Himalayas 12 - Bugger Bhaga, its time for Manali and the cream of the crop.

The next day was a late start since it was supposed to be an easy day. But I woke early as usual and realised we hadn't taken our altitude sickness pill the day before. A mild panic ensued as I dropped stuff on the floor trying to find it. I conscientiously left Michael's half of the pill by his bed, by which time he was very much awake. We could have slept for another hour or two, but here we were.

I couldnt stop laughing and giggling. He was trying to be angry, but failing because all the Anglo Saxon vernacular just made the giggles worse. He jumped on my bed, which luckily took the strain and then accepted that sharing with me had its disadvantages as well. So we read and he took the Micky, mumbling incoherent curses and odd moments.

We saw someone walking to the dining room at 6:30 and eagerly followed suit, looking for a cup of tea. While waiting we sat outside on the restaurant veranda facing the river, by a brook with cows just missing the low hanging electricity wires as they grazed away. It was a semi colonial experience, more for the peace and the quiet than anything else.

There was lots of breakfast as usual.

After breakfast, on the way back to get ready to ride we noticed the Vintage Ride bikes cleaned and set out in an orderly row, smart and well turned out, then we turned around and our Nomadic Knight steeds, our trusty Bullets were not only smart and lined up military style, they gleamed. The early sun sparkled off chrome we had not noticed before. The moving parts had a well-oiled shine. Used and battered, but these boys were well looked after.
At a guess Ashraf and Pawanji, and probably Lovely, had made sure the Knights had the best looking rides in the valley. Time for a smile.

........... and from here my notes on the trip run out.

It has been three months since we got back, which feels like a long, long time, but writing about the trip brings back so many of the feelings, and so many more good than bad that I write with a smile.

Not only did I not take notes it seems none of us took many pictures on the road for that day. Maybe it was similar riding conditions, but probably something more. I deliberately chose not to be a slave to writing notes. I wanted to enjoy the experience.
There is always that silly image of people at a mega concert with their phones and cameras recording the great experience, badly. So they miss out on the moment and fail to capture the whole event on their phone.
For some reason we could enjoy the day and the riding. The scenery remained stunning and the roads challenging, but the enjoyment was in the moment.
We were preparing for Rohtang Pass. The "bed, or pile, of corpses". That moniker came as a result of people trying to cross between the Spiti and the Kullu valleys in bad weather. It's a long way up and a long drop down.
Soon after we left Jispa we pulled up to a petrol station with a very long queue of cars and trucks and other assorted motor vehicles. Somehow we had faith Alex and the team would find a way to the front. There was a small challenge, the queue was there because there was no petrol at the petrol station. They were all waiting for a tanker delivery that was expected that morning.
We hung around while the team sorted out the options and while hanging Vidhya took one of the few photos of the day, but this remains a firm favourite

Alex admits to be mildly preoccupied with the idea of us having enough fuel to make it through the bed of corpses. Looks like the rest of us didn't know the options at this stage.
When we did we checked how much we had a promised to ride responsibly.

