Tirthan valley : Chippni to Kandi meadow hike

Tirthan and Sainj valleys nestle the Great Himalayan National Park. Since long these valleys have captured our heart and imagination. On our first day here, we planned a day-hike from the small village of Chipni, that lies deep in the Tirthan valley with Dilip Singh as our guide.

In first week of June cool breeze, blue skies, few scattered clouds and a loud sound of the river in the valley are dreamy for a person coming from the dusty, hot plains of North India. The track was initially a dirt road that is being paved to a motorable road, the impact of transition, the dichotomy of perspectives it brings and the milieu that brings it, were the constant undercurrent of our hike. The impact that we see, with our selfish urban eyes to preserve our living museums of peace which we can visit, the divided desires of hill folk to be left to their unchanged ways or to catch up with constant invasion of globalisation, the rapacious contractor juggernaut, the milking of opportunity by the clever, the romantic as always catching the imagination but alive only for the literary evening. Sides cannot be taken, for we are the urbanity that demands more while cherishing the unspoilt - but not at the cost of our discomfort. The road being built to connect these remote villages and the home stays being built in anticipation of the tourist being the case in the point. Tourists would help the local economy but destroy the place they actually come to. Responsible tourism and development are euphemisms and in the balance between the responsibility and greed the chasm widens. Also who determines what is responsible ? When does it tradition to an irreparable loss ? What are the aspirations, needs or desires of the local inhabitants, planning officials, the world wise who are imagining and imposing and of the government ? Whose needs and whose desires and whose suffering ?

The valley is blessed with numerous streams, cascading glacial water and resonates with the song of water as it dances fluidly over the rocks and frequently applauds its performance with a waterfall and crown of froth. The water is an ethereal turquoise when its stops in the pools that form burg fallen trees and big boulders. The track twists through two villages after which it bifurcates into two and we took the one heading up. Lined by small berries that are edible slightly sour and flowers so bright that they shine in their yellow, blue, white, lilac and red we were entering heaven as it could have been imagined. Soon enough a tight bend later we were at a plateau, the mountain side opened up wide and flat. 

Fields filled in the space with garlic, wheat, maize and vegetables and the track narrowed to a paved footpath. The adjacent houses sparkling clean, well tended to, and the village street full of activity. Elders walking slow and making queries, the children playing and gaping at us as we walked along, young people in the fields, it felt that this is the village that Gandhiji would have dreamt - prosperous, seemed cohesive and in the lap of bountiful nature. 

As the homes receded the track closed in and we reached the surrounding apple orchards. Resting at a bend, with clear water flowing by the side a man beckoned us to rest. It had been an hour of an arduous walk and we sat on the shady grassy patch. The man was very interesting, did not seem in a hurry but had a purpose. We had a discussion on the other hikes we could do and how the village was. He gathered his bag and left and we filled our bottles and headed in the opposite direction. While passing through we had briefly stopped at Roshan’s home stay and arranged that we would stop for lunch on the way back. In the meantime the plan changed and now we had decided to do a circuit and head back from a different village. Roshan had to be informed and by now we were some distance ahead. A woman tending to her cows was headed to the village and assured that the message would be passed, which relieved us and simultaneously made us more aware of a community living. 

Crossing the stream on the wooden planks we entered the forests and made our way up on a small but steep climb. The mountains facing us were tall, green, topped with snow and very inviting. Monaal was making her mark on the climbs, on the flat dusty track she preferred to sit in my shoulders but after we entered G village she was continuously running and walking. I can sense her strength on hikes, initially I had to carry her on my back and ensure that her back was supported, then she was self supported but I held her ankles such that she would not fall down, then she became taller and now we developed a system of “head down” where in she would stoop to get her cheeks next to mine and an overhead obstacle could be cleared, then she has started to talk and play games with me as we walk, at times she sleeps and I can feel the drooling saliva on my hair. She drives me like a boat, once she has learnt left and right - tugging my corresponding ear to make turns. At times at critical junctures she has covered my eyes or pulled my ears when she gets frightened and hold me hard. Throat chokes in her strong grip when we cross a steep incline or when a dog comes running happen too. But now she wanted to walk and run and made a good impression even on the steep climbs where she would scramble on her fours to haul herself up. 

Surrounded by tall handsome trees, we sat on the grassy soil that sprang up flowers of all colours. Chatting with the namesake of Prince of Punjab - Dileep Singh, our guide told of his orchard, the plan to build a home stay and so on. The Kandi - was this grassy glade, a high alpine meadow, surrounded by forests and streams overlooking the valley. A great place for a picnic but we had no food with us and decided to head down after the rest. The path down was via another village. It was steep and with Monaal back on my back, slightly tricky. 

