The Himalayan roads between the Indian states of Ladakh and Himachal Pradesh will stay in my memory for the dust rising in clouds, the melting snow collecting into rushing torrents that surge across the road, the narrow new black asphalt that the Indian army obsessively builds for quick access to the borders with Pakistan and China, the endless climbs to mountain passes and the sharp turns into river valleys. Above it all, brown mountain slopes with white peaks loom. Buddhist prayer flags send colorful prayers into the wind, while I gasp for breath at high altitude.
From the village of Korzok, by the sacred lake Tso Moriri, I pedal through the desert toward the smaller lake, Kyagar Tso. This is the land of nomads. Yaks and horses graze in the greenery along the riverbed, while clusters of dusty white tents stand scattered across the barren plains. Now and then a dog barks.
Kyagar Tso glistens in a surreal deep blue, and I rest on its sandy shore. A cloud of gnats settles on me. A pair of Indian tourists follows me in their car along the sandy track and gets stuck in the soft ground. Back on the main road I flag down a car full of people who help push the stranded vehicle free.
In my mind, I bid farewell to Mentok Kangri, the six-thousand-meter peak I stood upon two days ago. It disappears behind a brown mountain pass.
At a crossroads, in a tent they serve simple local food. Long-haired yaks wade in a nearby stream as I enjoy a plate of momos.
Through the village of Sumdo I turn into the Puga Valley. Unusual white surfaces unfold before me and the air is thick with the pungent smell of sulfur. A geothermal paradise!
I wander toward the hot springs in the middle of the barren plain – one bubbling in a deep red hue, the other thick and gray. Steam rises; the water is too hot for a bath. A herd of horses roams in the distance and birds call out above the winding river.
Further down, the valley transforms into a soft green landscape filled with low, rounded hills flooded with water. I leap from one hill to another toward a steaming geyser that sprays high into the air. Nomads drive a herd of horses past me. I sink into the marshy water up to my hips. And laugh.
I camp on a small dry patch between the hills. A white, bony horse wanders past my tent.
After a modest breakfast at the only roadside canteen, where road workers stop for cigarettes and drinks, I begin the climb to a pass at 4,974 meters – the highest altitude I have reached by bicycle so far. The familiar sight of prayer flags fluttering in the middle of nowhere… The silent desert, sculpted into rippling sand formations, rushes past.
Tso Kar Lake, with its white-rimmed shores and marshy vegetation, lies below the stone-built village of Thukje. I sip hot thukpa, a Tibetan noodle soup. Coughing, I realize that I’ve spent six consecutive days above 4,500 meters. I look forward to the descent and the promise of more oxygen.
I reach the main road between Leh and Manali, where dirt gives way to wide asphalt – at least temporarily. Trucks roar past. For days there will be no villages on the way, only clusters of tin roadside settlements maintained by locals during the summer season to earn money selling food and shelter. In the shade by the road, I struggle to eat a plate of thali. I’m exhausted and have no appetite. Still, I push on toward the settlement of Phang.
The last 10 kilometers I cycle with a mask over my face as dust swirls from trucks transporting materials and crammed road workers. Reddish cones of rock tower over the wide, gray river valley.
In Phang, I’m surprised to spot another cyclist and strike up a conversation. A long-haired Englishman, Hector, has been cycling for last ten months around the world. We become roommates in a tin container and share a hearty laugh.
“Don’t you think there’s some higher force making sure things align on a journey like this?” he muses aloud. “Absolutely.”
Unfortunately, we’re heading in opposite directions. He has joined an organized group of English and Indian cyclists he met by chance on the road. They now carry his luggage on a pickup truck since they’re all traveling the same way. The group leader pours me a beer as we chat in a dim kitchen. I join in as we scoop up rice, lentils and chapatis made by the local women, who move about with laughter in the twilight.
The next 50 kilometers take me through a another land of dust. I ascend a rough dirt road beneath towering rock cliffs, revealing endless mountain vistas. On a yellow sign at the pass, I read the name: Lachung La. I am at the highest point of my cycling journey – 5,070 meters! This time I’m carrying all my luggage. I breathe.
The real adventure is only just beginning. The landscape slowly transforms into one of the most picturesque along the entire route, while water starts to seep onto the road. Traffic is sparse and the twisted wreckage of a truck that has plunged into the abyss is nothing unusual.