The way up from the Spiti side remained our standard mix of tarmac and gravel, river bed roads and landslide repairs. But it was more fun riding, especially with the big day under my belt.
The hillsides with short grass were speckled with lashing of rocks and reminded me at times of Scotland, but the people and the trucks and the shacks by the road did not let illusion carry very far. There were a couple of fairly mild water crossings that were fun and a lot more cars than we'd seen so far.
This was because the Rohtang Pass is a tourist destination. And in India, there is a rapidly increasing number of people who have the time and the money to visit places. That means the limited number of established tourist sites are getting filled with people. It is easy to imagine in a few years that the shacks will be restaurants, there will be many, many more buses, multitudes of cars and huge numbers of people enjoying the pass.
In my lifetime the population of the world has more than doubled, from 2.9 to 7.2 billion people. Beyond this, increased and more widespread wealth has far more than doubled the number of people visiting tourist sites.
I remember having a picnic on the stones at Stonehenge, I remember Harrods being a place of peace in a bustling city and of (allegedly) being able to drive at 120 mph on the M25. All of which seem far fetched fairy tales of a privileged few today.
So we were lucky to see the Rohtang Pass between the time the roads became relatively passable and them being filled with huge numbers of people.
And the pass is high. Its a long way up. 3,979 metres.
Close to the top and above the snowline I put on a fourth layer of clothing. Andy stopped as well but Michael sailed through and on into the mist. The mist got worse as we crossed over into the Kullu valley. So we did not get the apparently stunning views, just wet stuff seeping into exposed clothing, and snowmelt on the road which made us slow down.
On this side a glacier had reached the road only to find its extremities clipped like fingernails. And jumping into the snow in their rented ski clothing were parties of laughing tourists from the hot plains. On a bike you normally go slower downhill than uphill. It takes a lot longer to stop. Also on this side the wet roads made me very cautious, but there were stretches where the mud went and tarmac reappeared and I could get into third gear before another hairpin forced caution.
I was being harried by a car who I let overtake, but soon after there was a tailback as a queue of car negotiated a particularly treacherous muddy stretch. Abhi style I just puttered on up to the front, slipped into one of the ruts and pottered on through, feeling certain I would not see the frustrated young male in the car for a while.
Some 30 minutes after I really wanted a chai stop Andy and I came across the leaders sitting in a brief patch of sun, munching away. I was so hungry that - as the Australians say - I could eat the arse out of a low flying duck. So soup and chocolate and biscuits and anything else I could lay my grubby hands on disappeared faster than decent manners would allow.
It was a strange place with shacks that seemed temporary, made of wood and plastic, but filled with knick-knacks and snacks.

We ate and rested and let the adrenaline seep through the bloodstream. All around us lashings of tourists were hiring snow gear and milling around the shacks, while the road stayed wet and a bit muddy.
All this tourism felt strange.
We had to wait a long time as there had been a big problem with Keith's bike. The roads were taking their toll. However sturdy the bikes were they had to suffer a lot.

The ride down from there took us steadily into the valley, with trees and hairpins and sweeping curves and hairpins and fun riding. It was a joy and I was going a lot faster than a few days before. But somehow it felt different.
I didn't want to stop. The wooded hillsides were lovely and probably still are. The traffic was noticeable but not annoying, apart form another car that decided I should be hassled. I let him through, until he go stuck behind a lorry that I could easily overtake on a narrow stretch of straight road.
So we swooped and slowed and smoothly wound our way down to the outskirts of Manali where great gashes were being carved into the mountainsides, seemingly for new roads. Perhaps as part of a fabled tunnel under the Rohtang which will take a mere 4 hours off the journey for the military traffic.

But we gathered by the banks of the Kulli and rode together into Manali. It was raining and we took the narrow roads carefully.
Our hotel was in Old Manali and getting there was even more fun. The roads became filled with shops that were spilling onto the street, and storm drains and people and steep slopes. It was like a village in South India where people mill and bustle but on the side of a mountain.
They opened the hotel gates for us and we thankfully puttered in.
Manali, fabled hippy town of yore. Now back packers and itinerants were wandering around. Beige and green and long dresses and floppy hats.
And every restaurant seemed to specialise in some form of foreign cuisine, normally Israeli.
So we gathered for our chai while we waited ans watched our bags being lugged up the stairs for us. It is so good being able to kick back and not have to face heavy bags when tired after a days riding.
It was still early enough for us to get washed and changed and go for a wander into town. There was some plan about meeting at the Lazy Dog, which for some reason had been nicknamed Blackie, resulting in gales of laughter from the boys. But it was a story I had missed out on. Somehow it would resurface. A story that good cannot rest on a single telling.

Himalayas 11 - A big rest before another big day

So the longest day was successfully navigated. It felt good, no falls, lots of photos and that happy tiredness from honest toil.

