Click
here if you wish to recieve email notification of any updates
to this blog.
June 25, 2004
Rice and peaceSome of the finest views in the Kulu Valley are to be had on the east bank of the Beas (known locally as the left bank), and two especially nice ones look down over rice paddies at Jagatsukh and Sarsei villages. Rice plants are a particularly vibrant green, and during the growing season, the terraced paddies shine out from among the surrounding fruit orchards.
The rice grown locally is known as red rice, a reddish brown variety with a rich taste far nicer than the usual kind local people eat on a daily basis. There was once far more of it grown, but fewer people take the trouble these days, turning their fields over to more profitable apple crops that wouldn't survive in the flooded rice fields. Raju, a friend from Jagatsukh said that this year would probably be the last year his family grew rice, as the trees in neighbouring fields were overshadowing the paddies too much.
We'd never seen rice planting, so we headed over to Jagatsukh by rickshaw for a look at how it was done. Jagatsukh is a pretty village once you get off the road, with a beautiful old style temple in the middle of the village and plenty of wonky old wood and stone houses. A stiff walk up the hill is the even more pretty village of Banara, with a majestic view of the surrounding area - not the place you want to get home to and realise you forgot to buy fags at the shop. Jagatsukh was once the capital and main town of the Kullu kingdom till it was moved to Naggar. Legend has it that the ancestor of the current Kullu Raja, Maheshwar Singh, was walking near Jagatsukh when he saw an old woman struggling with wood. Feeling sorry for her, he offered to help with her load, whereupon she revealed herself as the Goddess Hadimba, and repaid his help by offering him the kingship of "the land as far as you can see". Kindness pays.
The rice fields are in the area between the road and the Beas, in an open patch largely surrounded now by orchards. As with much of the valley, it is insanely idyllic and rural, the path we took winding past a water driven flour mill and accompanied by a babbling stream used for irrigation. A hundred metres from the road and you wouldn't know it existed, with only the murmur of the stream and the occasional Namaste from a passing village woman with a kilta (basket) of grass for her cow.
The first rice fields we passed were already planted, the plants sitting a few inches apart in two inch deep water. The place must rapidly turn into mosquito hell after the fields are flooded as we could see swarms of mosquito larvae wriggling over the bottom. They doubtless provide a good supply of food for the occasional frogs we saw hopping around.
The system of irrigation is intricate. The water to flood the terraces comes from a series of irrigation channels that wind down through the fields next to the path. A lot of work evidently goes into making the terraces retain water, with mud banked up in a sort of lip around the edge of the field, except on the uphill side, which backs onto the higher terrace. The water is fed into one terrace through the irrgiation channel, then flows through narrow six inch gaps in the mud lip of the field, cascading down into the terrace below. Once the bottom most terraces have a few inches of water in them, the narrow channels in the terrace above are closed and that one begines to fill. The process is repeated until all of the terraces back up the hill are full, with the level kept up with a slow and constant flow of water.
Further on toward the river, we found some fields where planting was still going on, although more or less finished and a group of six or seven women and children had a small production line going. While most of the field was planted, one corner of the field was densely packed with green fronds; a sort of nursery where the rice is grown from seeds sown in March, till it is more mature and ready for replanting spaced further apart. The children and one or two of the women were wading around knee deep in the muddy water and gently picking the plants, putting them into bunches and placing the bunches next to the small stream. Another two women were wading in the small stream and washing the remaining dirt from the roots of the bunched rice plants by plunging them up and down in the water. Once cleaned, the bunches were tied with grass and laid on the bank at one side of the stream. A man turned up, apparently the husband of one of the women, and put the bunches carefully into a kilta and headed off further down the path, evidently to replant them in another field.
The work must have been backbreaking, as most of it involved bending over to pick or clean the plants, but the women and kids seemed to be having great time, grinning constantly and splashing each other with the muddy water. They scarcely seemed surpised to see us. Jagatsukh is home to a lot of "long term" travellers, often Italians, and rice planting seems to exert a real fascination for foreign visitors.
After sitting and asking a lot of doubtless puzzling and inane questions about rice, we went further down the path in the direction taken by the guy with the kilta, and found a larger group of women just about to start planting in the several flooded by otherwise empty terraces. Several of the higher fields still had large clods of unbroken earth standing clear of the water, and a man with two bulls pulling a sort of wooden rake was urging them with a stick around the terraces to break up the remaining lumps, leaving the underlying mud soft enough to plant the rice. The two bullocks had muzzles on their snouts, presumably to stop them packing it in and munching grass at every opportunity.