Wild animals graze beside one of them. Every pass is followed by a descent. And another climb to the next pass.
Suddenly the paved road is winding down through the famous and dizzying 22 switchbacks known as the Gata Loops. Like caterpillars colorful Indian trucks creep along them. I let out a cheer as I race downhill fast.
By evening I reach a cluster of tin roadside huts in Sarchi. Hut after hut, all identical. Spray-painted words on the walls: FOOD, BED. Simple, basic and cheap. I collapse onto the bed in a blue container, where the wind whistles through the cracks. There are no other guests nearby. A curious child toddles around the kitchen as I eat rice.
The barren desert grows greener, yet despite the slightly lower altitude, the snow increases. The road turns to mud. Cycling turns into pushing the bike.
At a steep bend, all traffic comes to a halt – a long line of trucks. I push my way through to find a raging torrent. A waterfall crashes across the road.
I observe the scene for some time, thinking of a way to cross. A motorcyclist manages to power through the water. I take off my panniers and wade through the wild stream in sandals. Then I return for my bike, half pushing, half carrying it, stepping carefully over the slippery stones. Huh.
I admire the stunning confluence of rivers, where gray and brown waters merge yet continue flowing together in two distinct colors.
At a yellow roadside tent at 4,600 meters, I meet two Australian travelers and two Indian cyclists. All four are exhausted from food poisoning and altitude sickness. The tent keeper, who also runs the kitchen, is nowhere to be found – apparently, he got drunk and acts unreliable in general, they say.
An Indian family arrives and orders food, toasted eggs. My new friends, also guests, step in to improvise and prepare a rather unsuccessful dish. Eventually, the family takes matters into their own hands and starts cooking lunch themselves on the only stove. I settle for instant soup with noodles and black tea. Behind the tent, a trail leads up to Yunam mountain (6100 m).
Ahead of me lies the last major pass, Baralacha La. I can feel myself gasping for air whenever I cycle too fast or get engulfed by truck exhaust. The landscape is covered in snow. A group of motorbikers wonder how have I managed up here with a bicycle.
From the pass a long descent follows toward the village of Darcha. I push through the mud, past a military cordon, through the water. The slopes grow steeper and greener, with glaciers and seracs hanging high above. At a roadside dhaba, I treat myself to some calories in the form of momos.
A flood of sheep sweeps over the road. In the roadside dust, dark-faced men and women toil under the weight of hard labor, while their children play in piles of dirt or help with the work. The steep slopes beneath the winding road have been transformed into terraces.
Past a police checkpoint, where I sign my name in a book, I reach Darcha. Dusk is falling. Below the village, massive deposits of flood-borne sand stretch out. I inquire about lodging at a nearby homestay. A friendly host couple is brewing rice wine on the terrace outside my new room. The man scoops a glass of clear liquid from a barrel over the fire and hands it to me.
Next to the door of my room, where a simple bed lies on the floor, stands a home shrine. I meet the gaze of His Holiness the Dalai Lama from a large portrait. I was arranging a meeting with him, to receive his blessing, but his secretary had replied via email that he would be absent the entire month due to hip surgery in the U.S. He gives me a kind nod from the picture.
On the fifth and final day of cycling toward Manali, I realize that this will likely be my last true cycling day of my yearlong journey between Europe and India. A tightness grips my chest, and a wave of intense emotions washes over me. I don’t want this incredible journey to ever end … I still have a good three weeks left before my Indian visa expires and I return home, and I plan to spend them riding India’s legendary trains, between New Delhi, Varanasi and Agra.
The last kilometers refuse to end. I am utterly exhausted when I finally reach the Atal Tunnel – a modern shortcut through the mountain, bypassing Rohtang Pass (3,977 m). A soldier stops me, as cycling through the tunnel is not allowed. Within a minute, with his help, I arrange a ride on the first available truck. We load my bicycle on and I squeeze into the narrow cabin, where, at my request, the two young men crank up Tibetan Trance music from their CD player. The truck shudders as we speed through the tunnel’s black void.