Passing through apple orchards and neatly laid out fields and houses, it was a dream to walk through. There were flowers, coloured leaves that mimicked flowers on every imaginable green that grew. To walk we trampled many, ate berries that grew in nooks and corners. And stopped often to soak in the scape. At the sides of the village and their fields the forest licked the corners and in between these colourful palate spanned out. The houses blended in the hillside, the traditional structure with ground floor for the animals and their feed, the first floor having small rooms and large continuous balconies and generous attics on the top. Neat, self sustained and confident they merge with the environment they stand in. 

Back on the dusty track we headed back to our night stay and our companion - Brownie escorted us back till the gate and turned back promptly without a fuss. He accompanied us from G village al the way up and down. The end to a beautiful walk in the mountains with lots of permanent images in our heart and soul. 

Tirthan valley - Bashleo pass

  A vast expanse of an undulating green meadow surrounded by trees at three sides and snow line on the other. Overseeing the Bashleo top while sitting at the slightly higher pass we lay on our backs. Watching the Lammergier circle right above us in smaller concentric circles, the sheep nibbling away in the meadow, Kali mata by our side guarding this heaven, lying in the endless grass at our eye level were zillions of flowers of colours difficult to typify. Each flower had multiple colours and shades, none was only a pink or white. The white had blue on its central undersurface and pink on the tips of the upper surface, the colour of the flower depending on where you see. The breeze and silence and energy was mesmerising and this would never escape our hearts. No picture or description could do justice to where we reached after our tiring hike. This is Bashleo top and pass in Tirthan, you could just carry on from here and finish in Sarahan or go back to Chippni, from where we started. 

Damm and Shalini forewarned that this a full day hike, and we packed in our picnic. Deepam, Monaal and me left from Chippni with our guide early in the morning. Going up the path that we had be traversing daily for the last few days on our recent hikes as we stayed in Tirthan, we were on familiar grounds. Soon enough we broke through the village and entered the forest. The day was glorious and the surrounding mountains at their glorious bests. The forest was dense and old, a well settled ecosystem in the forest. Lots of herbs, small trees, old trees, grass, full of small streams of gurgling water and umpteen insects, birds. It had the feel of a well settled society, where in each component had a lineage, history and role. This was not a forest that had been uprooted and re-settled, it is an ancient forest. The diversity of trees, herbs, birds, presence of many black Himalaya bears was seductive. Some trees so wide that twenty Deepams could fit into the tree core, the trees that had fallen were long enough to bridge adjacent slopes. We were in the kingdom of gods and heaven. 

So far Monaal has always travelled on my shoulders in all our hikes, but today I wanted to rest off my back  and was quite sore from the Munna top excursion the previous day. We had Lal with us to guide us up and he had agreed to carry Monaal on his shoulders. As we crossed the first village and the gradient picked up, going up on fours nearly in some sections, Monaal wanted to go up on me. When she was hauled up on Lal, she started to cry. Most hill ople are supestitious and its not difficult to imagine why, living in such harsh places with nature forces always looking over your shoulder. Lal was concerned with Monaal crying as that would invoke the Devi’s to look upon us, the gods also prefer silence perhaps. Monaal was cajoled and Lal was very gentle and persuasive, soon she was friends with him. Taking off his cap and playing with him, which was fun for him as well. They developed a nice balance within them, of sitting upon and emotionally also. Letting them lead ahead every now and then we would get some time together, which we get so little. The forest, slight breeze, silence and togetherness were a intoxicating mix. It seems Gods truly would roam here, their own garden. The green, shadows and every now and then would appear a stream of crystal water. 