The women were of various ages, and an especially jovial bunch, laughing loudly at the sight of their spectators. They called over and asked in Hindi if we wanted to try some "runi karna" (planting). Rather to their surpise, I think, Kirsten said yes and started to take her boots off and roll her jeans up. Her part of North Germany in Dithmarschen is inexplicably famous for the unusual (for which read "fucking weird") pastime of "mud walking", in which hordes of (entirely stereotypical German obviously) tourists head out barefoot onto the mud flats at the junction of the Elbe and the North Sea for a stroll ankle deep in disgusting looking goo. I declined the planting offer on the grounds that (A) I loathe the feeling of mud between my toes, (B) my four hours farm work planting cabbage at Kirstens family farm was enough agriculture for several lifetimes, and settled back onto a grassy patch to watch and doze.
By one of those not-so-weird Kulu Valley coincidences, one of the older women, Ramde, was the mother of Raju, the guy that told us the planting was starting in Jagatsukh, and some of the other women were also relatives. Kirsten wandered off with the women over two or three terraces, was given and handful of plants, and they all bent over and set to work, moving backwards down the terrace in a line. According to Kirsten, its harder than it looks, the constant bending over makes it very tough on the back. She packed it in after a respectable half an hour and came back to get her camera to take some pictures (shown in these photo blog entries one, two ), the skin on her feet wrinkled from a mere half hour underwater.
The women were incredibly quick with putting the plants into the mud, and with very even spacing, gently placing the roots of each into the goo and leaving the upper part half floating, only loosely attached to the bottom, presumably until the roots begin to bind into the muck. The terrace they were working on was around 100 feet long, but after an hour or so they had almost reached the end. One of the women told us that come harvest time in late October, the field could be expected to produce around one quintal, or 100 Kg of rice - enough, after cooking, to fill two of the vast pots used for communal cooking at festivals and weddings.
With the field almost finished, one of the women, Thakeri, came over and asked if we wanted to try some "local khana", and, when we said yes, brought over a kilta that had been leaning against a tree, producing a couple of pieces of bhaturu (risen chapati deep fried) and particularly top class subzi (vegetable), mainly of potato. We had hardly expected an impromptu picnic, and an especially timely one as I had just complained to Kirsten that I was (unusually) bloody starving. Thakeri, never seemed to stop laughing, seemingly impressed that we actually knew what bhaturu was without being told.
The guy with the bullocks had by now finished his raking, and the unhitched beasts had their muzzles removed and were heading back up the path, stopping every now and again for a light snack of grass. We left the women with promises that we'd drop copies of some of the pictures to their houses in the next few days.
We wandered through the peace and calm of the orchards, back to the village to deliver some pictures taken earlier, and bumped into another friend of ours, and (inevitably) relative of Raju, Dhiraj, who works in the cheese factory. He treated us to chai at the local dhaba before taking us back to the cheese manufacturer and presenting us with a large piece of their excellent cheddar type hard cheese. I'm a huge cheese fan, and the cold room at the plant looks like heaven with rack upon rack of wheels of maturing cheese (see photo blog).
A visit to Jagatsukh wouldn't be complete without the last bus ritual fiasco. It goes like this. We ask when the next bus is due, they usually say 10 or 15 minutes. The last is theoretically 8pm, but whatever time we ask after 6pm someone will say it is the last. We think, "OK, we'll just walk a bit and it can catch us up", start walking and an hour or so later, no sign of a bus, by which time we've walked more as far as Aleo, 2 km or so from Manali. We stop for a chai (but for Kirsten I'd do so once every km), and just as it is brought out to us, the "last" bus screams past, a mere hour and a half behind the somewhat misnamed schedule.
The buses, like everything in the life of the Kulu Valley and its people have a rhythmn all of their own, and I dread the day comes that it is any other way.
[Back
to Top]
June 23, 2004
Madness in the Mall A trip to Manali's main town in the evening is not for the faint hearted at this time of year. The market area is packed to capacity from top to bottom with hordes of people enjoying, at least in theory, a leisurely evening stroll up and down the mall and perhaps an ice cream, the idyll marred only a little by the nose to tail traffic that packs the bits of the road surface not occupied by humans. The cars are mostly the jeeps and taxis that holidaymakers rent to bring them up from the plains and ferry them round for the week, and the drivers have the entirely normal Indian love of leaning on the horn at every opportunity.