Michael and I chose the closest room to where we were all sitting over a beer, which seemed smart as it involved very little energy to get there, but was a mistake on two counts. The first and most obvious was the smelly bathroom. And it was smelly even before we got there. But that was just mould and damp and fustiness. The creatures living under the sink seemed to enjoy it, however there was hot water and room to move around in the shower. So we could not only apply soap and shampoo to the bits we could reach, we could do so without the danger of bathroom fittings ending up in unwanted places. That can happen to us big fellas when we bend down to degunk between the toes.
Of course having completed the ablutions we find we've been locked in by our 'mates'. Though that was a minor inconvenience since the window opened onto the balcony.

Dressing for dinner was certainly not up to some Victorian, Downton Abbey image. Sandals and t-shirts being the order of the day. Dinner was served, no buffet stuff here, at a table we seemed to steadily steal from a civilised party. A couple of us sat down and then by some osmotic process the group steadily arrived, grabbed nearby tables and chairs and the group congregated, or congealed more likely. Well the other party had to spread over different tables. But the food was very good and very welcome.

After dinner I checked with Doc whether I could take sleeping tablets with all the other stuff and the altitude. He gave the OK. At the same time he checked the rash. I'd got bitten by some insect in Delhi and there was an auto immune overreaction. So what started as some small bites progressed into a dinner plate sized red patch that itched like crazy. I didn't scratch it, but it was impossible not to rub the affected area every so often, which of course made it worse.

Luckily my travelling biker drug kit included Hydrocortisone, which seemed to be the best treatment. Maybe the insect reaction was building on something else as I had a huge reaction to a sting just before leaving for India. That could have been a wasp sting, but it ended up as a big red patch on my forearm, about the size of a mug.

But it was another stay at altitude, we were still above 3,000 metres, so the whisky was barely touched and we dropped into a heavy sleep pretty quickly. Well I did, Michael started reading and jammed in his gel earplugs to give himself half a chance of peace.
Given Docs treatment and knowing that I could take a sleeping tablet if I needed too meant I slept better, so there was no need. Must be Docs placebo. Just the belief that it can do good means it does good.
One challenge with the tablet is that they knock you out for about four hours. Since I normally have to get up at six means the decision to take one should be made before 2 am. So if I wake at 3 fighting the monsters of the night, it is normally a bad night.
But this was not one of those and the next day started fresh, and early. Too early for breakfast but I managed to scrounge some tea before the buffet was set up.

From Keylong the day was due to be a relatively simple jaunt of some 130 km via the highest pass in this part of the Himalayas. A mere 4,950 metres. Some 16,500 feet, over 3 miles high. Where jets fly in some parts of the world, but not here.
The saddling up procedure was slightly complicated by eight bikes being jammed into a two car garage. But we started them up and inhaled the fumes. Got some fresh air while they warmed up, then went back to saddle up.
And an orderly procession made its way out of the small hotel parking lot and through the town.
The start of the ride was mostly tarmac, with the occasional repaired stretch of shaley, rocky, wet stuff to keep us on our toes. There were also more lorries and a lot of these were petrol tankers. A constant convoy still taking fuel up to the forward army bases closer to the Chinese border. These guys had a job to do and they were not forgiving on the roads. The roads were far closer to the aggressive bustle of South India than the peaceful 'live and let live' of the Himalayas.  But somewhere half an hour past my chai time we stopped. And there is the mountain steadily making its way towards the sea.

Sometimes in leaps and bounds, sometimes as a trickle.

A while later Alex and Paul had disappeared into the distance as proper bikers do and for some reason I was at the front of the middle group trying to keep up the pace.

A lorry was grinding its way uphill and would not slow down for us to overtake so I followed Abis advice and pushed as soon as I saw a space. The bikes were not so responsive at high altitude but there was enough room, just. I made it past the churning lorry with a couple of metres to spare but hit some bigger rocks in the road quite hard. Luckily I stayed on but the bike took a knock. We could relax a bit after that and I pottered at a gentle pace till the others found a way past the grumpy monster.
I was happily enjoying waving at other bikers coming the other way, downhill. One of them made a wavy sign so I guessed that meant there was a water crossing ahead. And a couple of km further on, so there was.

