Travel has the habit of changing people; in my experience, it does so in subtle yet potentially deep ways to travellers’ perceptions, tolerances and lifestyles. Conversely, my brief time in India caused blatant if ultimately superficial changes to my person.

Prior to India, as a born left-hander my right hand and arm were largely useless and served pretty much only as a counterweight to stop me from leaning over to one side. Now my right paw has been shaped into a fearsome breaker of naan and scooper of rice whilst my left sits idle.

Being a fierce milknosugar tea drinker too, I used to retch if someone accidentally sugared my tea. My finely-honed tea palate could detect a single sugar crystal in a cuppa of PG Tips at 50 yards, even if it wasn’t stirred. Yet two months in India and the aroma of sweet and spicy masala chai has turned me into someone who will gladly sip away at milky tea loaded with more sugar than a Brummie plumber could stomach.

Before India, I also never used to understand vegetarianism, despite many of my friends being afflicted by the strange condition. What exactly did they have against vegetables? I used to ponder. At least my omnivorous behaviour didn’t discriminate between cucumber and cow; I used to happily create a demand for life for both. Yet now after only a handful of instances of eating meat over a period of two-and-a-half months, I am one step closer to understanding their disorder. At one point during the latter part of my trip, I was happily munching away on a veggie meal only to find an unmistakable sinewy chunk of mutton in it. It really turned my stomach to find it. Whilst much of that feeling was associated with the caution I had built up towards the perceived hygiene of meat in India, at least some of it was genuine distaste for the texture and origin of the morsel.

Whilst in recent months my intake of booze back home had sharply declined anyway, since leaving Goa I have been dry apart from three occasions. The first was a sneaky imported Carlsberg in a posh restaurant in Calcutta; the second when I gleefully discovered a place served port (or at least, an approximation to it); and the third when I discovered an India Pale Ale on the menu at a backpacker joint in Manali. This dearth of alcohol in contrast to my usual travelling behaviour of holing up in a bar of an evening to sip beer and write bollocks was not borne out of reasons for health or finances, but largely because domestic Indian beer tastes like utter shit. The glycerine that’s pumped into Indian beer takes all the enjoyment out of a pint, so what’s the point?

So there we have it: I’ve come back from India a right-handed-eating, sweet-milky-tea-drinking, vegetable-murdering tea-totaller. I have my doubts about how long that state of affairs will last – my first breakfast of bacon sarnies and PG Tips should dispatch most of those acquired characteristics – but who knows how long some of them might endure in part?

India is unique in the sense that it magically manages to amaze and frustrate at the same time. The bureaucracy that occasionally needs to be overcome is, at times, stupefying, and will severely stunt the country’s growth potential unless changes are made. Getting your head round the fact that, contrary to back home, the default state for pretty much any object or service is “out of order” and the fact that something is working is a blessing (thank you Shiva) can take some doing. At seemingly every turn, honourless touts, shop owners and taxi drivers will lie, cheat and deceive you out of your hard-earned cash in any underhanded way they can, showing no remorse when they are caught red-handed. And at times it seems as if the whole subcontinent is just one huge stinking rubbish dump that a billion people are constantly urinating upon.

Yet although I found the cumulative total of these “wonderful” facets of Indian life slowly pushed me towards the edge, the journey on the way to it was fascinating. The vast diversity and stunning beauty of the subcontinent drove me ever on, fuelled by sumptuous aloo ghobi, naan and masala chai, as did its people whose constant bustle, genuine kindness and vibrance give the country its compelling soul.

There is a common quip in travellers’ circles that “India” stands for I‘ll Never Do It Again. Whilst I won’t be rushing back in a hurry (not least because there are other as-yet unvisited nations that are at the top of the list), that particular adage does not apply to me. Nothing I have seen or experienced on my trip would prevent me from boarding another plane back to India.

But for now at least, I was happy to be back home.

~FIN~

Having visited the Taj I decided to move on from Agra, westwards to the “Pink City” of Jaipur, so-called because it was painted pink to commemorate the visit of Queen Vicky’s son in the mid-19th century. I’m not quite sure why they chose pink of all colours – perhaps it was his favourite? – but nevertheless many of the buildings still retained a pinky-orange hue. Jaipur was a planned city, and had a real elegance about it; every other building seemed to have turrets, minarets or fiddly little battlements. The city was home to a number of sights, most notably the Amber Fort which I’d heard good things about, but I’d already decided to hang up my tourist sandals and shamefully didn’t stray far from my hotel.

