Exhaust pipe

As I sort through emails, I find that I am shaking. Last night we arrived in Losar, a small village with some shabby guesthouses and an enormous bunch of confused Israelis. Plus one English man.

We were awoken at 7am by the sound of our bus about to leave. The only bus of the day. They are really stingy with buses around here. We were hoping to find our way to Chandra Tal, an apparently beautiful lake (I have no doubts about its beauty) which would involve a two hour ride and a four hour walk in the desert. In the sun. Plus a cold night out by a rock, with no supplies.

We managed to get on the bus but not before a stressful shouty episode brought on by an incredibly crowded vehicle, the thought that I would not make it on said vehicle before it went; and a tired Israeli girl. My sentences are long today.

The bus conductor, wanting to do his job, tried to issue tickets for us. We gave him problems. We didn't know where the fuck we were going. It had occurred to us that we would have a hard time trying to get back to civilization once we'd seen this lake. It also occurred to us that we didn't really fancy trekking for four hours, outside. We could just take the bus to lovely comfortable Manali, where it's terminating. Manali, the place we need to go to just after the lake.

We initially told the conductor to give us tickets for the lake trek. But in the confusion of the morning we decided we would not pay for them until we had decided if we would take the trek or just go back to the joy of Manali. He got pissed for a bit.

We stood for a couple of hours, sweating into intimate Indian men. Then we arrived at the start of the Lake excursion. Four nice Israeli guys that had joined us for the ride were trying to persuade us to come. It made for argumentative shoutiness and tired Israeli girls again.

Eventually we passed the point of no return and agreed to let ourselves take a break from the punishing altitude, arse-crunching bus rides and bland food of Spiti Valley. Manali it is.

Eight hours in total, of probably one of the most uncomfortable and terrifying rides. I stood in the bus at an almost full stretch position and then I had the luxury of sitting on a bag of rice for the journey.

Oh it was treacherous. The road demands you to drive predominantly on pebbles and mud through icy waterfalls next to a sheer cliff. And frequently pass other big ass trucks. There were many tortuous encounters with oncoming Tata muthafukkas. Much reversing and whistling. Some good karmas of the past (or something) meant that I got to sit next to a monk for the journey and thankfully he seemed pretty calm most of the time.

It's always possible to keep positive and distract from the pain by just thinking. Thoughts of home; of friends; of possibilities for the imminent future.

I tried to meditate at one point. Observing my body was not possible as such. It was more a kind of observation of things I could feel that were hurting. My arse: small bones grinding into unyeilding rice. My leg hurting, crushed by the weight of someone sitting on it. My back, unsure what posture is appropriate for the spine in this situation. My neck covered with icy rain as we are driving through a monsoon cloud. I best open my eyes, climb on top of the bus and retrieve my guitar.

I had a satisfying hour or so with an I-River. I took it from Effie and had a listen to some of the always confusing White Album, that nice song by A Genuine Freakshow, the lyrically entertaining miserablist Bright Eyes and The grown on me Kaiser Chiefs. While the music played directly into my ears it was possible to be entirely absorbed by the harmony, production and lyrics. It is such a contrast to the landscape, and so reminiscent of home. Bumpy bus becomes bearable again. I must get one of these things.

So we are back in Vashisht, Manali. New guesthouse with a large window display of the Kullu Valley. And a jam session in the room below.

I'm gonna go lie down.