The going was not very steep but the gradient relentless, no flat sections or down slopes intermittently. Lal would give ambiguous answers about the remaining distance, we always felt we were 75% through, since the first hour we had traversed. The forest changed the trees, pine like trees appeared, the white, pink, red rhododendrons appeared in profusion next to brooks, the small yellow, blue and white flowers appeared in small cleanings. The track along the mountain side had sections, where the slope on the side was nearly on eye level and there in the Sun these small flowers, seen in magnification exhibited all their colours and smiles. The climb seemed to finish where we took a sharp curve on the ridge looking over the valley of GNHP (overlooking Jibbhi in the distance). Here we lay under the trees, overlooking the intensely wooded valley, snaking up and ending into two formidable mountains up at the apex. Lal narrated the story of two hikers who lost their way here were rescued by a heli-rescue. It was a seductive valley at its best. The sore limbs we had, enjoyed the breeze while our eyes feasted on the green valley and spotless blue sky. Monaal was full of energy riding on her high place. Lal bluffed us to believe we were almost there and we carried on under the belief that the next ridge was the pass, we were aiming for. We took a shortcut and the track narrowed significantly, at times steep enough to give a dizzy feel, but seeing Lal prance along with Monaal did not allow us to hesitate or complain ever to ourselves. We just carried on without uttering a word. We started to enter a grassy section, the trees started to space up and the gradient eased out but continued along. The streams became more profuse and the surrounding flowers more numerous. It was like treading on carpets of yellow, white and others. I was reminded of Valley of Flowers but in a different dimension. It was far more beautiful and sublime here. We were on a high, the feet were not touching the earth, we were walking in trance and above the earth. The meadow opened up and there was another section of incline. That was torturous after this long hike, and by now we did not trust Lal that we were there, mentally we thought we were another hour away. But as we entered the last climb, the vista of the Bashleo top opened up. 


The alpine meadow took away the tiredness and the eyes opened up wide. A Lemeergier welcomed us on, smaller circles, it dropped its bones for the marrow and these sounds could be heard. In the corner of the meadow were a small Gaddi settlement with some cows, two horses and some sheep. We moved further to the pass. At the apex was a Kali mandir, Monaal kept silent here and ran across the meadows, much to the relief of Lal. Sitting on a rock overlooking the meadow on side, Sarahan on the other, the snow line hugging in both sides. The Gaddi herdsman, with his Mehandi coloured beard sat on an outcrop overlooking his settlement, meditating and contemplative. Heaven doesn’t seem better than this. The sandwiches came out of the bag, with little fruit and a  juice. We could have stayed here as long, and indeed a part of our souls stayed back. 

We started our walk back and the forest engulfed us soon. We decided to do a loop and head back a different path. Infact Lal was in his element here and took us through the forest where there was no path, only his sense of direction. We walked over grass, moss, roots and what seemed a virgin forest. The bear in his presence for us was omnipresent and added a tingle. As we walked back, we started to collect plastic wrappers when we saw any. Lal would gather them and burn them when ever we took a halt and that motivated us too. We collected them in a hip bag that Shalini had packed our sandwiches in. With the gradient now to our benefit, the landings soft due to the soft earth and covering green, our legs were happy and we made rapid progress. Now we wanted to slow down to not let this dream run end. 

At the last meadow that we would cross we thought to burn off the plastic we had collected, now the bag was full. Lal volunteered to head to the corner of the meadow and feed it to Agni. He went off while we sat soaking in the sun. He came back victoriously, but had burned off the bag as well. Damm - what would we tell Shalini??

At the end of the last meadow, on the back the snow peaks appeared with clarity and closeness that seemed intimate. The flowers in profusion added all the colour that eyes can appreciate. The pictures taken could never do justice, with impressions on our heart we headed on. The Shrikhand Mahadev among all the peaks that were in all their glory left a mark and we thought we would be back for this, soon. Soon we reached the last village, now Lal took us further through fields where there was no path again and only his sense of direction. Through apple orchards, cannabis cultivation, by the brook, eating numerous wild berries and drinking in all the water we could. The trees closed in intermittently, we kept our feet in knee deep undergrowth and occasionally found a covered stream with squish of the feet. Back on the road, our bones now groaned after the full day of continuous work. We hailed a truck of workmen and climbed back in the open bay with the tools they had stored. Monaal got comfortable in the cavity of the spare tire and we held the overhead bars. As we sped along the dirt track, the cake of fine dust was baked on us and we entered the house of Damm and Shalini, happy and satisfied and tired, looking forward to the warm shower. 

The hike is a day long walk, through alpine forests, well shaded with plenty of water sources, but its advisable to carry a picnic for eating. Its not tough but enough for a day with moderate fitness levels.

Dholavira Bhuj Lakhpat Dasada Modena Patan - Kutch sojourn

Time to time, we head to a direction we know not much about. Too big a canvas of the destination, limited research and we end up in this situation. Our two trips to Gujarat, separated by time and topography - eight years, Saurashtra and Kutch, have been similar in this context. Rann of Kutch was on the fringes of our travel thoughts since long and ever-since I started reading about the Indus Valley civilisation, Dholavira captured the imagination. In December of 2018 a week long holiday was on the cards and the Rann travel materialised.