The rest of Rajasthan also had tonnes to offer which had been in my original itinerary: Fatehpur Sikri, the remarkably-preserved red sandstone town that was mysteriously abandoned in the 16th century; Jodhpur, the beautiful and historic Blue City; and the alluring Udaipur, legendary as the “Venice of the East”, the setting for the Bond flick Octopussy and home to a Maharajah with a penchant for classic cars. Alas, I had run out of both time and stamina to take in these locations, and I would pass them by, having booked my final ever journey in India: a 20-hour train ride back to Mumbai on the west coast.

Boarding the train, I realised I had once again forgotten to print out my electronic ticket. I had the original e-ticket on my laptop, so I figured the conductor would accept that. How wrong I was.

Conductor: “Ticket please.”
Me: “It’s here on my laptop. Here you go.”
Conductor: “You don’t have printout?”
Me: “No, I have the original ticket, on my laptop, if you’ll just look.”
Conductor: “You need printout.”
Passenger next to me: “You need printout…”
Me (starting to boil): “But that’s ridiculous… I have the original ticket here on my laptop! It’s even better than a printout – look, it’s in colour!”
Conductor: “I am writing you a fine because you are not having a printout. Give me sixty rupees.”
Me (in my head): “Welcome to India, the cutting edge of IT…”

I was stupid to expect anything else other than a fine. There was absolutely no attempt on the conductor’s part to use his initiative, logic or reason to solve the situation. He gleefully applied the law without even engaging his brain. I’d seen this kind of unquestioning behaviour before, in Germany, and it really grated with me. One of the few really decent things about the United Kingdom is that, generally speaking, its people question authority and laws all the time – even those meant to be enforcing them. If you’re found to be breaking a minor rule, you can often reason with the person who catches you and if the offence is not too severe they’ll generally apply a notion of “fairness” when deciding whether to enforce/punish you or not, depending on the circumstances. This British notion of “fair play” was nowhere to be seen in the eyes of the conductor, and it annoyed me right up to the point when I realised he was going to fine me less than a dollar for not having a black and white copy of an original ticket I had in my possession on a laptop right in front of him, at which point my anger fell away immediately as I realised how incredibly comical the situation was.

I reached Mumbai without further incident, and whiled away the remaining days until my flight wandering the vibrant city of Mumbai, which I think is my favourite in all of India. It’s the most modern, cosmopolitan and thrumming of all of them, at least, with a buzz akin to somewhere like London or New York. The monsoon had been in Mumbai for some time now and I managed to get drenched trawling the markets for presents for folks back home. Over twenty centimetres (eight inches) of rain fell one day in the space of twelve hours, with most of it seemingly sneaking into my backpack, forming a small lake in the bottom in which my camera and iPod were fully submerged, or so I later found to my horror. Both were completely dead, and my laptop, which had also soaked up some Mumbai rain, had also developed a stutter as well as a layer of water behind the screen. It was the icing on the cake for what, for the last month, had been a series of unfortunate events.

I packed and left for the airport the next morning with some satisfaction. It certainly felt time to return home. My last experience of India was thoroughly enjoyable, as I visited a local spit’n'stools restaurant to tuck into a wonderful channa puri – puffed up bread served up with a chick pea curry, onions and lime.

I woke up feeling transformed by the antibiotics I’d taken last night, and was well enough to amble down to the nearest pharmacy to pick up a full course of the Ciproflaxin that had set me back on my feet last time I had fallen ill. By the next day I felt well on the way to recovery, and well enough to get up and out onto the streets of Agra for the sole reason anyone came here: to visit the Taj Mahal.

It was within easy walking distance of the hotel, so I set off, deflecting the offers of rickshaw rides to its entrance. It was remarkably sedate in the ticket area; I’d expected a madcap scrum of sellers and scammers trying to pick off the tourists. I queued up for my special foreigner ticket ($20 as opposed to the mere dollar Indian nationals pay) and passed through the understandably overbearing security into the compound.

The Taj is possibly the world’s most grandiose tomb. Built by a (Muslim) Mughal leader in the 17th century in dedication to his wife who died during childbirth, and containing his remains as well, it is situated in a vast complex of gardens protected by a fortress-like wall and a number of huge gates. I wandered the way of the crowd to get my first view of the building.

