Weekend in Vashisht

I realize that this post is being written more than a week late, but our internet connection has proved to be suspect, at best. Since I last wrote we have completed a week of school, two weekend trips, and two more days of school. I will begin with our first weekend to Vashisht. Posts regarding school and our weekend in Amritsar are to come.

We began our weekend at about 2:30 on Friday afternoon. We ate lunch at the home base and waited for our taxi driver to come pick us up. In traditional Indian fashion he was running quite late. Our program directors told us of Manali, a traditional Indian tourist spot in the mountains. The city of Manali, which is surrounded by 'suburbs' of Old Manali and Vashisht, is a well-known domestic honeymoon spot, as well as a family vacation hotspot. We were told that a taxi ride would take about 5 hours. As we set off under the blazing hot sun this is what we were expecting. After about 15m I realized that our expctations would be shattered into a million little pieces by the time we reached Manali (if not long before). While the route to Manali is only about 200km it took us just under eight hours.

The journey out of the Kangra Valley is characterized by sharp elevation and direction changes, large buses, and a healthy population of cows and goats. To add to the hastle of passing buses on mountain roads, these roads are usually built with a comfortable 1.5 lanes. This means that one bus and one motorcycle can occupy the same slip of rocky pavement at the same time, but there is no hope for a bus and a car. Two cars (if they are the luxury go-karts which we ride around) may possibly fit, but only in a wide spot on the road. Two buses have no shot in hell. We found this out primarily around the city of Kullu, where buses play 'chicken' in the crowded bazaars, only to realize that one has to back up and let the other through. This is hard when bumper-to-bumper traffic has accumulated for about a half of a kilometer in either direction. In Kullu and the bottom of Manali we sat stagnant for nearly 20 minutes each time; after a 6 hour ride it was absolte torture.

When we finally arrived in Manali it was dark, but the city was alive and well. Everyone in the car (four volunteers plus driver) was ready to turn around and head back, when we realized that this was not our final destination. As we crept through the busy main street we eventually made it up to higher ground, following a river upstream, until we reached the quiet little town of Vashisht. We got out of the car, had a much needed stretch, and found our hotel rooms to be clean and comfortable. Each room had a running shower with hot water and a television, both real luxuries in Indian life. We then set out for dinner. We strolled up the hill, past the temples and natural hot springs, to a second-floor restaurant called Rainbow Cafe. There we proceeded to stuff ourselves with butter naan, chicken momos, and various other Tibetan/Indian cuisine (as well as some much-needed beers, lukewarm of course).

We stayed there until all of the candles had burned out and the tired owners kicked us out. We weren't about to turn it in on our first night of real freedom, so we walked back down the hill in search of a place to listen to music and perhaps enjoy a few more drinks. Enter, Blue Heaven Cafe.

From the outside this place looks like a run-down brothel, with dim lighting permeating dusty second floor windows. The New York City "fire escape style" stairs are adorned with a red banner which reads "Pictorious View on Rooftop", while the windows are painted with phrases like "Play Cards Here" and "Delicious Breakfast". We nearly passed the place by, but decided to take a closer look because it was the only place which showed signs of life at such a late hour. If we had done this it would have been the worst decision of the weekend, if not the entire trip. As we clanked up the rickety stairs a friendly Tibetan man came out to greet us. We began to apologize for bothering him, but he merely stood aside and said "Please come in, my friends!" There was no way that we could resist. We would later come to know this kind man as Mohinder, the owner of the building and restaurant on the first floor.

As we entered the dimly lit room we saw three other men. The man closest to the door was the waiter/lackey for Mohinder's restaurant and lounge. In the corner was a peculiar looking man with a bindi (dot) between his eyes. We found that he was a Spaniard, from Majorca, who only responds to the name "Ohm". The next day we realized that his bindi was actually a small picture of the Hindi symbol "Ohm" (the same one used in meditation practices), hence the name. The third man was a young Kashmiri from Leh, a small city/town at the top of the Tibetan plateau. We found out that he was a tour guide heading for Delhi. We also found out that he was fairly drunk from all the Himachali whiskey that he had been drinking, so we saw him off to bed shortly after meeting him. Mohinder called for a bottle of wine to be brought so that his new "family" could better enjoy their time. It turned out to be a nice apple wine that was produced a few months before our arrival; Manali's finest. After sharing stories, asking questions about everyone adn their stories, as well as finding out some neat insider knowledge about Vashisht and Manali we finally called it a night. We promised to return to Mohinder's Blue Heaven for beakfast the next day, so that he could show us all the best places to visit from the comfort of his "pictorious"rooftop.

On Saturday I woke up earlier than the others and went out on the town. I had no real goals other than to see the market during the daytime, but I ended up finding a store which sold traditional Himachali hats. I was able to purchase a woolen vest and hat for Rs 300 ($6 US). I proceeded to show my buddies the new purchases; they couldn't stop laughing at how I looked. A picture is in the corresponding web album. By this time the others were ready to go walk around so we hit the streets. We started by eating breakfast on the rooftop of Blue Heaven, where we said hello to our friends from the night before and met some new ones. The most notable new friend was an old man; a tailor named Dalat, who goes by the alias "Bakubaya". I thought that this was his real name, but I was informed that it was more of a running joke. Besides this being the most common phrase to come out of his mouth, it is also his outlook on life. It is common to hear him throughout the day uttering "Life is life, bakubaya."