While driving to Dholavira, we got the first glimpse of salt harvesting with big mounds of salt on either side of the road on our entry to Kutch. About 100km before our destination we left the highway for smaller roads and as the sun set the mile markers were punctuated by BSF - border posts signages. On the final leg we crossed over to the “Khadir Beth”, an island surrounded by the white Rann when dry and water when wet. While crossing the bridge over the white Rann - the sights we witnessed, were not something we expected. It was mesmerising, spell-bound we witnessed the glow over the white salt plains while crossing over to Khadir Beth. Small remnant pools of water not yet evaporated got hues of various colours and the crystallising salt below them seemed mystical empires. Continuing onwards, the sheer depth and darkness that a night can hold outside the urban light pollution, enveloped us. Switching off the headlights the darkness was penetrating and emphasised our insignificance. Our tent for the next two nights was in “Dholavira resort” - a perfect example of - “why government has no business to run a business”. 

A large palate of orange-red, half hidden by the tents was the moon. Larger than life in dimensions and colours it was. Ascending with speed which was nearly discernible to the eye, across a clear inky blue sky full of stars. Hours at an end, one can wonder and imagine looking into this sky which assumes a living entity of its own. Clear skies in a desert ensured a bone chilling cold in the tents. 

The Sun dawned on Monaal’s third birthday, celebrated with some glucose biscuits, hot milk sitting outside our tent. Dholavira is one of the largest Indus Valley cities and a port of trade. The sea long gone, now stands amidst a big desert. Perhaps the only city of the Harrappan people away from a fresh water source, with mind-boggling focus on water harvesting and storage. The same site witnessed 7 different eras of civilisation. With so much to see there in the excavation site we reached the museum. Introduced to Jaimalbhai, one of the people involved in the excavations since beginning, took us around. To see the reservoir, took our breath away. 


Having read about it over the past year,  nothing can prepare on the sheer magnificence witnessed. Harvesting water from rain, overflow from the adjacent dam and then a deep well at the side, fed 14 such reservoirs, all interconnected, with perfect lines and all in 5:3 proportions. Further up the citadel, the clean lines on the arch bases, polished stones and symmetry, make you wonder about the city 5000 years ago. Drains, wells, bathing shower mechanism, cool water store, walls of immense magnitude, its amazing. The pleasant breeze and strong sun under a blue sky, made things idyllic. As we walked from the middle to lower town, many a barriers were broken between the highs and lows of society of yore, all insignificant and ruined now. 



But the social constructs of now, yet mimic the old, no lessons learnt about the transience of life. Resting under the shade, sleeping on large boulders, Jaimalbhai suggested we come to his house in the village for lunch, to which we readily agreed. Bajra ka rotla, white butter, milk, and chaas at his home with his family made our day. The discussion bordered on the unanswered questions of Dholavira, why did they do so much for storing water here, if it was so difficult then why settle here, there would be some attraction in this land, something we have not figured out as yet, like the enigmatic ten symbols which form the first signboard of mankind. Their burial practices and religion are an enigma, replete of symbols and detail yet undeciphered. Perhaps they are sitting on another planet watching us explore their 5000 year old technologies now, and yet make no sense of it all. Its âme feeling we got while walking the ancient ruins in Athens. 

The Kdadir Beth - standing tall in the flat desert have a magnetic persona of their own and we headed on the road in that direction. The road ended at a BSF outpost and the white rann lay ahead, with a small mandir at the side. Alone, not knowing if its quicksand or slush, we tentatively stepped on the salt plains. The texture changed from slushy to smooth to having being overlaid by small blobs of salt projecting out from the salt plates. Crunching under our feet as we walked further. 




Breaking a small piece you see a thick plate of salt overlying the sun baked earth below. The salt surface makes it slippery and when it gives way, you sink in a moment to the mud. A second of earth sinking below your feet, makes us scared. Walking into the nothingness of the baked earth and sheer white of salt, seemed an attractive path to let go mortal beings. Anyway, Monaal recorded a video thanking everyone for her Birthday wishes here, running in the Sun on the Rann. 

We had crossed a Fossil park marking en-route and headed back there. No where in the Rann did we see large rocks, here suddenly there were many. The base was made of a continuous layer of smooth rock, over large areas. Above these were smooth rocks of various shapes, wind and water swept. Many were balanced on each other delicately. Mostly running deep cracks in symmetry shapes. All were running down to the adjacent Rann. A placard explained the wood rock pitrious fossils here, dating the to the Jurassic era with evidence of the rocks being actually fossilised wood remnants. 