In my experience visiting world-famous sights is generally a bit of an anti-climax. Television and books have already saturated your mind with the best views of the sight, and when you see it with your own eyes, it just doesn’t tend to live up to your expectations.

This wasn’t the case with the Taj. It was very special indeed.

Sitting serenely in the midday sun, its white marble positively gleaming, it was the one of the most beautiful pieces of architecture I had ever seen. It towered above the chattering tourists. The interior was beautifully simplistic, adorned with elegant repeating patterns and arabic stylings. The strong symmetry and minimalistic design of the tomb were striking.

Wandering back to the vantage point on the steps and taking one last long look from afar at the Taj quietly exuding sheer class and charm, I felt a sense of completion, as if I’d reached the pinnacle – and the end – of my trip. Although I had an entire week left until my flight, I decided there and then to knock any more sightseeing on the head. Nothing could surpass the Taj, and I felt I just didn’t have the energy or patience to tackle any more sights. India had drained me good and proper. I’d just use the remaining time to work, eat curry, recover from my latest bout of illness and shop for goodies for people back home, making my way back to Mumbai in good time for my flight back to Blighty.

I’d been flying across great swathes of India for about £30 a pop, so booking a flight last week for the mere hour-long hop from Leh to Delhi for a whopping £100 had caused me some consternation at the time. That was with some shopping around, too; there were far more pricey fares at more civilised times than my early morning flight. But having experienced the arduous journey over the Himalayas by road, the cost was suddenly put into perspective, and it became the best £100 I ever spent. I made it my vow to enjoy every last minute of that flight as we took off and I peered out over the snowy peaks of the Himalayas from above, fully appreciating the fact that it meant I didn’t have to sit in a chicken bus for two days at stupid altitudes in order to get back to the capital.

It felt wonderful to be back in Delhi as I exited the plane and crossed the tarmac, taking a deep breath of the polluted and oven-like yet wonderfully oxygenated air. My love affair with the Indian capital lasted a whole ten minutes, ending abruptly at the prepaid taxi stand, where yet again the person behind the counter tried to pull the old 500-rupee-note-for-100 switcheroo on me. Welcome back to Scam City! It made me gain a deeper appreciation of the entirely hassle-free time I’d had in Leh. I gave the guy a mild rebuke, and received a guilty ear-to-ear grin back from him for my efforts.

Two months in India is enough to test the patience of anyone, and mine had been running on fumes for a while now. It ran out for good when I was approached by a “friendly” Indian man the following morning near Connaught Place. We went through the usual motions of establishing my nationality, my length of stay in India and my next destination, informing the chap I was off to Agra.

“I’m going there by train.”
Pre-empting the next question, I quickly added “I’ll book my ticket online.”

With a sympathetic grimace, he delivered me the bad news.
“Not possible.”

I snapped at hearing this barefaced lie, giving the unfortunate scammer both barrels of pent-up Indian frustration: one for each month.

“It *is* possible. I’ve booked trains online many times. Why are you lying to me? You bring shame on your country, and shame on your family too.”

I may have inserted a few choice swearwords into my rant.

It’s rare for me to lose my cool and get so agitated, but in my defence I hadn’t had a very good month, and it wasn’t getting any better. My Macbook power supply had just blown up, meaning a trek across Delhi to a computer market to search for another (quotes ranged from £25 to a whopping £85 for a replacement). The next day I had to go all the way back there, as the one they had given me was faulty. And to top it all off, having booked my Agra train ticket (online, Mr Indian Scammer), I woke up on the day of travel feeling as if I’d been hit with a sledgehammer.

I was running a fever, and I seriously considered cancelling my journey, but I managed to soldier on through thanks to the inviting prospect of a four-star hotel waiting the other end for me; I’d grabbed a bargain last minute. On arrival in Agra I was swamped by the taxi mafia, but thankfully I knew the deal: it was a fixed price to any hotel, albeit an inflated one. On the way the friendly driver gave me the not-so-soft-sell for his transport and city guide services, but I truthfully told him that the only plans I had in mind were to get better as soon as possible.

