After a peanut butter porridge-mix sandwich we took a good look into our wallets and crunched some numbers. Jon's got 650 rupees (14 bucks), I've got 1200 rupees (26 bucks), and we've got only three days left with the bikes, leaving two days to get them back to New Delhi. What this means is that we can't stay anywhere for less 50 rupees and our eating habits can't be none too rich either. So, in our last act of salvation on 2 wheels, we've decided to seek out the holy land of Khir Ganga, where we anticipate some worthwhile options. Once we get there we can either set up our own campsite and sleep outside for free, or we can sleep on the floor in one of the small bohemian restaurants there for 50 rupees. It is also rumored that the Rainbow people are gathering in that area so we could even make company with them.
But first, we must find our way there, and of course, its not as easy as 1,2,3. Khir Ganga is a good 4 hour trek from the small village of Barshani, which means we'll have to leave our bikes there. But we don't know anything about Barshani, and feel the bikes are safer in Manikaran, under the watchful eye of our guest house friend, Mr. Tako. He agrees to look after our bikes and backpacks for 45 rupees. It's a somewhat risky move, but if you're not taking risks than you're not really traveling. So we take our sleeping bags and walk to the bus stop to wait for the bus to Barshani. It's 1:30PM and we have no idea when the bus is coming. In fact, we're not even standing in the right spot to catch it, but we don't know this yet. A bus rolls into town and off of it step the nice french couple we had met in the Spiti Valley. We chat briefly enough for them to direct us to the proper spot to catch our bus and then when we shake hands they pass over a generous nugget of charas. Good people. We walk up to the road leading out of town and sit down with a Baba, a girl from Madrid and a Swiss man who's lived and loafed around India for 4 and a half years. He's a real low-talker who's evidently done a lot of drugs. The time is sluggish, but the sun is out, so we smoke some charas with the Baba and enjoy the waiting game. When the bus finally shows up it's packed, way over capacity. There's a mad dash to get on it and Jon and I run around to the back to climb the ladders up to the roof rack. Many people see us and follow behind. As soon as we get up top, the bus begins to move with people still climbing on it in panic. It's an hour and thirty minute back breaking ride of the typical hair-pin turns on the side of mountains. We've become used to it, but this time there are obstacles to duck like tree branches and low hanging power lines. When the bus arrives in Barshani we quickly jump on the roof of a jeep. We don't know where it's going exactly, but we know it will shorten our 4 hour trek. The jeep takes us to a place called Tosh, where the road literally ends.
Now we're standing on a plateau overlooking the village proper and the unexpected sound of trance music cuts through the peaceful air. We get on a path that takes us to a small house where the music is coming from. There is a mixed group of Europeans and young Indians laboring on the foundation of another house. I ask the one guy if there's a place to sleep but he's too stoned to even put a sentence together. He looks to his friend for help and the other guy points me to a place on the edge of the plateau. It's a simple guest house called "The Last Resort". Best of all, it's only 35 rupees each. Our decision to save the remainder of the trek for tomorrow comes pretty easy. By now it's almost 6PM and we're hungry. Time to eat, smoke and kick back.
We walk into the smoke house and strike up a conversation and a joint with a dude from Milwaukee who talks just like Norm MacDonald and is almost as funny. He's a golfer that never went pro and took off to India, leaving everyone at home baffled. Wish I could remember his name. He tells us about a few houses to check out that may have some music happening down in the village. I eat another peanut butter and oatmeal sandwich after dark and then we set off on a blind walk into Tosh village. We don't find a note worth of activity, but still get an entertaining trip-out from glow in the dark caterpillars that look radioactive. On the way back to our guest house we stop at the small shanty type place that was playing the trance music earlier. There's a tent set up outside and three funky lookin' Indians buzzing around. In the middle of them is a big fat Slovak. He invites us to come have a smoke. We don't know what we're in for, and there's nothing else going on anyway so we make ourselves comfortable and the night unfolds in a barrage of non-stop charas, stories and freaky characters.