Shifting the spectre from Dholavira to Bhuj, we started early the next day. By noon we were in the city and stopped at Hotel Prince for the famous Kutchi thali. The taste on the palate still lingers and the jalebi with rose petals was a show stealer. Food in Kutch is dairy, spices, oil, potato and brinjal, no question of greens, you eat what grows. Heading to Vibe camp outside Bhuj, we crossed the Khari nadi gorge. Repeatedly you feel hurt in India with the complete disregard of our natural blessings. The gorge has immense beauty and is tantalising but is being filled with garbage and concrete to make way for a bridge overhead - sad and pathetic. We drove into a magical area suddenly full of native Babool with dozens of wild camels feeding on them. The suddenness of this made it seem like an altered reality. 

Evening, we got to Mandvi windmill farm beach. The sea was very serene, air pleasant without the saline odour that usually comes on the sea side and the beach long and wide. We had a pleasant stroll and also played the game of avoiding the drone, ATV and other speeding vehicles on the beach. Back at the campsite, the zillions of stars shone in their full, sitting on the sand we stared at the spherical night sky thinking of Uttarkashi. 

Morning we set off for Lakhpat. Driving onwards from Bhuj, we crossed an interesting structure, like a pile of disconnected rock blocks in the shape of a temple on a big platform. 
The blocks had motifs but were clearly mis-arranged and not in alignment. It was 1000 year old temple that fell in the Bhuj earthquake and the blocks were put back but awaiting the alignment and correct placement even now. Further we crossed Matano-madh and entered vast expanse of barren land with scrub, the leaves coated with fine dust and the earth parched for eons. 

The scrub also gave away after some time and suddenly from the dust emerged an outline of a fort wall. Large, thick, solid with intermittent columns, it was an impressive sight, which could easily be a mirage. But as we drew closer, it was real. Entering through a gate with the wooden doors unhinged and partly buried in sand lying adjacent. It was entering another era once again. The insides of the 9km long walls enclosed an empty land, with an occasional structure yet standing. Going along the narrow road, first we crossed a Gurudwara, then a mosque and then walked up the ramparts of the wall.
 It overlooked the vast river bed of where Indus once flowed. Immense alluvial plain with encroaching sea water from close, the rann extending beyond and Hyderabad of Pakistan in the distance. Strong breeze across our face, we sat and gazed into the infinite. The sense of the place entered our soul and moving away was difficult. It was once a busy port by the Indus and generated a revenue of lakhs everyday, hence the name. The wall was constructed in 1601 for protection of the merchants. The earthquake of 1619 saw the river change its course and Lkhpat had nothing more left, the people left and the fort became an expanse of enclosed emptiness. The best laid plans, optimism based on logic laid to waste in a stroke of uncontrolled events, sums up the story of Lakhpat and of life. The Gurudwara standing today was a Kutchi house where Guru Gobind stayed while on visit to Mecca and slept in the same room which houses the main shrine today. We had a tasty langar, only the three of us and another two people. 


Driving back we stopped at the Spot caves. Following the road signs we headed up a narrow road and without any place to park we suddenly reached the mouth of the cave. No one was there, no directions, just the openings of two caves. They were dark, smelled of bats and we wandered around to look for something. Approaching a farmer close by, he came over to help us. The Buddhist caves date back to 4-5th century BC were mentioned by Huei Seng as being close to the mouth of Indus. The farmer showed us the blocked entrances and narrated his impressions when he had gone in prior to the closure. 


He also took us over to an adjacent step well. A functional, non-fancy step well. A narrow slit on the earth with rock steps heading downwards to a rock wall at the distal end. The rock wall seeps water and collects on the base of the last few steps. Simple, elegant, minimal and functional. 

Next morning after thepla and muttheri, we explored Bhuj - chattara - the royal burial ground and Parag palace. The palace was a Neo-gothic style building 150 years old, but the gem of the day was the gentleman in charge of the Kutch study centre in the adjacent museum. He passionately showed the old manuscripts and explained the history. We were very engrossed and like good students followed him all over the place. At the end, he handed us a piece of a wood fossil. It would be sad to see that heritage of Kutch leave its home and our refusal, explanat