It is so often said that Americans cannot do without their cars to go on even the smallest journeys, but I am beginning to think they have serious rivals here in India. Most of the vehicles in town in the evening are used by people whose hotels are not more than 500 metres away, yet they can't quite bring themselves to do it on foot, so they pile into the back of the massive Tata Sumo or Toyota Qualis and spend more time in a jam getting to town than they would have taken to walk. Since legitimate parking in Manali is close to non - existent, they adopt a technique beloved of my mother, and "abandon" the car and driver at the side of the mall at anything that resembles space, before heading off for ice cream.
As if the traffic wasn't bad enough, the mall is the only way to get through Manali from Kullu to Rohtang pass, so in the evening the traffic is enhanced by army vehicles, transports and fuel tankers taking supplies and personnel up to Ladakh. There is nominally a one way system in place for traffic going "up", diverted to a tortuous route through the back of the town centre, leaving half of the main road mostly for pedestrians. This, strangely, only lasts till 8pm, and in any case cant be used by heavy trucks and coaches.
In short its an ugly, noisy mess, to be avoided by anyone who values their sanity, yet the Indian tourists evidently have a different idea to westerners as to what constitutes a relaxing break in the clean air of the hills. The Delhi/Chandigarh/Punjab tourists seem quite at home, and so they should as the whole shebang has come on holiday with them; traffic jam, noise, pollution and the hordes of hawkers selling the usual mish mash of leather riding crops(?!?), flashing key rings, chess sets, humourous hats, toy helicopters etc. Not to forget the Saffron boys.
We were sitting in Ram Bagh and watching the mayhem below on the mall with an Indian travel agent friend who is also a resident of Delhi. He grinned and shook his head, commenting that he can't understand why they bother coming here at all, they can do the same walk up and down in Connaught Place with less densely packed crowds. And the ice cream is better.
I suppose I am rather naiive in making assumptions about what people want from a holiday. Its beyond me, but the Brits certainly are famous for a love of an annual fortnight at some overcrowded Spanish resorts where a plentiful supply of fish and chip shops ensure they never have to eat any actual Spanish food. Judging by the TV images, most of Ibiza closely resembles the back streets of Londons west end at 4am on Saturday night. So if the Brits recreate home away from home, why shouldn't the Indians revel in Delhi style traffic chaos, noise and crowds 2,000 metres up in the Himalaya? Perhaps they'd suffer a dose of Agraphobia if they were actually confronted by anything too natural and empty.
[Back
to Top]
Another miracle in concrete Well, Indians on holiday in the Kulu Valley will soon have another Delhi style attraction to ensure their Himalayan stay isn't too traumatic. According to the Hindustan times, the huge concrete bridge over the Beas river just after Akhara Bazaar in Kullu is more or less finished. Work has been going on for at least the last four years, with much of the time spent digging the massive pits for the foundations, and the body of the bridge going up rather rapidly. In tandem with another bridge in the Parvati valley, the finished result will bring huge relief to the traffic hell of Kullu's one truck wide Akhara bazaar, providing the other end of a road bypassing the town on the east bank of the Beas that will take all through traffic on the National Highway out of the city.
A pretty bridge it is not; none of the soaring majesty of a suspension bridge or the grace of an iron cantilever, it spans the Beas in a way that is entirely concrete, slablike, functional - and extremely ugly. Think motorway / autoroute overpass and you have an accurate picture. While it is a positive contribution to easing traffic congestion, the Hindustan Times account goes much further, suggesting it will greatly enhance the beauty and views of the area and be a "major attraction" for tourists in its own right, proving that either (A)the writer is a basket case who has spent too long in the city, (B)the writer is a basket case who has taken a generous backhander from a concrete manufacturer, (C)the newspaper was sent a PR shot of an entirely different bridge by the designers (D)Indian tourists are unlike tourists anywhere else in the world and have a seriously warped notion of what is encapsulated in the concepts "beauty", "peace" and "view". I suppose (E) could be that I am entirely wrong and that concreting the Himalaya is really the way forward to tourist nirvana.
And the main use of the bridge as a tourist attraction may be its fate for some time to come. Although the structure is almost ready, work on the approach roads has yet to start. Apparently no one thought to ask the relevant authorities if building a road was OK, and to date no permission to start road work has been given.
[Back
to Top]
June 14, 2004
Full moon partyI've put up a piece in the full moon party in early June, but posted it at the date most of it was written, June 5th, or two or three posts down from here under the title "Fear and Loathing on the Himalayan party trail".