They drop me off at the exit, next to a sacred cow lounging indifferently in the middle of the road. In these final kilometers, my entire journey replays before my weary eyes. Roadside stalls rent out colorful ski suits to Indian tourists who will be seeing snow for the first time in their life and rolling in it …
The air carries the scent of conifers, the humid mountain breeze is soothing despite the growing traffic. Rickshaws dart past, cows wander down the center of the road, flicking their tails. A flood of food stalls and modest guesthouses scrolls by like a film reel.
Exhausted beyond measure, I decide to book a hotel room in Old Manali instead of staying with the Indian host, Mohot, whom a friend had recommended. In this forested setting even the metal rooftops of houses are green. Old Manali clings to a steep hillside. I push my bicycle along a narrow, cobbled road through a vibrant bazaar of souvenirs and cafés. Mihir, the young hotel receptionist, twirls a cloth like a pizza on one finger. Later we will become friends, playing chess and juggling together.
In the evening I cycle to Mohot’s place for dinner. I carry my bike up steep stairs to the foot of the multi-story building where he lives. He turns out to be a pleasant young man – a cyclist and photographer with a Warmshowers profile – who has been recovering from a severe knee injury for two years. A drunk driver hit him while he was cycling down the steep road from Old Manali. He serves me an excellent meal and even knows a pair of Slovenian cycling travelers he once hosted. He has just returned from a photography expedition in remote border regions, where he accompanied an Indian ultramarathon female runner, who – under military escort – ran from the Chinese border to the Pakistani border. We browse through photos of places I, as a foreigner, will never set foot in.
At night I leave my bicycle on Mohot’s balcony and wander uphill. The main bazaar is teeming with people. I look for a spot for my street performance and like the area in front of a brick wall under a streetlight. But in the following days I don’t manage to perform – I spend my time walking and exploring the surrounding valleys, lacking the energy for anything more.
Manali is a cluster of scattered villages. Traditional houses are built from wood and stone, two-story structures with livestock housed below and living quarters above. Hidden in the groves are beautiful ancient wooden temples dedicated to Hindu deities, which I explore barefoot. They also worship sacred trees. It rains every night – the monsoon has arrived.
Pranav, a musician I often meet at a shack selling cheap Indian food, tells me that the water has started to destroy the roads. Manali could soon be cut off from the world due to washed-away bridges. It’s just part of life here. Electricity and the internet are also unpredictable during monsoon season. He confides that while he studied in Spain he felt very lonely there. He sees Europeans as privileged, self-absorbed and fearful. Am I any different? I wonder with a guilt.
The narrow forest paths draw me in. I sit before a mysterious pyramid-shaped stone temple high above the town, surrounded by friendly stray dogs. A blackened figure holds a trident, and numerous small rusted tridents are wedged into the rocky edge. I continue toward the Jogini waterfalls across the valley. Suddenly the roar of a wild river reaches me, along with shouts from men – the bridge has been washed away! Locals scramble to salvage what they can and begin constructing a new one, while others simply watch, sitting on smooth river stones.
They direct me higher up to another bridge. The massive waterfalls thunder through a rocky gorge on the opposite bank. The ferns tremble. I continue to the village of Vashisht, where a temple houses a natural hot spring. In a small stone pool, I join the men’s side – women bathe separately. Steam rises as I sink into the hot water, admiring the ancient reliefs carved into the stone walls above the sacred spring. I rest on the dry edge before slipping back into the soothing heat. I return several times in the following days, it becomes my favorite refuge. Some men enter only to bow to the water, dip their hands and wash their faces.
At the guesthouse I meet Amy and Kiril – an unusual and fresh couple from Goa. She is an Indian raised in Tanzania, petite, wiry and bursting with incredible energy. He is a blond, heavily tattooed painter and a refugee from Belarus. He doesn’t speak English; between them there exists only what he calls, in Russian, a “language of emotions.” I join them at an art café, where he performs a live painting session, with beer and charas. Later Amy and I hike to the nearby Kharma Valley, where we swim in the cold river beneath giant boulders, despite the light rain. Meanwhile Kiril paints a hotel wall in exchange for their lodging.
Visiting the overgrown Kho waterfall valley, I get completely drenched from hours of hiking through wet vegetation. Several times I have to wring out my socks as my feet slosh inside my shoes. But how I love this dense forest, a real jungle! So many scents, strange birds calling from the canopies!