ion made him even happier. On the way to Dasada, our night halt; we stopped at Bhujodi and then LLDC. Bhujodi is a small village of weavers which have put themselves on a platform that they are noticed and 15 have received national awards. Self reliance, entrepreneurship without degeneration of a concept to short term gains was evident. Gandhiji with his concept of village self reliance would surely be mighty pleased at this self-respecting, progressive and honest village. LLDC took local arts to a global platform. Without hesitation, its a museum that can lock horns with Yves St Lauren museum at Rabat. The ambience and the architecture induce peace, and the exhibits, their explantations add perspective. Travelling through Kutch we saw a lot, LLDC weaved that into a socio-cultural fabric. The tribes that make up Kutch, their descent, customs, economic hardships and then resurgence; all spun around the common theme of the embroidery traditions. Embroidery is a language, expression of feelings and soaked in the depth of cultural identity, is what emerged. Each tribe having their own motifs, sticth, colour that reflects their identity and beliefs. Feelings for Kutch changed from love to romance as we passed through the panels. The section on Ahirs, resonated of Deepam as a character. Maybe you inherit your lineage and culture in your blood even when you are born and live so far from your roots. Another enticement was the Banni grasslands, the story, people, sites - next on our vacation list we put that. On a high, we walked over to have a Kutchi thali at the cafeteria before driving onwards to Dasada. 

Runn Riders at Dasada, we had booked. After the last week, we expected another tented accomadation with sand permeating everywhere, but as we entered we realised its something else. No tents, we had a roof, hot tap water, mellow lighting and the works of a urbanised rural escape. Excitement gave away to longing for the basics and connection to the soil we were on. The grass, easy flow of water, Mughlai food, non-gujrati staff made it all feel artificial. We could have been in ay resort in India - it would be the same. We missed savouring the small pleasures soaked in effort of the sun-baked dusty family who would help in making tea or muttheri.

Monaal - woke up in the morning with “papa - sugar packet wali pant pehen lo”. We had a hearty laugh, the previous night she had put two sugar sachets in trouser pocket on an assurance that she will get to eat them the next day. Perhaps she must have dreamt of tasting them in all her sleep. Leaving at a leisurely pace we set off for Sun temple at Modena, followed by the “rani - ki - vav” at Pattan.  

The Sun temple at Modena, pre-dates its more famous sibling, the Konark temple. A step well, then the assembly hall and then the temple amidst sprawling lawns in a well kept facility by the ASI, were very interesting. Somewhat dampened by an over-excited guide, who wanted to download a lot of information and make sure we saw lots of corny correlations betwen the stories and the sculptures. Sitting on the Tropic of Capricorn, on equinox, the first sun rays alight the main alter in a single unfiltered glow. The mythological depictions with their symbolism twists was fun to observe. The depictions of child birth and death on facing panels, surely would evoke a lot of thought. Also good to see was that all over our Kutch trip we saw lots of school trips, having fun, loosely controlled but responsible young children. 

Entering into Pattan was via a wall reminiscent of Lakhpat, but in contrast well inhabited within. 


The step well of rani-ki-vav justifiably holds its fame and stature. Its glorious and must see. Being buried so long its rather well preserved in detail and structure. Adjacent to the vav, but infrequent by the tourists is the “sahastra lingam lake”. Its attractive, big and mysterious. A huge collection of channels to store the rain water, surrounded by countless lingams, small mandirs, the embankments lined by trees and the story that Akbar’s mentor - Behram Khan had his last living pleasure of a boat ride here, before being killed, add to the attraction. It was noon by now and we had overheard the gastronomic delights offered at Banshi’s. Thinking that the Patola museum would be a short stop, we headed there before relishing another Gujrati thali. 

The Patola museum is an unassuming modern building. Walking in a person standing adjacent to a loom explained what is Patola, ikkat and the nuances. He took time and we grasped the detail. The Patola print is already placed on the threads via tie-die method in a series of vegetable dyes. The vertical threads and horizontal threads sperately. When aligned the pattern is visible as the threads come adjacent, even before the weave. To see this on the loom, the patterns glimmer on the unwed threads was astounding. Wizardry of the brain, I cannot imagine how would once place the ties to dye on individual threads with a pattern in the head. That too an art of 700 years legacy. Stunned, we walked through and started to see this as an art rather than a cloth. Mr Salvi, gentleman who explained painstakingly was our gem for the day. His passion for his art, his region, his belonging, self respect and ease of expression spell bound us to listen to the story about the vav, sun temple, pattan from him. The pictures of the vav in rains, brimming with water were on his phone. Happy to have met him, by the time we walked out, Banshi had closed shop and we drove to Dasada to spend the evening soaking in the sun. 

The Jain ascetic on the road are always attractive. Giving up, in white, peacefully walking in grace. Some day we would try to enter your sanctum of spiritual awakening, o holy monks of the world. Alphabet Vs letter, cracking of oil, walk in nothingness, koora Devi carried on. 

