McLeod-Ganj isn’t holy because the land itself is sacred. But it’s got the feeling of a holy place because here is where the Dalai Lama came to land after fleeing Tibet. It’s the southern edge of the Himalayas, as if he would go no farther than was absolutely necessary, but only the entirety of those mountains could provide an effective defense from China’s fingers. From town, just the tips of the lower Himalayas are visible. But that’s enough for this peak-starved wanderer.
Mountains. Mountains. Mountains. Mon dieu, it’s good to see mountains again. They’re still frosted in snow, and today wore caps of clouds. I looked up from town this morning, picked a ridge, and walked up the road, a path and finally bushwhacked to get to the top of it. From there, I could look down on villages scattered through the foothills, their rice terraces full green already. White flecks of sheep wandered the slopes. A rocky summit rose in front of me, couloirs thick with white but the faces otherwise scrubbed clean. It was heavenly.
Of course, getting here was hell. The overnight bus I’d bought a seat on was billed as “deluxe,” but the word I’d apply to it was closer to “dirty.” Decrepit would suffice, as well. The seats sat in a jumble of half-upright, half-down, half-reclined fully to their “semi-sleeper” state and it turned out that how you found it was likely the way it was going to stay. Mine was stuck in a half-reclined position neither conducive for sleeping nor convenient for sitting up right, and the cushion was so worn through the metal crossbar might just have been covered in a sheet of fabric. The windows could only be forcefully, gradually coaxed partway open to provide some relief from the heat since the air conditioning was non-existent and most of the fans broken, and they were partially shielded in curtains now so sun-bleached and coated in dirty they hold on only to a rumor of having once been some color other than gray. But, on we went. By 1am, we were heading steeply uphill on a road whose every turn sent the bus passengers rocking from side to side. If the road was paved the whole way, which I doubt, it had itself been jostled to the point of bearing deep ruts and a perpetual stream of potholes. So the passengers bounded up and down as well.
I spent the night fidgeting against the bar in my back and the hard plastic seatback against my shins, half the time stretching out, then half curling into a ball, facing the window and feeling the night breeze on my face. I listened to music, an audiobook, and podcasts from The Moth and Risk!—anything to keep my brain distracted. Just before sunrise, too tired to do anything else, I fell asleep, despite the discomfort. We arrived in McLeod-Ganj (I’d booked a ticket to Dharamsala, but these are just details, right? They’re only a couple kilometers apart) at 9am, just three hours behind schedule, and I emerged with the right side of my clothes coated in grime from rubbing against the side of the bus all night.
This, ladies and gentlemen, will be the last time I fall for the lure of the overnight bus. It’ll be trains from here out, even if they’re cog rail (I’ve heard a rumor that the closest rail connection from here is just such a mechanical wonder).
At the crest of the ridge I hiked to today, I found a cluster of prayer flags and stone cairns. Some of the strings of flags were wrapped around bushes or trees, some bleached from so long in a bold, high altitude sun. Then string after string was tied in rows between trees at a flat, relatively clear space at the top, many of them still brightly colored. Fire rings below them were still stacked with charcoal. As the breeze picked up, they lifted in the wind. All of them flapping together in the wind blowing north, toward Tibet, made a sound like sighing. And the breeze, perhaps, carries that sound and all those wind-blown prayers over the hills and mountains and valleys to Tibet, to the thousands of Tibetans there, waiting for freedom.
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