Nausea, fever, general malaise and the squirts meant only one thing to me: tropical blighters had invaded my body again. Luckily I had held back two antibiotic tablets from my time in Mcleod Ganj for just such a “special occasion”, and with the rehydration drink close to hand, the airconditioning cranked down to icy cold, BBC World News on the box and the path to the toilet cleared of any obstacles, I wallowed in bed feeling sorry for myself, thinking how unlucky I had been with illness in the second month of my trip.

This wasn’t in the tourist brochures.

Nestled deep in the mountains in a Ladakh valley carved by the Indus River, Leh was a delight – and a perfectly safe place to visit in the otherwise tumultuous state of Kashmir. With apologies to Robert Frost, I’d taken the more travelled of the two roads leading to Leh. The other went via Srinagar, fifty miles from the border with Pakistan and a hotspot for trouble, with attacks occurring against security forces there on a regular basis. The UK Foreign and Commonwealth Office advises against all travel in Kashmir except for Ladakh due to the ongoing tension, and although they are known to be overcautious with their advice, I decided to heed it on this occasion, aware of the deep-seated feelings the Kashmir dispute can raise.

Like most of the currently disputed territories in the world, the British helped cause the mess in Kashmir. As the British Empire was crumbling post-Second World War, calls were growing louder for the establishment of an independent Muslim state in what was British India. Although fought by many – including the legendary Ghandi, who maintained that unity was the way but eventually capitulated – it went ahead, and in 1947 the state of Pakistan was created, comprising the land west of Amritsar in Punjab and the area east of Calcutta, then known as East Pakistan (but which is now the independent state of Bangladesh after a brief war of independence in the early seventies).

If only it were so easy to draw a few lines on a map and for everyone to live happily ever after. The Indian subcontinent was far from religiously homogeneous, and in the ensuing chaos of people uprooting and relocating to the land of their religion, terrible massacres occurred. Whole trains of Muslims fleeing to newly-created Pakistan were held up and their passengers slaughtered by Hindu mobs. Hindus fleeing Pakistan to India were similarly ambushed and murdered. The legacy of such terrible atrocities was a reinforcement of mutual religious hatred which lingers to this day, simmering under the surface and rearing its ugly head from time to time such as during the Mumbai riots a few years back.

At the time of the partitioning of British India, Kashmir had a particularly difficult quandry. A hodgepodge state of Buddhists, Hindus and Muslims – the latter of which were the majority – it was ruled by a Hindu Maharajah. Torn between choosing to join Pakistan or India, and facing immense pressure from both sides, he eventually put his lot in with India (although Pakistan maintains to this day that this decision was made after Indian troops entered Kashmir). Ever since, the state has been in a tug of war and the epicentre of India-Pakistan skirmishes and hostilities. To add to the mess, India has a contested Kashmiri border with China as well, which resulted in the Sino-Indian War of 1962. All the while, the Ladakhi Buddhists keep their heads down and lap up the tourism that comes their way as a remote yet thoroughly safe province of Kashmir.

I was feeling a lot better, although with another notch on the Imodium Meter thanks to the effects of altitude sickness. I dragged myself up and out to stroll the streets of Leh, through the bustling market centre and out to the suburbs, purposefully losing myself amongst the narrow, winding alleys of mud-brick walls running between the dwellings. I decided to make a beeline for the Shanti Stupa, a Buddhist structure up on high built by a Japanese voluntary group which apparently offered a good view of the town, and on the (many) steps upwards I bumped into the Scottish couple from the bus, who had linked up with another friendly and entertaining Scot from Orkney. I was glad to see the steps destroyed him as much as they did me; my body still wasn’t repaired or acclimatised, and the alarming taste of blood at the back of my throat as I reached the top was a shocking warning that the altitude had affected me more severely than I had first thought, showing that fluid had leaked into my lungs from my blood vessels, a possible sign of the beginnings of high-altitude pulmonary edema. The Scottish couple were heading off for further hikes to the surrounding villages, but there would be no more exertion for me, only rest and recuperation.

It felt comforting to be returning to sea level tomorrow. By plane.

The last we had seen of our legendary bus driver yesterday evening was him disappearing into a tent with the conductor and waving a large bottle of brandy, so we were dubious about an early start. However, at 9am the bus was revving and beeping, so we settled the bill with the locals who had put us up for the night and saddled up for the final leg of the journey over the largest summit so far: up and over the mountain pass at Taglang La, at a whopping 5350 metres (17500 feet). To give you an idea of scale, that’s not far off two-thirds the height of Mount Everest.