[Back
to Top]
The first vest of summerManali is quiet again after being packed out a week or so ago for the full moon party. "Baba" is heard less frequently in the restaurants, and the Enfield bullet motorcycles and their largely Israeli owners are absent from guest houses around Dragon. The roads are now open to Spiti and Ladakh, and as the Dalai Lama is in Spiti at a mini Kala Chakra, most of the shanti babas of the Chillum Tribe have headed off there to party away within shouting distance of an incarnation of the Tibetan deity of Universal Compassion, before heading off up to knock off the next tickmark on their itinerary in Leh.
The Indian domestic tourism season is winding down to a close, although Manali may yet pick up a bit after the brutal grenade attack on a tourist hotel in Kashmir by Islamic militants which left four people dead, including a six year old.
The Kashmiri tourist industry was enjoying a resurgence this year, with many Indians believing the threat of militancy reduced by the warmer relations with Pakistan. The group who claimed responsibility, Al Nasirin, said that the attack was a "warning to visitors that Kashmir was disputed territory". Many western tourists had planned to head on through Kashmir after visiting Leh, plans that may well be changed.
The summer seems to have finally put in an appearance after the unseasonal cold of April, May and the first half of June, which has seen most people who arrive diving for the nearest blanket shop, and many leaving for warmer places. Sitting out in the evening, which should normally be Tshirt temperatures, wasn't much of an option, and one guy who took a room with a fireplace actually had a log fire roaring in the first week of June.
But in the last two or three days the temperature has gone up to something reasonable, and the air is becoming humid and hazy, alternating clouds and hot daytime sun - a good excuse for lassi at the Green Forest Cafe if ever one were needed. But the definitive proof that summer is here always comes from my landlords choice of clothes; he is now wearing his white cotton vest during the day and his wife has finally taken off her heavy woolen pattu when working around the house.
[Back
to Top]
Pride before the fallWith the summer comes sport, and Euro 2004 has hit Manali, with many restaurants getting in large screens to show games in the hope of bringing in the punters. Cafe Manalsu is the place to go for those who think that life is possible without the thrill of the overpayed Beckham, Zidane etc bickering pointlessly over a small round object. The owner, Rajiv, balked at the 4,500 Rs the cable operator wanted to hook him up to the global media.
Manalsu in any case offers a higher quality of entertainment from time to time. A friend, Ravi, is given to the odd improbable boast, even though he doesn't drink, and was daft enough to make one when everyone one else was in a mood to hold him to his word. While talking about Karate, he claimed that he could kick the lamp in the middle of the cafe with a jump kick. ÒBollocksÓ, we all said, it's over 2.5 metres off the floor. He persisted, so we suggested he put his money where his mouth was. Pride comes before a fall (literally in this case), and he agreed, somewhat petulantly. We rubbed our mitts at the thought of easy cash; Kirsten and I decided not to be too cruel, and had 500Rs each evens. Rajiv has a more evil streak, putting up 2,000 Rs with a look of unadultertated glee. The deal was that Ravi would have 5 goes over a period of 10 minutes. We set the date for a week later, on Friday, and suggested selling tickets.
In the event, Ravi pleaded tired on the Friday after the party, and wanted to put off till Sunday. Rajiv only agreed when an extra condition was added; that when Ravi lost he should stand on the table and publicly apologise for his arrogance.
Ravi was modest on the day, and didn't want an audience for his feat of athletiscism, but Sunday turned out to be one of those Manalsu evenings when plenty of people were there, and they were all horribly pissed on large quantities of rum, whisky and beer, with Ravi the only sober one in the room. The main room was cleared, and some mattresses laid on the floor to cushion his fall. Rajiv had insisted on an additional clause whereby Ravi would pay for the damage in addition to the bet should he happen to go through the window or something. People lined up with digicams and videos to record the great moment, and Ravi stood at the counter and contemplated how he was going to go from fittish 27 year old to Olympic high jumper in the next 10 minutes. The very nasha crowd got impatient and hassled, and finally he made his first run, getting his foot to within a respectable foot and a half of the lamp before hitting the mattresses hard, accompanied by a lot of mal-coordinated flashes from cameras held by onlookers and a round of applause. His second attempt got no nearer, and he spent so long contemplating his third that he used up far more than the allocated time before conceding defeat. Somehow, with everyone else too pissed to notice, he managed to get out of coughing up the wonga there and then, and out of standing on the table and proclaiming his arrogance.