It was on a bend, definitely over a foot deep and an oncoming car was stuck in the main part. To our left, hugging the rockface and under an overhang, was a narrow path but a bike was coming slowly down this. Following Abhis advice I pushed on, going right of the car. The road was the river and occasionally that was sliding off into a waterfall on the right.

This was the deepest we'd been and the stones bounced around under the bike. I stayed where the compacted stuff should be and pushed on through. But as I got to the car the woman passenger opened the door. So I had to stop. I was furious but was not going to let that stop me. I revved the engine and she awoke from her self-centred daydream and closed the car door. It took a fair amount of revving and rocking the bike to and fro to get going again. But going again we did and got through to applause from Alex and the film crew of Vidyha and Paul.
That was incredibly satisfying feeling. Paul was filming and loved it. 'Rode it like a boss' he said. I'm still beaming at the compliment!
The others had the option of the high dry road as the oncoming bike had cleared the way. Everyone got through, which was a big achievement, and we all got congratulated by Alex before we moved off. Well they all did, my bike didn't start. The glory was soon forgotten. Abhi eventually did the bike whisperer on it, so off we chugged a couple of minutes behind the others.

The next couple of water crossings seemed a breeze, but were still to the top of my biker boots. Michael went first and filmed me on one, so I had to show off and put the boots out to make them look like water skis, getting very wet boots in the process. But they, and me, and the bike were wet already.
Then we cranked and sped and grinded our way up to the highest pass.
Above 4000 metres I got a bit light headed and was very aware of the possibility of altitude sickness. So I let a couple of people through and slowed down, then eventually stopped and put on another layer of clothing, a windbreaker, ate some biscuits, took a painkiller, drank the rehydration salts mix from the backpack and set off again.

I know I was getting slower towards the top because I was losing focus. It was like driving at 2 am, even without drinking, you're not completely there. On a bike in India that can easily be fatal. But with Abhi close by we made it, 4950 metres. Three miles high.

I sank forward with tiredness, then leant back for some deep breaths before getting off the bike to take the obligatory photo.

Then it was time to make another prima donna spectacle by draining the boots, wringing out the socks and drying my feet on my ever-present, bright yellow, miracle material, traveller towel.

Putting the damp socks back on was not as terrible as it could be and it was certainly better than sitting around in sloshy boots.

I planted some prayer flags that we'd got at the previous chai stop. Not too high up the hill as I didn't have the energy, but they would flap their blessings to world for a while.

And we celebrated with photos:

We snacked and drank and turned around for the return journey. Well most of us did. Later we found that Andy had waited while his bike was repaired and concentrated so much on that he didn't notice we had turned around. So he set off the way he was facing. Abhi caught him up quite quickly and signalled. But Andy misinterpreted Abhi's twirling of the hand above the head, not as a signal to turn around, but as a 'whoopee ride'em cowboy' gesture and sped up, ready for his Dr. Strangelove moment. Once Abhi finally got that sorted with lots of horn tooting and alternative hand signals, they both turned around and we saw them some time later.

The ride back down seemed a lot easier over the rough bits, a lot easier on the tarmac and blissful as we re-encountered oxygen flavoured air.

The water crossings even seemed easier, but we were not fighting gravity as well as boulders and there was no crowd.

There were still wet boots though. Michael hung back and we took it easy, cruising at the back. It was really good being able to share the experience. And the views.

Back down to a mere 3,200 metres, or 10,500 feet we stayed at Jispa, on the banks of the Bhaga river.
We set out wet stuff, like boots, to dry in the sun as we lounged around in plastic chairs around the remains of a campfire. Alex made sure we were staying in the older block which was close to the restaurant.
And after a chai and a lounge we wandered up a steel staircase to our rooms, with a fine view over the site, the river and the valley from the connecting balcony and had a beer.

