to see what new, confusing battle was being depicted. Said goodbye to my kids on the last day and received a conglatulatory note from the Principal.

"Max Lloyd-Jones son of Peter Lloyd-Jones has been of great help." I asked if he wanted my mother's name as well and he blinked twice and lauged before continuing to punish a passing by boy out of class with his fist. I promptly scrunched up my notes of critisism.

On to Manali, with dreams of ski lodges and powder to be swiftly headbobbled away into the inconvenient truth of global warming. BUT! I did adopt a stray dog :)

There's no place like Himahal

As soon as I got off the plane in Dharamshala I knew this was where I wanted to be after the sweltering humidity of south India and the crowds of Rajasthan. Felt like maybe 20 different Everests surrounded me on that runway and the heat was just like Vancouver in the summer! It even smelt like home, what more could I ask for?

Met Ranelle and Mel at Bobby, my host's, lovely house cum castle. We later found out that the nine families surrounding him were all close relations. Imagine a Meet The Parents here!! Bobby had two kids that ran pantsless around the house hourly and a beautiful Kashmiri wife who was learning English so smiles would have to do.

In that first week began the toughest challenge of my life. Not only had I no experience teaching in the slightest but my oldest students were nearly 4 years older than myself. Of course I told them I was 25 with a baby face and not to poke fun. Inside, I was shaking.

You remember how at school there are those that glue their eyes to the teacher in absolute focus? Yeah, this school never got those blessed children. After jumping over their words to say good morning (along with a military salute sometimes which I heartily encouraged) I was pounced upon like a pile of gold, very nervous gold. After perhaps three days though, I remember strutting into that room, chucking my books to the side and telling the 22 year olds to shut it like a pro. Notice the word like. Teaching is all a big game! You have to walk in that door like you ARE the swinging dick in town and know it...or they will easily forget.

I scratched the books very quickly and decided to go from memory and far too many hours of research with Popa in the local internet cafe, 30 minutes away. Days consisted of breakfast with the girls, then Karan when he came, then the next Mel when she arrived from North Vancouver. Had either Indian Prantha (chapathis filled with potatoe) or marmite on toast when I missed London. Ambled through my proudly found wooded path, not a soul in sight, up the brambly hill to Gayan Deep school. The view on the way: a brightly coloured two storey building with the Himalayan backdrop drenched in sun. Rubbish.

Weekends were times to explore the area. First Mel, Ranelle and I took 3 different buses to land ourselves in McLeod Ganj, a prime Raj retreat and now home of the Dalai Lama and Tibetan government in exile. Happened to actually bump into an aussie girl, Sophie, who I had met in the deep south now working with the congress there for Tibetan rights. Se-ren-di-pi-ty!

Ranelle, songwriter and musician bought a guitar for future volunteers to use with the kids and Mel, many a sari I promised she'd never use at home...I was wrong apparently :S
After fly-by weeks, the girls left and Karan, an British-born Indian came to help brush up my Hindi and yell at kids. Great guy but like me, found the munchkins are bloody handful. I think he left wanting more though. We squeezed in a weekend in Amritsar which became one of my most favourite of all Indian holy places for many an awesome reason. But that story, is for another time.