Ravi, we are still waiting. Paise chaiye.
[Back
to Top]
Prini's own VVIPFormer Prime Minister A B Vajpayee arrived on the 11th for another of his annual summer breaks in the village of Prini, just outside Manali. After his party's recent surprise thrashing in the polls, the ex PM has been in circumspect mood during interviews with the press from his summer retreat, blaming much of the defeat on complacency - the "India shining" campaign - and the BJPs contraversial handling of the 2002 Gujarat riots and their aftermath.
As he is no longer PM, the massive security operation that has accompanied previous visits has been reduced in scale, and thus the inconvenience to local people, although he still rates a sizeable "VVIP" security presence as leader of the opposition. Local people have been looking forward to the visit, and say the fact he is no longer in the top slot doesn't reduce their affection for Vajpayee, a much respected political figure in India. He has done much good for the villagers, in the past solving problems that would have been impossible through normal bureaucratic channels. They are hoping for greater access now that his security cordon has been reduced.
Indian newspapers appear to suffer from as much of a "silly season" during the summer parliamentary recess as do their British counterparts, as with this story on Sify.com covering Vajpayee's holiday eating habits.
[Back
to Top]
June 7, 2004
Himachal; the best high - official You really have to wonder sometimes. While one branch of the Himachal State government - the Police - is zealously trying to wipe out the "menace" of drugs in the state, another, in the form of the Himachal Pradesh Tourism Development Corporation (HPTDC), seems to be singing from a slightly different hymn sheet. The Hindustan Times reports that the state tourism Minister announced an "aggressive" advertising campaign to lure tourists to the hills under the slogan "High on Himachal". The slogan is supposed to suggest a natural high from the intoxicating beauty of the hills and adventure sports available, but might just strike more of a chord with the thousands of western backpackers - and increasing numbers of young Indians - who come to sample a rather better known Himachal high; the world famous charas which grows wild almost everywhere in the state. As government campaigns are not usually noted for their sense of humour, it can only be assumed that some boffin in the slogan department has led a very closeted life.
[Back
to Top]
June 5, 2004
Fear and Loathing on the Himalayan party trailLast nights full moon party went, like so many of the parties in the last two years, the way of the dodo. The much publicised "Israeli extravaganza" was extravagant only in the 250 Rs entrance charge and the violence handed out by the cops, and at 4 hours, fell rather short of the proposed 3 days. In that it was hardly unusual. Not more than one or two parties have gone the full distance, with some closed down before they even kick off and the rest generally lasting one night.
Manali has been getting busier in the last few days in anticipation of the full moon and the requisite party, to the point that there are stories of people sleeping on verandahs due to the lack of rooms - or at least reasonably priced ones. Accompanying the wave of arriving Israelis and other assorted party heads from Kasol and Dharamsala has been the inevitable increase in cafes playing techno in a bid to attract custom. Whereas last week food would be accompanied by rock, jazz, Himachali or even classical music, this week repetitive electronic bleep music and shouts of "baba, baba, wheres my chai" provide the soundtrack to the party build up. Less party oriented tourists have been heading for the peace and quiet of the village periphery, fleeing the distinctly unshanti mess that the area around Dragon guest house becomes when a party is due; perhaps showing their age, or maybe a belief that the Kulu Valley is not simply an outdoor branch of some Tel Aviv nightclub.
Superintendant of Police AP Singh apparently agrees. Since his appointment he has enthusiastically pursued the policies of his predecessor, who publicly declared war on the "drug menace" in the valley. One of the casualties have been the famed parties, seen as they are as the epicentre of antisocial druggie behaviour. Under his direction the cops have been especially zealous in ensuring that outdoor fun for tourists is strictly limited to more wholesome activities such as trekking and white water rafting, with parties only technically legal if they are held indoors and dont involve drugs. This has caused more than a little friction with the local business people in Old Manali who realise that frequent parties and copious charas consumption are the best way to get bums on seats in their guest houses and restaurants; in particular Israelis, although they are seen as something of a double edged sword, coming as they do with plenty of cash and an equal amount of verbal, the latter to the extent that these days the mere mention of the word "baba" can induce a nasty nervous twitch in some of the local people who work with tourists. If you have no idea of what I am talking about, you haven't been here, or if you have been here and still need an explanation - more eloquent than I can offer - try Jamie's blog on Indiamike and scroll down to the May 7th 2004 entry, "Manali, Israelis, Cider and The Himalayas". His blog is in any case a refreshing read.