Within an hour of setting off, I was busting to pee, despite the fact I’d been less than two hours earlier and had only drank a tiny cup of chai since. It was most unlike me, as I normally have a bladder to rival a camel, and it unnerved me slightly. Loosening my belt, and then my jeans, I rode it out til our first rest stop: the monumentous Taglang La, the highest point I’d ever reached on land. The Scottish chap next to me pointed out the lonely Buddhist temple on the summit bedecked with colourful prayer flags, but I had already galloped halfway to the “toilet” – the back wall of a tumbledown ruined building. Evacuation was a slow and disappointing process, and I knew at that point that the mountain had started to take effect.

Half an hour later the nausea hit and my bus window opened for the remainder of the journey. My guts went to mush, I felt shaky and weak and it was increasingly difficult to concentrate. The only thing in my favour was that we were descending, and would continue to do so all the way down to Leh at 3500 metres (10500 feet). That was the only cure for the altitude sickness I was now unquestionably suffering from.

As I gazed at the barren landscape for the next hour or so, I felt the nausea subside a little and the mist of confusion about my body gradually lift. It was at that point I realised I was very dehydrated. Wanting to avoid the bladder issues I’d had at the start of the journey, I’d been limiting my intake of fluids, and that hadn’t helped my predicament. Mountain air is very dry and can sap the moisture from you, so it’s important to keep drinking – or so I later read. At the next – and final – rest stop, I asked the friendly Scottish chap to grab me some water as I was still too ill to move, and that set me on the road to recovery.

It was a great relief to see the bleak mountain desert scenery give way to little civilisations and irrigated patches of green. We were approaching Leh. My nausea had subsided, although I still felt weak and had little appetite. On arriving at the bus station, we said our goodbyes and we all went our separate ways. My sole thought was to find the nearest guesthouse possible I could collapse at. I fortuitously picked a great place, a private double with its own bathroom and telly for just 150 rupees (£2), and spent the next 24 hours resting, rehydrating and respecting the mountain range that had well and truly defeated me.

I’d planned to stay two nights in Keylong to reinforce my body’s acclimatisation to 3200 metres. It was a small and charmingly remote place quietly pottering along in its own little valley, cut off from the rest of the world (literally, in the internet sense; whilst ‘net access had surprisingly reached Keylong, it had been down for two weeks and no-one seemed to know or care when it would be restored again).

It pissed with rain all day, so I confined myself to my room, briefly braving the outdoors in the mid-afternoon brandishing an umbrella to wander over to the bus station and purchase my bus ticket for the following morning’s journey up to the northernmost outpost of Leh. The bus would be leaving at a body-aching 5am, and I wanted to ensure one of its seats had my name on it.

The next morning the alarm ripped me from sleep only to discover there was a powercut. Luckily I had packed everything in preparation the night before, but stumbling around with a weak mini-maglite torch was not fun, nor indeed was the icy cold shower. I picked my way through the eerily quiet streets only to find to my dismay that the Leh bus had been cancelled; the road was blocked by fresh snowfall (what I’d seen lower down the valley as rain). I’d have to try my chances tomorrow, which meant another day in Keylong, whose charm was wearing off as my impatience to continue the journey grew. Its haphazard spellings could only provide so much entertainment.

My luck was in the following day. Not only was there juice to power the water heater and provide a much-needed 4am hot shower, but also it seemed to be all go at the bus station. I followed the scrum and grabbed a seat near the front in a bid to limit the careering around corners and therefore to stave off travel sickness, and five other Western backpackers soon boarded and sat nearby: a friendly Scottish couple, a cheery Brit gal and two slightly more aloof Frenchies. The rest of the bus was packed with locals undertaking what must rank as one of the worst commutes in the world. Some poor latecomers didn’t even get a seat, and had to squat in the aisle.

We were in good if sleepy spirits as the bus chugged upwards to the first of two summits we’d be reaching today. At the rest stops – tiny settlements of tents and little else – we sipped chai, wolfed back life-giving Maggi noodles and traded traveller tales. The road was busier than I expected, and we experienced a couple of lingering delays upwards of an hour due to traffic jams caused by the brightly decorated Indian trucks getting stuck passing each other at narrow points, or blocking the road due to having broken down. The road was particularly unforgiving on the old suspension.