Some time later another group of bikers came in. Also on Bullets. They did the same lounging around thing in the late afternoon sun, on the same chairs we had just vacated. And from the sounds that drifted up our balcony they were French. Regular melting pot up here in the Himalayas.
We were not certain whether to be friendly or pull the biker gang image and muscle up, but they had ladies in their group, which made us a bit jealous and a bit interested and a it bawdy, as expected.
It turned out they were with a company called Vintage Rides based in Manali. I got to practise my French with their guide, who had a big moustache to go with the brown second world war paintwork of their Bullets.

Andy, Martin and I went for a stroll, which felt like far more of an adventure than it probably was. Daring to go beyond the campsite, climb a wall and find a path through the marshy pastures by the river.
We came across some seemingly wild dogs and stoned cows and got to the wide, flat river to skim stones, take photos and look for a heart shaped stone that Andy could take back to his wife.

It was fun being off the beaten path. Wandering around looking at different stuff.

We got back to a good buffet supper and beers on the veranda three floors up.
Watching the rival bikers and planning for Manali, the hippy town, our next stop.
And quietly behind the scenes a little competition was going on...

Himalayas 10 - The big day

The big day.

Last time it took them 17 hours. Landslides and river crossings and deep river crossings, mud and rain, sun and storms, it all awaited us.

As did our bikes, maintained and cleaned and reset. And on parade, military fashion.

So we set off at 7 am, with a packed breakfast of boiled eggs and bananas. I tried to eat a lot, but boiled eggs and bananas are hard to shovel down. I was not expecting to make it on a bike to the end of the day. We had a long way to go and it would be tiring. Still the hydration pack was filled with 3 litres of water and hydration salts, those yummy minerals and vitamins and stuff that had kept altitude sickness at bay. We were some 3,650 metres up, that's 2 1/4 miles up in old money.
It was a simple enough start with tarmac roads for the first 30 km. Then we started up into the high country.

And the tough bit came. Pitted roads with landslide repairs.

Ruts and bumps, loose stone and gravel. But the scenery was somewhere between a western and a moonscape.
No houses, no grazing herds, an almost barren landscape with scraggly bits of green and the ever present rocks, patiently waiting for the winter snow. The snow would freeze water in small cracks, making them bigger and the rocks would move a mini millimetre. And continue their steady stately progression down the mountainside.

For the moment they were mostly resting under a summer sky.

Michael buddied up for the day, which was a massive boost to my confidence, and Abhi kept us moving, steady onward. 

Patiently stopping when we did to take a stream of photos.

And remarkably we sometimes found other riders who had stopped to load up on memories.

Like Andy.

 And Paul.

Then onwards and upwards, climbing that stairway.

And we came across everyone, but only because Alex had a flat tyre.
This was a chance for the team van to catch up.
We would have to wait for Ashraf the mechanic to work his magic. How he would repair the tyre in this remote spot, with no habitation in sight and any tyre repair shop some days closer to sea level. So we took a rest in a quiet, sunny, upland spot and enjoyed a spot of sunshine.

 It seemed strangely like an Alpine meadow, minus most of the green, but there was enough grass for a few hardy cows.

So we chilled with a smoke and a chat and a bit of ribbing for Alex about his riding style. Being too aggressive for the terrain, Alex? Too much breakfast Alex? No 'pot/kettle' syndrome from us of course.

Asfraf arrived, Lovely and Doc went for a quick sunbathe, out of the van, into the fresh air. Ashraf changed the wheel and put the flat in the back of the van so he could repair it while they drove along.
So up we mounted and off we set.

I was ready for a chai stop every thirty minutes, but in the end made it to the main stop with the group.

And after that quick elevenses break we started with the water crossings.
They proved a surmountable challenge because for some reason I had faith in the bike and enough faith in my sense of balance. Just following Alex's simple instructions - put it in first and just putter on through. When instructions are that simple even I can follow them, sometimes.

Michael had started the day with a pepped up positive attitude. So there was lots of friendly encouragement for all. That was a big help.

He also knew how much I dreaded the day and that I felt it was highly likely I would not finish it.