The party, a joint Israeli/local venture, started off well enough; unusually it was held well away from civilisation, an hour or so walk behind the village at Glamlang, an open space with spectacular views, and a sufficiently easy walk that even the most overindulgent, pre-cooked chemical head could make it. Those who needed paying off were paid off, and a decent sound system with enough output to shatter rocks at 300 yards was hired in. Traders lugged out large supplies of water, beer, chocolate and the makings for chai, looking forward to a profitable nights work supplying all the essentials a partygoer could reasonably need.
Three hundred or so punters made their way out to Glamlang and duly parted with the readies to get in, managing to enjoy three or four hours of chemically enhanced fun before the forces of law and order waded in with the lathis and called time on the event in an unusually brutal manner.
Around 3 am or so, a warning was given that cops were on the way, and most people began to run up the hill away from the site, and the music was stopped almost immediately. While most of the local guys knew what was happening, many of the tourists didn't have a clue, and simply ran uphill like everyone else, assuming there was a good reason for the early morning exercise. For the local people there was, as they had good reason to believe while the police might be a bit circumspect about laying into foreigners, Indians were likely to be on the wrong end of a good thrashing. Many of those who had been sitting around on blankets didn't have time to pick up the bags and spare clothes they had brought with them. Once far enough up the hill, small groups of people hid behind bushes and tried to get a view of what was happening at the party below, and it wasn't pretty.
Having stopped the party dead in its tracks, the police ignored the rustling and whispering in the bushes above, and waded in to the stalls and stallholders, smashing tents, boxes of water bottles, cooking equipment, and supposedly even breaking some of the sound gear, the rest of which they later impounded at the station. Some of the stallholders got a whacking, as did a few of the tourists unwise enough to assume their passports gave some form of immunity; one Swiss girl was especially irate at being whacked on the backside several times. The police told some tourists it was OK to go back along the path, but many more - and most of the local guys - had no desire to test their word and held out in the bushes or began to look for ways round the main path, difficult as the forest is thick.
Some might see driving a bunch of people in assorted and variable states of intoxication into the bushes of a half lit hill in the arse end of beyond to be a rather dangerous method of crowd control, and so it was to prove. One mixed group of local guys and foreign tourists made their way haphazardly back to town the long way round, avoiding the main path and getting lost more than once, taking 8 hours to get back to Old Manali. On the way they encountered many other groups having varying degrees of success in doing the same thing.
It was inevitable there would be an accident, and one Indian from Mandi either fell or jumped from a high cliff in the half dark, reportedly breaking his back and sustaining severe head injuries. He was carried back, without much urgency, on a makeshift stretcher bodged out of a wooden collapsible table and some material from one of the destroyed tents. An English guy, who witnessed the Indian being loaded onto the stretcher, said he was horrified at the further damage being done to the mans back in moving him. He died in hospital later in the day, apparently of the head injuries he sustained in the fall.
It was getting light, and the cops had by now finished their orgy of destruction and were settling down to a well deserved breakfast of eggs and chai, thrown together from the leftover ingredients and cooking gear that had survived their earlier assault on the stalls. They were relaxed by now, and allowing through the remaining foreign tourists who wanted to pass. One such tourist had a surreal experience when he was asked by one of the cops what the two Òtennis ball on a ropeÓ things that he had found were, and how they should be used. He ended up giving a brief demo of the possible moves, then watching the cop having a go himself.
If there was a surprise at the end of it all, it must be that there was only one serious injury, albeit fatal, with so many people running half cocked through the bushes. Many that witnessed events said they half expected reports of more people getting hopelessly lost, injuring themselves and perhaps not being missed by friends for several days. In the event, it seems not to have happened. Apart from the sad death, the biggest casualty is likely to be ManaliÕs reputation as the Himalayan party spot of choice, as it must now be unambiguously clear that parties just will not be allowed by the authorities on the grounds that they encourage drug taking. The same argument was used by the British government ten years ago when they were so anxious to stamp out mass raves, and the end result was the Criminal Justice Act, the kind of draconian legislation so beloved of the then Home Secretary (and now Conservative leader), Michael Òprison worksÓ Howard, who seemed to see it as a personal mission to stamp out any kind of fun that might not appeal to his army of 75 year old blue rinse supporters in the home counties.