Around 5pm we arrived into Pang, another settlement of tents, albeit larger than we had seen so far. We were surprised – and disappointed – to learn we wouldn’t be continuing on to Leh, but rather would be overnighting here. Thinking about it, it made sense: the driver had been on the road for twelve hours and it would be getting dark soon. The mountain hairpins were treacherous enough in broad daylight, let alone in the dark.

Pang’s altitude was 4600 metres (15100 feet) and I could feel the thinness of the cold air as I drew breath, my lungs seemingly pulling on nothing. My pulse had picked up its pace, but I was relieved to find that my body was otherwise coping well with the altitude. That evening, after more chai and Maggi noodles, we all kipped in the back room of one of the local tents under huge piles of warm duvets and blankets, and I slept soundly, thankfully experiencing none of the nausea, sleeplessness or wild dreams that altitude can bring.

It was with some trepidation that I made my way down to the bus station to grab an onwards bus that would take me up into the Himalayas proper. I was concerned about the effects that altitude sickness could potentially have on me.

Altitude sickness is a bit of a mystery. It strikes indiscriminately, affecting fit, young and healthy people just as much as the rest of us, causing all manner of symptoms including headaches, loss of appetite, nausea, disorientation, tiredness, and in acute cases, pink frothy spit and, er, death via buildup of fluid in the brain or the lungs. Nice. The best way to reduce the risk of being struck down is to not ascend too high in altitude too quickly, but instead to allow your body to acclimatise by spending several nights at each new altitude. My time in the hill stations of late saw me residing at around 2000 metres (6500 feet), and my next destination, Keylong, was up at 3200 metres (10300 feet). I knew from previous experience at altitude that this jump would be manageable for me; in Malaysia I had climbed Mount Kinabalu and stayed overnight at Laban Rata at the very same altitude and not experienced any problems save for a slight shortness of breath when walking uphill. But when we had pushed for the Kinabalu summit the day after, at around 4000 metres (13000 feet) I had experienced painful stabbing headaches. This road would eventually take me even higher than that, and that was where my concerns lay.

The bus station was a chaotic place. Luckily the buses north to Keylong were displayed in English on a small sheet next to the ticket counter, and so I knew the approximate time at which it would show up, even if I didn’t know where it would arrive in the bus station, or would even be able to positively identify the bus from the destination sign, as all of them were written in Hindi. I’d have to rely on the shouting of the conductor as he did the rounds.

The bus was fifteen minutes late, then thirty, then forty-five. Then one hour late. Hoping I hadn’t missed it, I asked around and found a few other locals who were off to Keylong. One of them was making noises about taking a taxi instead. I made my interest known about grabbing a place in that, and half an hour later – still no sign of the bus or the one scheduled after it, also late – nine locals and I were loading a well-worn Tata jeep for the journey up to Keylong.

The road was surprisingly busy; we were part of a convoy of vehicles that snaked up the road as far as I could see. The winding route through the high mountain passes had only just opened at the beginning of the month, with snowfall making it impassable from September through to June and blocking off my little valley destination of Keylong from the outside world. We experienced frustrating traffic jams at certain points as vehicles further ahead struggled to pass each other on the narrow roads. The huge lorries were especially unwelcome in this respect. Still, at least such pauses gave me plenty of time to take in the alpine views.

We hadn’t even been underway for an hour when another jeep passing us flagged us down and we pulled over to the side of the road. The Indian chap next to me translated for me together with a roll of the eyes. “Puncture”.

I watched on with amazement as our driver removed the left rear tyre, the treads of which were bald as a coot, and replaced it with the equally worn spare. So that’s why so many drivers in India have lucky charms or idols in their cars… As the driver jumped on top of the jeep to check any baggage hadn’t shaken loose, I took the opportunity to stretch my legs.

Within ten minutes we were on our way again heading up to the Rohtang Pass, the highest point of the road at around 4000 metres (13000 feet), but before long we were flagged over in exactly the same manner by a fellow jeep.

Another puncture.

What are the chances of getting two punctures within such a short space of time? Pretty good actually, if the state of this chap’s tyres were anything to go by. Having previously used the spare, the driver had no choice but to flag an empty truck heading downwards, throw in the two wheels and stop somewhere to get them both patched up. He was gone for nearly three hours, and the incident highlighted to me the dangers of the journey. We were lucky for our unscheduled stop to have occurred in daylight, in chilly but dry weather, and at a manageable altitude. Not all unscheduled stops are so fortuitous; in the past people have had to be airlifted to safety by the Indian army after bad weather or avalanches have caused them to become stranded at the more lofty altitudes along the Manali-Leh highway.