But we pottered on and went from one collection point and chai stop to another and had a rallying stop at a pilgrimage site between Kaza and Keylong.

I managed to putter in, last again, not full of energy, but pottering along, trying not to hold everyone up too much. And joined the others who were wandering around enjoying the views.

Kunzum La.
Another stunning place.
You can understand why it was a pilgrimage site.

Much like lay lines in the UK, there are places here where the force is strong.
And this was one. It was not at the top of a mountain, but it had a good feeling.

There was still snow, the prayer flags fluttered, ever beating hummingbird wings. And our contribution was..... selfies.

From there we descended and had a big lunch of noodle soup in a roadside shack which had a tarpaulin roof flapping in the ever present prayer laden wind.

Michael wants to franchise the business. The Himalayan Bikers Cafe.

There's basic seating that doubles as bedding for travellers trapped at night.
I reminded me of a terrible night from the army days, in a shepherds refuge in the Brecon Beacons where we tried to seal the drystone walls with plastic sheeting, and failed. When its snowing inside you know its going to be cold. I wouldn't fancy a night up here in the snow, but a lot better inside than out.

Here, today in the Himalayas, the sun shone outside. We felt like warriors, Nomadic Knights on a mission and it was tough.

Well for me anyway. The others seemed to be having a great time.
Somehow the tarpaulin filtered the sunlight into a dim battle line yellow and with our bikers gear we looked a lot more like troops than we should.

And as we paused in the quest we relished the fire, the dimmed light and hot noodle soup. All topped off with lashings of Dairy Milk. Andy generously treated us all to lunch and life felt good.

We seemed to be making good time. Alex was quietly anxious after the exhausting experience of a couple of weeks before. If those had been the conditions then doubtless Ashraf would be riding my bike in. But so far so good and after lunch we loaded up and set off again.

Part of the joy of the day was stopping simply because we could. For some reason Michael and I were not completely at the back and were admiring the strange localised biosystems. 

When we saw a pool it was unusual, especially since lots of animal tracks led down to it. So we stopped, because we could, and enjoyed a smoke on a rock. Which is the real explanation for this basking merman photo!

Then we took photos of the views up the valley and off we set again.  

The longest day was drawing on and it was time for the hard part. More aggressive roads with death on the left.

More water crossings.

Somewhere in the early afternoon we came across a tailback of traffic. Learning from Abhi that you keep pushing forward, we jostled our way to the front and went for it.

Micheal had his GoPro GoProing. So somewhere a video of this may surface.
A couple of guys were standing hauling people and machines out of the water. We waded in, Michael was in front and we were both on the downhill side, left hand rut. These guys suggested we try the right hand track.

Well, dear reader, in a water crossing the trucks and buses have compacted the landslide stones into ruts. Changing ruts means crossing the loose stuff, which is under a foot of water so is hard to see.
As we now know from our experience of the day before, the rocks and stones would slide away. So Michael was left with no secure base, he couldn't hold his bike up and gracefully toppled sideways. We await the film documentary evidence.

But the 'helpful' guys, laughing away, helped lift his bike. Michael was laughing and gave a victory hands in the air 'Y' (as in M.C.A.), got back on and cheerfully finished the crossing.
I had started changing tracks when the guys made the suggestion, but luckily remembered the words of the great Paul Smith "wunce yu maike yu choice yu hafta stick wi'it".

So I wrenched my badly balanced and recalcitrant bike back onto the left hand track and made it through.

And from there we tiredly descended to the valley. The check point to exit this restricted area was guarded by a piece of string hauled up and down by an unseen hand in a wooden pillbox. We pushed our way, Abhi style, to the front of the queue and Alex arranged the string to be lowered for us.
So we parked up while waiting for the team in the van and the relevant papers.

That is one thing on the trip we have not had to worry about, but which must take organisation, negotiating skills and presumably additional fees. We did not have to produce our passports or queue in front of a harried official at any stage. Nomadic Knights we may be, but not valiant without our organisers.