That the police found out about the party was scarcely a surprise, the location was hardly a well kept secret. But there is a lot of rivalry between different groups of party organisers in Manali, and one of the stories doing the rounds suggests that although the Manali police were ÒunawareÓ of the party, someone made a call directly to the SP in Kullu, who was duly outraged that this was happening on his Manor, and kicked the requisite butts to ensure the party was terminated with extreme prejudice.
The organisers of this party must have ended up losing money - especially with the sound system impounded - and the police are apparently investigating the possibility of arresting and charging someone in connection with the death of the Mandi guy, probably on a charge similar to reckless endangerment, in that the organisers were responsible for the death by arranging an illegal party with no safeguards. Whether this will hold much water in court, given the manner in which the police stopped the party, remains to be seen. But collars have already been seriously felt, and a few people are lying low in anticipation of more trouble to come out of all this. Looking at losing money and attracting serious trouble, it may be that potential organisers will decide to take a break for the July full moon. In any case, by then most of the Israelis will be in Ladakh or Spiti, and the folk memory of Glamlang may keep other travellers away from ManaliÕs parties for some time to come.
[Back
to Top]
June 1, 2004
Kaika mela; the dance of the GodsThe Kaika mela, held in the village of Shirad, happens only on every third year and so is a fairly major event. It is more or less the last festival of the season, with only Bhuntar to come before the long summer break to September, when Goshal village and a few others hold small melas in the run up to Dussehra.
Shirad is two or three km up a small valley behind Raison, but we were spared the stiff walk by getting a lift up from the half strength Old Manali volleyball team, driven by Prem, one of the teams stars. Almost all of the melas have a volleyball tournament these days, charging an entry fee of a few hundred rupees to teams which is divided as prize money with 50 percent to the winners, 30 percent for second place, and twenty for third. Old Manali have been doing well this year, netting a couple of second places including one at Prini village. Sadly, with many of the team busy during the tourist season, they were half strength at the Kaika mela and were mercilessly thrashed by another lesser village.
We had expected something along the lines of the other small village festivals; a few hundred people, a few stalls selling toys and pakora, and a fairly quiet atmosphere. Instead the Kaika mela is probably larger than the recent Hadimba festival - usually the valleys largest - with hundreds of stalls and massive, packed crowds, mostly from the surrounding villages, its popularity almost certainly due to the fact it is only every three years. Shirad is a largeish village, spread out along a winding path which was packed out on both sides with stalls. As usual they were clumped together according to what they were selling; first a group of 40 or so clothing stalls, followed by the same number of pakora and jalebi merchants, with the toy and knick knack stalls toward the bottom of the path near to the main mela ground where the God idols sit. Below that was a small fairground, with four large ferris wheels and the usual swing chair merry go rounds. Last was a small collection of tent dhabas selling tikki, some recognisable from last years Dussehra in Kullu.
On the mela ground in front of a government office, people were milling around and not much was happening. The Gods sat in a small area closed in on three sides by low walls, covered by a red and yellow canopy held up by four poles. There were seven statues seated, with one more to come from near to Patlikuhal, whose entourage we had passed on the way to the festival. We headed off for some chai, jalebi and a look around. Being halfway between Kullu and Manali, the Kullu Chai Mafia still have some influence, and so chai had more milk than would have been considered reasonable at Kullu bus stand, but adhered to standards in that the tea leaves were counted out individually - or so it seemed.
We witnessed an interesting concept in local mathematics between a local man and a guy selling cute, fluffy week old chicks:
Local guy; "Kitne hai?" (how much?)
Chicken man; "Assi ka char" (eighty rupees for four)
Local guy, shaking his head grimly; "Ohh, mehenge! Sau ka paanch" (Expensive! I'll give one hundred rupees for five)
Chicken man, firmly; "Nahi. Assi ka char. Thiik hai" (No. Eighty for four. Good price)
And so on for the next five minutes with neither budging from saying exactly the same thing in a different way.
We wandered back up to the mela ground at just about the time the last God arrived to the blare of trumpets, the statue swinging from side to side - which can often mean a God is angry - but in this case looked unusually jovial and festive. The others were raised on their palkis to greet the newcomer, also swinging in the same almost jovial way as they milled around among the crowd of onlookers.