Finally we limped onward up to the Rohtang Pass, a popular spot for domestic tourists to come for sledging and horse trekking. The tourists had thoughtlessly abandoned their cars on both sides of the road so that only one lane of traffic could pass at a time. Once we’d passed the snarl-up, however, it was much better going as we descended round sweeping hairpins down into a deep valley to stop for chai and noodles at a little village which served as a rest stop, and for me to register my passport with the local police.

The remainder of the journey was much easier going, as we followed a barren yet ethereally beautiful valley towards Keylong. Its untouched appearance was slightly unsettling; it felt more and more as if I was heading into the middle of nowhere.

Ploughing through a couple of seas of goats led along the road by local goatherds, we finally crossed a bridge over the valley and the little settlement of Keylong (pronounced Keh-lang) unfurled in front of us as the light started to fade. Knackered from a journey that had taken over twice as long as it should’ve, I did the rounds of its few hotels, grabbing a room, a quick curry and naan and hitting the hay early to speed along my acclimatisation.

The next stop I had earmarked was due east to a hill station situated in the verdant Kullu Valley called Manali. I very nearly missed my evening bus; the person who had sold me the ticket had relayed to me that the bus would stop “along the road”, and when I clarified if she meant the main square, she said yes. In India it does you well to avoid asking leading questions, as often you’ll get an affirmative from the person you’re asking out of the politeness of giving an answer – regardless of whether it’s right or not! With ten minutes til the departure and no buses to Manali having materialised in the square, I hurriedly asked a few locals where the buses stopped, and they pointed to a building situated at the bottom of a winding lane. I jogged my way down there in time to board and calm my thumping heart – it was the altitude, honest, and not because I’m utterly unfit – before we took off for another evening of being violently thrown around corners whilst trying to sleep upright.

The bus traced its way along the Himalayas and pulled into Manali before dawn; it was noticably colder than Mcleod Ganj. I didn’t have a map, but the bus station was situated on a main road and so I had two directions to choose from. I chose Right, which ultimately turned out to be, er, Wrong, but the detour was worthwhile; as the time went on and the hulking, silent masses of the overhead peaks started to lighten, I found myself walking down towards a mountain river rushing over a riverbed of large, flat stones. It was the first river that I had seen in India that wasn’t green and filled with stinking piles of rubbish. Towering evergreens lined the riverbank as the peaks loomed overhead. India, the land of constant surprises, had suddenly morphed into Switzerland.

Retracing my steps, I walked back to the bus stop and beyond into the main strip of Manali that I had completely missed in the dark. The town centre was nothing to write home about, but I wasn’t planning on lingering. I got my bearings and hit the winding Circuit House Road which I knew led to the old, more picturesque part of town.

On the way I discovered yet more surprises. I passed a trout restaurant; when the British had settled Manali they had introduced trout into the local rivers, as well as apples in the sweeping meadows I now saw stretching up the hillsides in the early morning light. A good thing, too, as these days apples are the keystone of the town’s economy. Further on I saw delightful mountain cabins situated in spacious green meadows. The guesthouse in which I’d planned to stay was a similar building made of logs and had its own flower-packed meadow facing out over a view of the Himalayas, but I was disappointed to find on arrival that it was full, so I retreated to the plastic garden furniture of a local ramshackle cafe to drink sweet, spicy Indian tea from a tiny glass and wolf down a masala omlette for brekkie. Round the corner from the caff was what seemed to be an old war memorial carved into a small cliff in English and Latin featuring some brightly painted deities.

I decided to head down into Old Manali to look for a place, and quickly found a cheap guesthouse run by an incredibly friendly local chap. He invited me to sit with him to drink more chai, which was slightly Machiavellian as he used it as a chance to see if he could sell me an onward ticket into the Himalayas and any other services he could think of. I was polite but firm about my plans to travel by local bus, and he didn’t press the issue. The chap was the most laid back Indian I had met so far, and you could see why: Manali was a lazy little gem of a town, an oasis tucked away in this northern valley.