All ready for the Asiatic wild ass and Flamingo, we sat in our jeep to head to the desert Rann again. Riding leisurely through villages, rekindling our love for birding we reached again the vast expanses, but now brown and dusty. Tracking and tracing we spotted a few asses now and again. Looking for the wolves, fox unsuccessfully we drove at random within the desert. Alone once again, in silence but for the wind in our ears, we walked a but and sat in the desert sand a bit. In short the ass is completely useless to humans and of no benefit. The “nava-talaab” had hundreds of pink flamingoes. Pink on their legs and feathers as the algae grow on, walking in a rhythm feeding off the small creatures in the shallow lake. Elegant and beautiful we peered in our binoculars for long. Monaal in the meantime picked up pink tinged feathers, safely deposited by little hands in my pocket. We stopped at a salt farm on the way back, the family from Namakhoda staying in tents by the salt farm, operated on solar power for 6 months a year generating salt and bromine water. They reminded me of the salt mines near Krackow in Poland, another place for non-sea salt, when salt was worth its weight in gold. The sentiment echoed by the family here. The changing shapes of crystals in each bed, changing hues and same salt methods over centuries, a story of long continued. 

Catching up on our sleep at the fag end of the vacation, we woke up late the next day. Enjoyed ourself at Swathi sweets in Ahemdabad and headed back to Gurgaon. 

Morocco - Imlil - Toubkal and the trois valley hike

Morocco - desert and Tajine, would summarise as a cliche. But also in the Atlas Mountains that run through, lies the tallest mountain of North Africa “Toubkal”.

 The hike begins from the village “Imlil” at the base. We started from Marrakesh after a leisurely breakfast at the Riad and made way through the lesser used mountain road to Imlil. The landscape soon became arid and the road weaved through rocky-sandy hillocks. At one such bend, we could oversee a vast expanse, spot some quads racing through and Monaal wanted to pee - the loo with a view. At the same time, a man on motorcycle carrying a backpack passed and looped to returned back to where we had parked our “hertz-Panda”. Linguistic barriers not withstanding he opened his bag and wanted to sell all kinds of trinkets and stones, while Monaal was alerting us to the completion of her job. To politely refuse him and quickly attend to the frantic calls was a hilarious beginning of our trip. 

Soon after the mounds gave way to hills that rose suddenly and the road twisted through. The small town we passed gave us a glimpse of a place frozen in time. I missed my road-bike to cycle through these roads, with straight stretches, inclines - it would have been a paradise to bike. At a bend there was a view-point overlooking the valley as the river snaked through. The view not breathtaking but gave a perspective of hills in an arid land. Joining the main highway as it runs from Marrakesh we carried on to Imlil. The mountains became taller and the valleys green. The mountain towns have Rohm of their own, irrespective of the country or continent they could be in. Imlil had the same vibe, small shops and eateries dot the main road as it snakes through and at the distal end as we crossed a stream the town ended. 

Our place of stay “Village de Toubkal” was a short distance away from the paved road, along a dirt track. The lack of signages and the remoteness of the place made us doubt if we were headed in the correct direction. Finally we spotted a village, parked the car on a curb and walked down. Confirming that we were there, we returned with our baggage. There was no one other than us, no internet coverage and no electricity. The check in was more like a distant walk in to a room. The window overlooked Imlil and the bathroom was as big as the room with a gigantic tub but no hot water. Mentally we were prepared as we had read of Imlil, though information was scanty. Among the two people who ran this place, one accompanied us back to Imlil to show a short walking path through the adjacent village. The overflow of garbage into the stream and the path was continuous. The developing world is paying the cost of cheap plastic availability without proper disposal mechanisms being in place. The greed of companies, to market cheaper products with cheaper plastic without the moral responsibility of removing the waste in the poorer countries while upholding high principles in the developed, makes one sad and angry and almost an anarchist. 

Back in town, we headed to the cafe next to stream after a fruitless search for a pizzeria, and settled for Tajine. Language barriers can be broken effortlessly when there is a will and erected effortlessly when there is a need. After filling in our bellies we walked over to the official tourism bureau and the guides there assured us that even with Monaal on my back we could go up and down Toubkal the same day. They also suggested a three valley hike that would be long but possible. Walking up to our hotel, we discarded the idea of Toubkal as we had already read about it and the reality of the topography and trail we could see. Passing a shop, a person started talking to us regarding our plans and then offered to be our guide the next day. He spoke English and was a student, we took his number and ambled along. Adjacent to our hotel the dirt track continued as the hiking path to Toubkal. As it was noon and we decided to push along and see how it went, to make a final call. Passing along the bends our decision to abandon the plan for Toubkal fired up and the same person - Abdulrahim who volunteered to be our guide crossed our path again. Now we confirmed to him for the next morning for the three valley hike. Back at our hotel the electricity was on and there was hot water, with which we had a nice bath and headed to the dining area. Sitting on low benches with square tables along the wall there were other people as well now. A nice warm fire was on and it had started to be chilly outside. The dinner was Tajine once again, lamb was the centrepiece surrounded by potatoes and figs. Dinner devoured, we were sleeping in our beds peacefully, looking forward to the walk the next day. 