If you witness enough of these events, you can begin to pick up something of the "body language" the God statues use to indicate moods as they are carried around. To describe the swinging motion will make little sense to those who have not seen the statues, but basically it goes like this. Normally when they are carried, the top of the statue does not swing from side to side. If they greet another God, the top will often come down sideways till the whole thing is almost at 90 degrees to the normal upright; it looks like (and may be) a form of bow. Wild, violent swinging from side to side usually means the deity is angry or upset about something, as at last years Hadimba festival and this years Vashist mela. This is generally a good time to keep a healthy distance between you and the God, because the violent swinging is often accompanied by fast lurching runs through the crowd, with no regard at all for anyone dumb enough to get in the way. Having had a pole from Hadimba's palki hard in the ribs three years ago, I am deeply respectful of any form of godly twitching, doubly so as some gods do not like having their photos taken, and will go for a camera without compunction. Most of these media shy deities are from the south end of the valley, but at festivals where we are not familiar with the Gods present, its better to play safe.
But the movements at the Kaika mela were altogether different; the Gods were evidently dancing, which at Hadimba festival is usually very sedate, the statue only moving up and down slightly and being carried in slow circles. At Shirad, the top of the statue would rock from side to side, about 45 degrees either way, but the front and rear of the palki would also move from side to side at the same time, the front going left while the rear went right, then vice versa. The net effect can only be described as looking like a dancer at the Rio carnival, dancing through the streets with hips and head gyrating.
Within the group was an unusual "statue", of a kind we haven't seen before. Only about 2 feet across, it was worn on the head by one of the villagers, and had four small silver umbrellas on the top. In spite of its size it is apparently very powerful, as some one told us it has "coming full shakti".
As the Gods began to move off for a bit of "ghumna - pirna" (walkabout) they were preceded by a large group of local men, also dancing in a very lively and Rio-like way uncharacteristic of local dances, waving arms in the air to the rythmn of the unusually well co-ordinated drums, and yelling, whooping and whistling loudly from time to time. Clouds of white would occasionally be thrown into the crowds - it turned out to be tsampa (roasted barley) flour, thrown for reasons unknown. The huge procession of Gods and men danced merrily up the hill along the path to a second open area, where they danced around for a while before returning to the first arena. The whole thing was repeated another seven times, up and down, the whole thing taking an hour or so. Unlike many of the other local melas, which have a very unstructured feel, this seemed very organised and somehow orderly, with no godly side trips to flatten the crowds and the sound of the band extremely crisp and "tight".
On the final of the seven legs, the crowd on the lower ground began to form a large circle, into which the dancing gods and dancing villagers moved, preceded by the band, the statues forming a line in front of one of the stands of concrete seating. The men began to dance in a large and fairly erratic circle, in a way similar to the usual Kulu Nati dance, but much faster and more energetic. After a while one of the Gods made a rush across the circle in the direction of their original sitting place, forcing the dancers backward and widening the circle. This happened several times, and as the rush looked similar to an upset God, we kept our distance. Wise. A stooped old man with a stick came up and tapped me on the arm, and, cackling and grinning, waved his arms and stick in a way that suggested getting out of the way would be a good plan. 30 seconds later, all nine deities rushed across the arena making a beeline for their sitting spot, scattering the crowd in front of them. A couple pushed into the crowd to widen the gap and make way for the others, and we ended up standing on a market stall table at the edge of the path. Then, very abruptly, it was all over and the Gods were once again seated in their places, the trumpets and drums cut dead as opposed to the normal ragged winding down.
As soon as the dancing stopped, people began to leave, heading up or down the path from the village. We went up and bought some more pakora and jalebi and tried to leave by the upper path, but found a thick human mass blocking the way as three of the Gods and entourages had got their before us. We headed down to find the other five gods blocking the lower path out of the village carrying out more ceremonies. A traffic jam of Gods. It wasn't practical to get past, so we sat and had a cold drink for half an hour or so till they had finished, when headed back up to the mela ground.
Not having a clue how to get back to Raison to catch a bus, we headed down the path just following the few people heading that way. Inevitably they were going to their houses in the lower village and not Raison, so without much confidence we picked our way through the orchards in roughly the right direction, finding the right path after a couple of detours through gardens.
Just when you think you are getting the hang of all this, the valley throws yet another weird event to dumfound you, and the Kaika mela was that. The differences to other festivals are not so large, but the entire atmosphere was different as were many of the rituals. In Old Manali or surrounding villages we can usually get an explanation for the events as the locals are used to our stupid questions, but at Shirad it was more difficult and a higher standard of Hindi was required than we possess. Whatever the "why", the mela was something amazing to see; another facet of the incredibly rich culture of the Valley of the living Gods.
[Back
to Top]
[Back
to Top] |
