Himalayas 5 - Riding intense, resting in tents

A single room in Sarahan was a good idea of Michael's. It was a rough night.
The paracetamol was interspersed with ibuprofen, and I ended up taking more painkillers in a night than I've taken in a year (3). 
I was restless and missing a chunk of hip flesh meant I couldn’t sleep on my side, which is my preference. 
In the morning my bum didn't look smaller in the biker jeans, but bikers don’t need that and my bum’s perfect anyway. At least that’s what they say after cadging another favour, ‘perfect bum’.

We had another good breakfast, our shiny wooden dining room with a wonderful view to the mystic mountain range was a great setting for overdosing on marsala omelette.

At Alex’s morning briefing as we were kitted up, but ex-helmets, and standing near the bikes there was the occasional ting as stone hit metal. We thought it was bits falling off the building works on either side of our tiny front garden where the bikes were parked. So we looked nervously at the open cement skeletons of future buildings, with piles of builders’ rubble, washing hanging out to dry and iron bars that sprang from set concrete like the alien birth of an egg whisk.

Then I got a bang on the back of the head, so we understood it was kids chucking stones over the wall.

We were about to go so some shouting at our unseen assailant stopped it for long enough to leave with no further damage.

I guess we were lucky to not be struck in the face, but you only think about that in retrospect, there was biking to be done.

It was a long ride. In my memory it seems as if the repaired landslides were interspersed occasionally with tarmac sections. But there were some lovely sections through pine woods.

The road conditions vary so much. The challenge is that every time you change up a gear the road turns into repaired landslide with sand or stones, or a sharp bend with sand sprinkled over the tarmac, like oil on the road.

The roads are cut ever sharper into the mountains so the drops to the ever present rivers are steep and deep.

That’s fine if they are on the right, since we are driving on the left. There’s half a road to play with.

On the left they are scary, especially with a downhill right hand bend with the road made of loose rutted sand or sand on tarmac.

The Sutlej is a big and fast river and if you go in you won’t come out alive.

I was tired by the middle of the afternoon and ready for a chai break half an hour before we got one.

We stopped at a bridge where the team could not follow in their traveller van. So of course on the first sandy bit I was at the front. The deep sand was rutted with tyre tracks. Thinking I was going to be clever the left hand track looked better than the one we were in. Being inexperienced and stupid I tried to change tracks and fell over, again.

This time the sand was soft and the only damage was a bent gear changer.

Two spills in two days, this was not boding well. So the pack kindly helped me and the bike back up. Alex turned back to collect them all up and I waited for the van that came over the bridge and through the bit that block any passage for cars and vans.

Ashraf repaired the damage with a hollow steel tube by bending all my unintentional artwork back into place.

I followed the route the van had to take over on the other side of the river, which was passable to trucks and a motorbike ridden by me!

We started into the spectacular scenery. Occasionally looking up from the intense concentration of watching out for impending treachery in the ever changing road conditions the scenery was staggering. All around were great big mountains, rugged rock faces slashed by waterfalls and violent valleys, more like crevasses in the rocks, with surging water at the bottom.

Getting to Sangla in mid-afternoon we were introduced to momos. They look like a dim sum until they're fried when they turn into minipackets of yum. Around half a dozen seem to be ample so we did double or treble that. 

By the time I turned up several plates had already been ordered, cooked and served. Alex and Michael seemed to be competing for the first to hit 20. Which was very understandable, they are momo moreish.

While people watching from our privileged balcony table overlooking the main street we noticed most of the local people were wearing a particular hat. Grey or brown box hats with a green half headband. The Kennaur topi. But more about that tomorrow.

The night’s camp was down a difficult path with ruts and mud and hairpin bends. After a hard ride for me, with integrated spill, I was not looking forward to this. But I made it without falling or even needing to put my feet down for balance.

The campsite was welcoming and smiley and still full of warm afternoon sunshine. They greeted us with a traditional white scarf and very refreshing drink.

The tents were big and lined with cloth to make them look more luxurious.

Michael and I opened all the flaps on the tent to increase ventilation for obvious reasons. With our new scarves, we kicked off the boots and sat back for a smoke.

A wise move.

At the back of the tents was a separate room with the loo and an Asian wash bucket. A quick washdown and change into civilian gear got us ready for an early evening trip stroll to the river for a quiet beer.

That is a complete lie. The stroll was a schlep down a cliff, with no path and through whippy, clingy, undergrowth. Time to keep a distance from the person in front. 

The river was a raging, violent, angry, unforgiving torrent.

So we carefully opened our beers that were shaken by the descent.

And we chilled to warm beer.

Of course the yomp back up the cliff was not easy, especially after a beer. But we made it with only one major stop to catch our breath.

You could definitely feel the high altitude we were acclimatising at over 2000 metres. Over a mile high. 

Supper was accompanied by my contribution of a ‘Jura whisky with a touch of berries’. So luckily found in Delhi and so delicious it did not survive the night.

We sat around a camp fire listening to 80's music and talking, a lot. We learnt a lot about Paul and painting trucks and flying helicopters.

He is also a very good biker, as he says with the pins and plates to show the effort he put into that. He told me I’d fallen on the sand because I tried to change ruts. Once you make a choice however hard it is you have to stick with it until the road gets better. He also told me never to use the clutch except to change gear and never use the front brake.

That advice has been invaluable.

Michael and I shared a bed for the first time on the trip. Somehow we managed to get a reasonable night’s sleep with no spooning!

The major secret of that could be Michael’s prescient purchase of gel earplugs form the UK. These magic little numbers mould into your ear and block out all sound so neither of us had to worry about snoring – and that lack of worry helps get a good night’s sleep.