The morning was cold and the sky clear. We had a nice simple breakfast of warm local bread, butter, jam and honey with mint tea. Abdulrahim was here before time and reminded us of Shaban Lone - our guide to the Kalahoi glacier in Kashmir a few months ago. We got going soon enough and the Sun was yet finding its way to emerge from the mountain tops. The light preceeds the warmth of the day and on the leeward side of the mountains it was chilled. 

The route was to pass through three valleys interconnected by three high passes, this would entail for sharp scenes and depends. But the immediate onset of the relentless climb in the chill, caught us by surprise. Monaal was soon on my back. Reaching the first pass - col - the Sun warmed us as we emerged from the shadows. It was blissful to sit in the warmth and a small shop there had fresh pressed orange juice that we gladly lapped up. Two bikers also stopped there as the road intersected the walking track; they were traversing Morocco over a month long holiday. Going down from the first pass into the valley was steep but the open path and Sun made it warm. 

As the day progressed the temperatures were better and breeze cooled us. The valley was a lush green in contrast to the browns of the slopes. The spring blossomed the green and the civilisation, beyond the artificial constructs of infrastructure and availability, the norms of habitation and living are the same as from centuries before. Entering the village we crossed the stream and sheep were being tended by women who gave the generous whacks to get them moving. These women would have been as much at home in Kashmir or in Garhwal as here, in their physical attributes or attitude. Traversing the village in the narrow alleys we emerged on the other side and continued the relentless climb along the mountain side. Now we were headed to a village higher up on the side, from where we would climb over the next pass into the third valley. 

Easier planned than done, we laboured our way through the narrow path hugging the mountain side. We reached the high village and decided to have lunch here. Our guide knew some people here and one family opened their doors to let us in and share lunch. The door opened into a courtyard with some shady trees by the side, surrounding was the house structure on one side and other three sides were just walled in. In the courtyard three women sat sorting wool, to clean and then spin into yarn. We sat at a low table adjacent, under the shade of a tree to shield us from the glaring sun. The breeze was cool and we were happy to rest here. The old women picked up a few walnuts that were in a heap next to her and rolled them to us. They were milky and soft, the kernel cracking with the slightest of pressure between the hands. The lunch itself was bread, olive oil, honey which had the bees inside like fossils of amber and mint tea. Observing, absorbing and smiling was mutual between us and Abdulrahim translated a few questions and answers. Moving on we observed that the school was the only building with colour, rest were a dull grey-brown. The garbage was omnipresent here as well, and no one seemed to notice it.   

The climb was punishing and never ending, we left the green furrow that hugged the stream to exposed brown grass and rocks as we snaked our way higher. Each ridge exposed the next ridge to be climbed. After a seemingly long time, we reached the pass. It was marked by a small collection of stones, like the Buddhist Chorten. On the other side, mountain goats made mockery of our efforts by racing and dancing effortlessly. We rested on the pass, Monaal has fallen asleep while ascending and continued to sleep, I observe that she is heavier to carry while asleep. Maybe she makes no conversation and then feels heavier. We oversaw the valleys we had traversed, brown with green, cocooning within them a civilisation, tall and beautiful. The descent down to the Imlil valley was steep and punishing on the knees.  

Abdulrahim made no effort to conceal his irritation with us and I reminded him, that we were twice his age. But the same evening forgot to factor this when was suggesting an itinerary to a German couple who had been together since 40 years. Karma - would catch up with me. At the end of the trail, we were yet 5-6 km from Imlil and had to walk up the tarmac. Deepam decided to hitch a ride and soon enough a Prado stopped and we hopped right in. It seemed like luxury to be moving without further straining the tortured muscles and he drove fast and hard. Back at Imlil we got off and walked back to our hotel. 

Back at the hotel (village de Toubkal) we gulped down some orange juice. A warm shower and change of clothes later, we headed back to common space. Today there was a older German couple, a dutch couple and British as well. The Tajine and soup arrived soon enough. The soup was a rich tomato Harrara with a wooden spoon that was elegant, rustic and functional. I was so impressed to request to buy 6 but due to unavailability we were gifted two which were in use. With the two spoons and plenty of memories packed in along with our luggage we slept the night to leave early the next day.