Gathered at this rope barrier were groups of tourists, Austrians, Delhi bikers, Israelis begging spare fuel. The wealthier end of the flotsam and jetsam of international travel were all there, passing the time. Talking to strangers, trying not to talk to strangers or, as we did, sitting down for a chai.

After the paperwork, or peoplework, had been completed we were ready to set off again. Alex said the road was mainly tarmacked but beware of culverts and people ambling into the street. He set off and, as usual, Paul followed immediately.

I abandoned my buddy Michael and set off after them, doing quite well keeping within a few minutes of their streaking pace. Expecting Michael to catch up at any moment.
This was for me glorious riding. Smooth roads, but remaining ready at any moment for danger and difficulty. So I had to bike the road I could see, which meant slowing down with any rise where the road ahead was not visible since a culvert or sandy rocky patch would be lying in wait for the unwary.

Ever aware.

I was racing along and the others did not overtake. It was great fun for me. Of course a few kilometres from our destination I was tired and hoping the race would end. No such luck.

Eventually Alex and Paul were waiting at a petrol station. Everyone arrived within a minute or so and we refuelled.

This fun fuelling process involves lining the bikes up and filling one after the other, keeping the tab open so there is only one bulk payment for the whole group.

After the thrills of the early part of the stage, followed by the fear of going too fast, I kept to the back, not needing any more adrenaline in the system.

So we arrived. Into Keylong, and followed our leader slowly down a side street into a small parking lot.

And celebrated. The longest day. No spills. Finished by late afternoon. Safely.
I was too tired to appreciate that we had done the longest day. And not even in the longest time.
We done good. We drunk beer.

Himalayas 9 - Falling on top

The morning of a rest day had us up and about at around the normal time. It is hard to break a rhythm.
There were plans to go and see an important monk at the temple. Vidhya and Martin left early to join in the chanting. The rest of us slouched around until they got back mid-morning. Then we made a general move, under the careful shepherding of Alex to go and see the temple and the monk.

The temple was huge for a small town and extremely ornate.
The figures and pictures have an immediate impact with huge quantities of gold and red and bright colours, big windows and light
None of the dim, dour, dark gold and blood red of Christian churches. None of the intricacies of perspective and subtle shades of martyred muscle.
This was carnival style celebration.
But we filed quietly in and sat at the edge of the main room, respectfully, if not contemplatively, quiet.
Years of training in keeping quiet through school services and army dressing-downs gave me a chance for a little mild reflection. And it was a spiritual place, there was just little room left in this scarred soul for anything more complex than getting through the day. So any deeper meaning was a bit lost on me, but it was still a pleasant experience and interesting to see how much it meant to some people.
The monk gave us a red wrist band, filled with blessings, which showed what a good man he was. Everyone treated him with great respect, so I did too, though I knew little about Buddhism and less of him, but when you are with people you respect and they respect something, showing respect is a minimum.
We left some donations and sat outside on the temple steps to put our shoes back on. It was easy to marvel at the scenery in the clean morning air.

Then back to the hotel (the Deyzor, no Sizzle in Drizzle for us bad boys), where we changed for the days ride.
At the daily briefing Alex started off with a warning to Andy who had been wearing an ipod. The road was treacherous and music was very much frowned upon.

Of course the talk of treachery affected my confidence immediately. I was also tired after several days riding.

There was a hoo hah at the petrol station, shuffling inelegantly backwards to the back of a tanker to get filled up. It seemed like getting fuel off the back of a lorry, but this is India so it felt normal enough.
We started off out of town, simply enough, climbing the tarmac sand rock combination loosely construed as a road.

As we ascended my bike lost power. It felt like dirty fuel.

The bike sputtered and struggled and became very frustrating as the only solution seemed to be revving it hard in low gear.
Then came the muddy part. At least it wasn't wet mud, just deceptive and I had little faith in the bike. So the multitude of cross crossed tracks with ruts and bumps were a novel experience. I was not confident.

The altitude also got to me and close to the top we came across Keith who had fallen.