Here's the story; The Slovak had come to India a few years ago and fallen in love with the budding industry of charas in the untouched region of Tosh. He dropped his anchor in the Parvati valley where he met Patil, the cool, collected Indian sitting beside us. Patil had a good head on his shoulders. It didn't take long to figure that out. The plateau that we were sitting on, over-looking the village, it belonged to him. He had been trying to round up friends to help him build a business there, so it was a match made in some weird heaven when he met the Slovak, who wanted to build his own home rather than pay rent. The Slovak had money, Patil had virgin land. They shook hands and hired the Tosh locals to build a shanty with two rooms and one kitchen. It took 10 days to complete and was by no means professionally done at all, but it seemed stable enough. The new house they were working on now that we saw today is to be a restaurant. The tent set up outside was where the cook and 2 waiters were sleeping. They were friends of Patil's from another part of the valley and had come to help build the restaurant that they would eventually work in. We met all of them in a circle as Patil passed around his chillum. It was impressive. Made of black Italian clay- one of the most expensive chillums on the chillum market. I should have known right then and there that this crew of entrepreneurs were pro smokers. It was a religion for them and the Slovak had fully embraced it as well. Every time they hit the chillum they would yell out "Booomba Shivaaaa!!!" and exhale a mighty cloud.
Eventually we go into Patil's tandoori room, which I'm going to have in my house (if I ever have a house). It is essentially a room with nothing but pillows on the floor and a small cast iron stove in the middle. There is an amazing speaker system in there that probably costs more than the entire shanty.
We continue to smoke and talk inside until I realize that there is a shady looking character sleeping in the corner of the room. Before I can even hope that he won't wake up, two beady red eyes are staring, specifically at Jon and I. The old man gets up and walks out rather abruptly. In the three long steps that he takes to exit I already have myself convinced that this man has seen war and most likely killed with his bare hands. He is old looking, but still appears to have the shape of a man containing brute strength. A naturally intimidating figure with a clean bald head covered by a driver's cap from the 1920's. Jon and I look at each other with wide, baked eyes that bellow "Did you see that fuckin' guy!??" Patil notices our reaction and another story unfolds.
"His name is Andre. He goes out very early in the morning and walks a different part of the forest every day. Then he comes back here at dark and he sleeps. "Is he mad at us for waking him up?" I ask. "No, he just needs to smoke." And with that Patil loads the chillum up to the brim and calmly yells out some words in Hindi. Within minutes, Andre, the Slovak and one of the waiters enter and sit down. Andre takes the honorary first toke and blows our minds. The man is a barbarian. He hits the thing harder than Joe Carter and shouts some crazy shit that sounds like french cursing. Our eyes go wide again. But, Andre turns out to be a very entertaining character. After he gets high he's more like a cave child, communicating in mainly grunts and hand signals. After we let it be known that we're heading for Khir Ganga, he offers to guide us on a shortcut there. At this point we're feeling pretty okay with accepting the offer, except that he's leaving at 6:00 in the morning. We know already that's gonna be rough for us because it's going on 1AM already and I'm so faded I can't walk. Jon has to steer me back to our place where I stop to puke in the out-house. "Nothin' but peanut butter!" I mutter in my best Lou Brown impression. It always helps to have a sense of humor.
Read Day 38
But first, we must find our way there, and of course, its not as easy as 1,2,3. Khir Ganga is a good 4 hour trek from the small village of Barshani, which means we'll have to leave our bikes there. But we don't know anything about Barshani, and feel the bikes are safer in Manikaran, under the watchful eye of our guest house friend, Mr. Tako. He agrees to look after our bikes and backpacks for 45 rupees. It's a somewhat risky move, but if you're not taking risks than you're not really traveling. So we take our sleeping bags and walk to the bus stop to wait for the bus to Barshani. It's 1:30PM and we have no idea when the bus is coming. In fact, we're not even standing in the right spot to catch it, but we don't know this yet. A bus rolls into town and off of it step the nice french couple we had met in the Spiti Valley. We chat briefly enough for them to direct us to the proper spot to catch our bus and then when we shake hands they pass over a generous nugget of charas. Good people. We walk up to the road leading out of town and sit down with a Baba, a girl from Madrid and a Swiss man who's lived and loafed around India for 4 and a half years. He's a real low-talker who's evidently done a lot of drugs. The time is sluggish, but the sun is out, so we smoke some charas with the Baba and enjoy the waiting game. When the bus finally shows up it's packed, way over capacity. There's a mad dash to get on it and Jon and I run around to the back to climb the ladders up to the roof rack. Many people see us and follow behind. As soon as we get up top, the bus begins to move with people still climbing on it in panic. It's an hour and thirty minute back breaking ride of the typical hair-pin turns on the side of mountains. We've become used to it, but this time there are obstacles to duck like tree branches and low hanging power lines. When the bus arrives in Barshani we quickly jump on the roof of a jeep. We don't know where it's going exactly, but we know it will shorten our 4 hour trek. The jeep takes us to a place called Tosh, where the road literally ends.