We wandered the market of Vashisht and visited the hot springs and various temples of the village. These were especially neat because they are Hindu, but have a distinct Himalayan feel to them. We met some Indian honeymooners who were eager to take "snaps" with us while showing 'thumbs up' and the like. When we had had enough we reconvened at Blue Heaven for afternoon tea. It was at this point that I pulled out my new hat. Everyone complimented the hat, and then if I had bought it from our friendly tailor friend. When I explained that I didn't know that he was also a hat maker I was harangued by everyone in the lounge. After the initial shock I was told that Bakubaya makes a special brand of hat - apparantly he sews magic into every hat that he makes. That was it, I had to have one.

I immediately jumped out the door of the lounge and into the door of his shop (literally beside each other, which explains why he spends so much time there) and asked if he could make me a hat. He showed me a wide variety of hats which had already been made, but they seemed too small. He measured my head and, in his mother tongue, made some remark about how large my head was compared to the Indian standard. He found the largest stump (his hat forming tool) that he had in the shop and started to see what he could do. He found one of the larger hats and stretched it across the stump, then began his ritual.

He soaked the woolen hat in water and let it sit for a few minutes while he lit a cigarette and helped the next customer. As an aside, this man is a master of his craft. He proceeded to make a vest for the man beside me. It went from raw wool to a finely made vest in less than 10 minutes. After my hat had soaked for a time he picked it up (still on the stump), observed it all around, and nodded his head once, as if to reasure himself that it was worthy of his ritual. He took a homemade dowel with cloth on top, dropped it in the water bucket, and began to christen the cap. He slapped the dowel onto the center of the cap (in the center of the forehead). He then gave three taps on either temple and swiped the dowel across the brim. After this he snipped the thread which held the corners of the front 'pocket' to the hat and began ironing.

There is a wives tale that follows these caps. All the hats are sewn on the corners of the bill, which doubles as a large, flat pocket, and upon purchase the threads are snipped so that the pocket flips out on the side, creating 'wings'. These wings are said to ward off evil spirits. When an evil spirit approaches you from behind and tries to creep into your mind it will be caught by one wing and fly out the back of the other wing, similar to a putt that has just lipped out of the cup.

After Bakubaya was done he gave the hat another once-over he smiled to himself, took it off the stump, and proclaimed "Bakubaya!" He tossed the hat to me and it was mine. I asked the old man what type of 'magic' he kept in his own hat. He looked up, as if to think about what he might have up there, took the hat off, and looked inside the front. He smiled at me as he pulled out a needle and some thread, a business card, and some loose matches. I ordered the two of us some tea and we headed into the lounge to hang out until dinner.

The girls headed out for massages and I went to the room for a shower, then we headed back to our home away from home. Dinner was good and we enjoyed spending time with our new friends. Two of them were Serbian refugees from Toronto, who had just returned from Leh (an adventure destination at the peak of the Tibetan plateau). The rest were our buddies from the night before, plus Bakubaya and some elderly Indian honey whom he was trying to reel in for the evening. Festivities abounded and we eventually turned it at about 12.

Sunday morning brought an itch to explore the surrounding areas of Vashisht. We had bee told about a nice waterfall just on the outskirts of town, so we went to go find it. I was with two girls who claimed to be troopers.

We hiked out of town and came to a river crossing. Not knowing which way to go we began to make our way up to the source of the stream, which we thought was at the top of the enormous valley. The beginning wasn't so bad, but the morning sun eventually beat down on us as we continued to reach higher elevation. Weezie was struggling, but our friend Lily Corvo was keeping up. We finally got into the upper reaches of the valley and, both wearing flip-flops, the girls decided that they had seen enough. Asking me to scout ahead they took a seat and began to chat about God knows what. I found two or three small waterfalls, all about 20-30 feet, and retured with the news. They deemed that it wasn't enough for them to move, so they began to hike down the valley.

When we got to the bottom, and the stream, I decided to take the more prominent trail across the creek to a small restaurant. They were ready for a shower and "time to relax" before we left Vashisht at noon. The time was 10:30. I crossed the stream and made my way to the small shack of a diner. When I got there I asked a small Himalayan man where the waterfall was and he pointed directly down the path. He said it was no more than 5 minutes away. I took the nice hike through a pine forest and made my way up to the sound of a much larger waterfall. When I reached the floor of the next valley I was greeted by two small stone huts (Hindu shrines) and a waterfall measuring at least 500 feet, but most likely taller. It was more than I expeccted to see, so I hiked halfway up, found a nice rock, and sat with the cool air from the falls rushing by me. I have decided that, while my time here is short, I will return to Vashisht so that I can hike further up the falls and swim in the 'sacred' pools at its base (which is a fair way farther up the valley). After about 15 minutes of enjoyig the scene I set off for the hotel, so that I could pack and shower.

The rest of the story is pretty uneventful. Though we passed a large processional of drums, horns, and Himachali hats it was not much in comparison to the rest of our weekend. The drive back was not as long as the drive there, and when we returned we were full of stories for everyone. We missed Vashisht already. We missed our new friends and how time seemed to stand still there (everyone was surprised to know that it was actually Sunday when we left). I realized that if heaven is anything like this place then I am going to have to be very good. For this weekend we had no worries, but we knew that the trials and tribulations of school awaited the next day. That is how it goes I guess. Life is life, Bakubaya.