When I tell Mihir that I plan to visit the remote village of Malana and hike back to Manali from there, he warns me about the dangers of the wild Parvati Valley. Many people have gone missing, never to be found. The region is notorious for crime, drugs and its incredibly rugged mountains. Feeling uneasy, I nevertheless board a local bus and get off in Jari, where I eat a simple rice meal before setting off on a side road. Before long, hitchhiking, I hop onto the back of a scooter with Ayun, a psychology student on his way to get the famed Malana Cream – the finest hashish in the world.
We light a bong by the roadside on the way up. Oh, it hits hard. At some points, I help push the scooter along the wrecked road, struggling through endless hairpin turns.
Malana clings to a mountainside, an hour’s hike above the road. How did they carry building materials up there? Ayun is breathless, completely out of shape, blaming his burnt-out lungs. A group of women overtakes us, carefully avoiding any contact. This is my first unusual encounter with Malana’s locals, who deliberately avoid all physical touch with outsiders. Untouchability is important part of their culture, yet unexplained. Even touching the walls of their homes or wooden temples is forbidden.
Children playing in the dirty alleyways jump back when they notice me at the last moment. I feel like I’m contagious. When I buy some food at a tiny shop, the package is placed on the ground for me to pick up. I set my banknotes down beside it and a hand swiftly collects them.
One thing remains constant, the men’s invitations: “Do you want Malana Cream?” It’s big business here. Cannabis grows everywhere, replacing grass in the orchards.
In the center of the village we unexpectedly stumble upon a wedding. Girls in colorful dresses dance joyfully in a large circle, hand in hand. Then the villagers sit in long rows and eat while a few women walk around with pots, filling their bowls. Foreigners are not allowed to stay overnight in the village. For this purpose a few tin huts have been built on the village’s edge, overlooking the valley – vividly, hallucinogenically painted and adorned with dreamcatchers. Charas paradise.
It seems we are the only guests. Over egg curry for dinner, stoned Ayun reads my future from my palm. He concludes that I am on the right path, that I respect my parents even though I’m not in daily contact with them, and that I have talent and curiosity for many things …
Early in the morning Ayun leaves. He has to return the rented scooter, his mission is complete. I continue on foot over the green hills towards the village of Naggar, an eight-hour walk away. A narrow trail takes me up a forested ridge. Suddenly fog envelops me. It feels wild. Out of the mist, three men appear, startling me. They greet me with a handshake (a sign they are not from Malana!). It turns out they are shepherds from Mandi village, returning to their herds in a nearby camp.
Later, in the forest, I meet a group of women who gift me fruit. I indulge in the smallest mango in the world. A cow in the pasture bellows into the smoking mist. The narrow path leads me to the village of Rumsu, rich with wooden temples and traditional houses, completely untouched by tourism. Through apple orchards and cannabis fields, I reach the road in the Kullu Valley and, along it, an unusual museum dedicated to the Russian painter and explorer Nicholas Roerich (Nikolai Konstantinovich Rerikh), who lived here in the early 20th century, compiling unique collections. My steps loudly creak on the balconies of his residence.
In the evening in Naggar I admire thousand-year-old stone temples shaped like towers, decorated with reliefs and the black faces of mysterious deities. Children chase each other around one of them, tossing sandals through the air. Monkeys climb across the rooftops. Among a group of locals on a lively street I wait for a bus.
One day, in Manali’s main bazaar, I follow three transvestites who flamboyantly and loudly collect money and goods in the small shops. People stop and watch them as if it were a theatrical performance. They wear beautiful garments and exude incredible energy. One of them takes a necklace from a jewelry stall and keeps it without paying.
After a week in Manali, once I have thoroughly rested from the high mountain passes and climbs, and after days of not seeing the peaks due to monsoon clouds, the moment of farewell arrives. In the afternoon Mihir, Amy and I shelter under the hotel’s overhang, juggling and dancing to music, hoping the rain will let up. But it only gets worse! A brown torrent rushes wildly down the steep cobbled street. Dressed in improvised rain gear I plunge into the waterflow, heading down through the bazaar.
On the muddy parking lot in the valley I step over puddles and push my bike toward the night bus. After cycling for around 12000 km, from my home in Ljubljana, my biketouring journey will soon end in New Delhi, from where I will continue by train. Just then a magnificent rainbow appears over Manali. A deep sense of peace washes over me, everything is just as it should be.
Photos and text by Uroš Marolt