I spent much of the day sleeping, compensation for the heavy sleep deprivation caused by last night’s bus journey, but rose to check out the rest of Old Manali. Fresh apple juice was on sale everywhere for a pittance, so I loaded myself up. Manali was firmly on the backpacker route, so I made the most of it by swinging by an impressively stylish backpacker cafe to soak up their free wifi and to order my first beer in weeks, an enjoyable India Pale Ale. I finished my evening of flashpacker exuberance with a meal of homemade pasta in blue cheese sauce in a classy Italian restaurant overlooking the river rushing noisily through Old Manali, prepping myself for an early morning trip down to the bus station to continue my journey deeper into the Himalayas.


My route into the Himalayas, with stops at Mussoorie (A), Chandigarh (B), Mcleod Ganj (C) and Manali (D)

From Chandigarh I boarded another state-run bus for the long and winding route through the hills up to Dharamsala, the hopping-off point for the popular backpacker destination of Mcleod Ganj. The route seemed particularly chunder-inducing, and I was glad I was dosed up on travel sickness tablets for its duration.

I arrived into Dharamsala late at night, and the only choice of transportation up to Mcleod Ganj was taxi. The “taxi mafia” awaiting the arrival of the bus knew this only too well, and wouldn’t budge when I tried to barter the fare up the hill. It was a fixed price of 120 rupees for the journey or stay in Dharamsala until the next bus in the morning. I caved in, wanting to get up into the action, and jumped in the taxi which burned up the steep slope to deposit me in Mcleod Ganj’s main square, jam-packed even at 10pm at night.

Mcleod Ganj is India’s “Little Tibet”. After the Tibetan Uprising in 1959 in response to the Chinese Invasion of their country earlier in the decade, its spiritual leader the Dalai Lama fled for the border, fearing the Chinese were going to kill him. He trekked the treacherous Himalayas with a trusted group of allies, eventually crossing into India, where he was granted political asylum by the government. Initially settling in Mussoorie, he eventually established the home of the Tibetan Government in Exile in Mcleod Ganj. As a result, over the years a substantial community of Tibetan refugees and expats has gathered there. The chance to experience “Tibet-lite” is a real draw for backpackers, as is the opportunity to see the Dalai Lama – one of my personal heroes – speak in person. I was disappointed to learn he was away in Europe (these jet-setting monks, eh?) for the duration of my visit, but nevertheless I was looking forward to exploring the place.

I made my base the centrally-located Green Hotel, a favourite backpacker haunt. I had a comfy room with only one other occupant who I hastily kicked out, and had wifi internet connectivity for an extra 100 rupees per day. It seemed a perfect place to chill out and recover.

Alas no. My Delhi Belly returned the next day with a vengeance. The Imodium had only temporarily put a cork in it, which suggested the root of the problem was a bacterial infection. For the next four days or so I was largely confined to my room, only popping out for tiny, bland meals or for a brief walk around town, all the while knocking back plenty of water mixed with rehydration salts to keep the electrolytic balance up in an attempt to flush through the little blighters that had invaded my body. With no luck in doing so, as a last resort I swung by a pharmacy to pick up some antibiotics to napalm my ravaged gut. Within a day or two I was on the mend.

I can think of many worse places in which to be holed up recovering from an illness than Mcleod Ganj. The town was a vibrant place, with an electic mix of Tibetan locals, orange-robed Buddhist monks, local Indians, dishevelled backpackers, Buddhist pilgrims (including a strong Western contingent, especially from America) and package tourists. However, the narrow streets were bursting at the seams with the vehicle traffic, and frequently caused traffic jams both of cars and pedestrians whilst two cars inched by each other. Despite this annoyance, I liked the place, and once I had recovered, I took a looping walk down the hill to enjoy the hillside views, then back up for a stroll around the Dalai Lama’s functional temple known as the Tsuglagkhang complex, as well as the Buddhist temple situated by the main square. I cautiously tried some Tibetan cuisine, and thoroughly enjoyed the momos (dumplings) and the Tibetan noodle soup, but avoided anything too spicy, not wanting to inflame my gut again.

My nine days or so confined to bathrooms had put me behind – so to speak – on my schedule, and so however much I liked Mcleod Ganj and was keen to check out its satellite villages, I needed to press on further northwards, increasing steadily in altitude in a bid to prepare myself for the journey I had planned: crossing the Himalayas by the highest paved road in the world.