He was getting back on his bike but was on the middle of the path with muddy ruts on either side. Rather than wait I squeezed past, thinking I was very clever. Then I got stuck in a rut that ended in a puddle. Normally that would be OK, but the puddle concealed several layers of slate rocks. Flat and piled on top of each other.

The bike dislodged these, like skimming playing cards off the top of a deck. I could not hold the bike and went down. Into the puddle. At least my leg was under the bike, ensuring minimal damage to the machine.

Andy and Abhi helped the bike off and Doc checked I was OK, again.

I was, but of course pissed off about the inevitable ribbing coming my way.

So I slowly sulked my way to our destination. The worlds highest village and monastery at Komic.
It is a staggering location.

Just high, 4,600 metres, that's over 15,000 ft. high. Surrounded by even higher mountains.

You can understand the mystical undercurrents in this society. The higher you place your prayer flags the more they read their message to the world and the universe.

I arrived last and started off by asking if anyone else had been for a swim, then calling them poofs' in the standard macho aggressive defense manoeuvre.

It may have eased the strength of the attack, but it did not stop the deserved ribbing.

Being late missed out on the trip round the monastery but we had chai and took photos, of the scenery as well as my trousers.

But the place had an ethereal quality and it was just too high up to get energetic about anything.
The monks would not sell chai but we were welcome to whatever they had and were welcome to leave donations. Looked at it one way the chai was more expensive than the standard market price, but it was definitely far too cheap for the experience!

So we were inspired to take photos and be at peace.

The rode down for me was laborious and for Abhi it was probably on the edge of suffering. We saw some condor like birds, which cheered me up, especially since they didn't start circling overhead, waiting for the roadkill.

Still we made it back early enough to shower and change, rinse the trousers and hang them out to dry and pose for a souvenir Indian underpants photo, which of course you note was from the muddy fall, honest.

Then on and out to Kaza village for a late lunch.

Despite the late night stroll of the previous night we were pretty lost as to how to get to the main village, which was across a small stream hidden in a large chasm. At a guess the chasm may be fuller in springtime.
We wandered around in the knowledge that we would not be taking the shortest route, probably because there wasn't one. But we found a sort of main shopping and eating area where we wandered up and down searching for a place with Indian sim cards, the perfect restaurant and somewhere that sold underpants.
Teenager style we ended up as a group back at the first place we saw, a restaurant offering Indian, Israeli and English cuisine. Of course.
Naturally given this choice we proceeded to massively overorder.
A few spots of rain drove us inside where we failed to eat everything we'd asked for, which felt like a crime to me. But that may have been an overreaction on my part. From what we saw, and we saw a lot of materially poor people, we did not see obviously desperate hunger, we did not see starvation.
It makes you wonder if the excess stuff we have, our material wealth, only comes with spiritual poverty.

The rain cleared and we wandered the streets again. Still looking for a sim card for Michael. There was only one company that had service in the mountains and it wasn't Vodaphone, which we'd chosen in Delhi airport. But the Sims were only for locals. Seemingly incredibly we found a huge sign for Adventure Ashram the charity we rode for in South India last November. Fritha does get about!

We ended up splitting up and I found biscuits for nothing ha'penny and trousers for 250 rupees... and perhaps not the best named hotel, though it didn't look that shitty to me.

A wander back for a quiet evening. The hotel prepared a special evening meal for us, which we valiantly tackled without hunger and quickly regained our post lunch bloated demeanor.

The internet remained scrappy and it turned into a night for early bed, along with most of the others. We all just seemed tired and wanting to get ready for the big ride the next day.

The whisky soaked nights of jossing around were beyond our middle aged bodies. As usual when there is something important that requires extra rest and energy I had a fairly sleepless night. Dreading the big day.

This is the one I told Michael I did not expect to finish. And just today I'd had another fall.

At least I got to see the stars again, leaning out from our room, once the late night revellers had quit, the dogs had quietened and the lights were mostly turned off, it was time to stare at the staggering number of stars and galaxies.

Contemplating my infinite smallness, sleep came for a while.