Now we're standing on a plateau overlooking the village proper and the unexpected sound of trance music cuts through the peaceful air. We get on a path that takes us to a small house where the music is coming from. There is a mixed group of Europeans and young Indians laboring on the foundation of another house. I ask the one guy if there's a place to sleep but he's too stoned to even put a sentence together. He looks to his friend for help and the other guy points me to a place on the edge of the plateau. It's a simple guest house called "The Last Resort". Best of all, it's only 35 rupees each. Our decision to save the remainder of the trek for tomorrow comes pretty easy. By now it's almost 6PM and we're hungry. Time to eat, smoke and kick back.
We walk into the smoke house and strike up a conversation and a joint with a dude from Milwaukee who talks just like Norm MacDonald and is almost as funny. He's a golfer that never went pro and took off to India, leaving everyone at home baffled. Wish I could remember his name. He tells us about a few houses to check out that may have some music happening down in the village. I eat another peanut butter and oatmeal sandwich after dark and then we set off on a blind walk into Tosh village. We don't find a note worth of activity, but still get an entertaining trip-out from glow in the dark caterpillars that look radioactive. On the way back to our guest house we stop at the small shanty type place that was playing the trance music earlier. There's a tent set up outside and three funky lookin' Indians buzzing around. In the middle of them is a big fat Slovak. He invites us to come have a smoke. We don't know what we're in for, and there's nothing else going on anyway so we make ourselves comfortable and the night unfolds in a barrage of non-stop charas, stories and freaky characters.
Here's the story; The Slovak had come to India a few years ago and fallen in love with the budding industry of charas in the untouched region of Tosh. He dropped his anchor in the Parvati valley where he met Patil, the cool, collected Indian sitting beside us. Patil had a good head on his shoulders. It didn't take long to figure that out. The plateau that we were sitting on, over-looking the village, it belonged to him. He had been trying to round up friends to help him build a business there, so it was a match made in some weird heaven when he met the Slovak, who wanted to build his own home rather than pay rent. The Slovak had money, Patil had virgin land. They shook hands and hired the Tosh locals to build a shanty with two rooms and one kitchen. It took 10 days to complete and was by no means professionally done at all, but it seemed stable enough. The new house they were working on now that we saw today is to be a restaurant. The tent set up outside was where the cook and 2 waiters were sleeping. They were friends of Patil's from another part of the valley and had come to help build the restaurant that they would eventually work in. We met all of them in a circle as Patil passed around his chillum. It was impressive. Made of black Italian clay- one of the most expensive chillums on the chillum market. I should have known right then and there that this crew of entrepreneurs were pro smokers. It was a religion for them and the Slovak had fully embraced it as well. Every time they hit the chillum they would yell out "Booomba Shivaaaa!!!" and exhale a mighty cloud.
Eventually we go into Patil's tandoori room, which I'm going to have in my house (if I ever have a house). It is essentially a room with nothing but pillows on the floor and a small cast iron stove in the middle. There is an amazing speaker system in there that probably costs more than the entire shanty.
We continue to smoke and talk inside until I realize that there is a shady looking character sleeping in the corner of the room. Before I can even hope that he won't wake up, two beady red eyes are staring, specifically at Jon and I. The old man gets up and walks out rather abruptly. In the three long steps that he takes to exit I already have myself convinced that this man has seen war and most likely killed with his bare hands. He is old looking, but still appears to have the shape of a man containing brute strength. A naturally intimidating figure with a clean bald head covered by a driver's cap from the 1920's. Jon and I look at each other with wide, baked eyes that bellow "Did you see that fuckin' guy!??" Patil notices our reaction and another story unfolds.
"His name is Andre. He goes out very early in the morning and walks a different part of the forest every day. Then he comes back here at dark and he sleeps. "Is he mad at us for waking him up?" I ask. "No, he just needs to smoke." And with that Patil loads the chillum up to the brim and calmly yells out some words in Hindi. Within minutes, Andre, the Slovak and one of the waiters enter and sit down. Andre takes the honorary first toke and blows our minds. The man is a barbarian. He hits the thing harder than Joe Carter and shouts some crazy shit that sounds like french cursing. Our eyes go wide again. But, Andre turns out to be a very entertaining character. After he gets high he's more like a cave child, communicating in mainly grunts and hand signals. After we let it be known that we're heading for Khir Ganga, he offers to guide us on a shortcut there. At this point we're feeling pretty okay with accepting the offer, except that he's leaving at 6:00 in the morning. We know already that's gonna be rough for us because it's going on 1AM already and I'm so faded I can't walk. Jon has to steer me back to our place where I stop to puke in the out-house. "Nothin' but peanut butter!" I mutter in my best Lou Brown impression. It always helps to have a sense of humor.
Read Day 38
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