Snake Charmers, Hippies, and Chocolate Chip Cookies: Oh Manali

I'm at a beach-front restaurant near the southern tip of India. To my right, a rock gorge, with waves splashing up against the stones and spraying high into the air. To my left, a red-and-white striped lighthouse looms large above a group of palm trees on a rocky hill. And in front, monsoon-inspired waves rise high and jest at the edges of the beach, mere feet from where I write, before receding and fading back with the evening sun. A candle has just been placed on our table. I'm with Joe, an English friend I met in Dharamsala. I invited him to travel on with me and spend some time with my family here in South India before making his way around the coast to Calcutta. As we sit by the solitary light, he poring over a book and me writing in this journal, I am reminded of a similar table we sat at, with a few other friends, on our first night in Manali...

Nine of us piled into two taxis on a Friday afternoon after teaching. I stuffed a couple last second momos in my pocket and climbed into an extremely cramped backseat with Joe and Jacob. Shaun sat in front of us in the passenger seat. The scene was remarkable: The three of us in the back forced to keep our arms around each others' necks as our only means of comfort in the tight space. Shaun shouting back sass as we drove her mad through the seven hour drive. Through the windshield we could see the six girls in the other taxi driven by Sanjay. And our own, zero-English speaking driver Deepak Kumar smiling through it all.

The sun and the moon played their tug-o-war of time and the moon prevailed as midnight and Manali approached. In every direction hotels began popping up, with the most ridiculous names. Hotel Dreamland, nothing more than a dilapidated shack. Hotel Gateway to the Stars. My personal favorite, the Hotel Shanti Kunj. Hotel Heaven's door. We followed a winding trail, beset by signs promising only the best beds and free wi-fi, and we joked about it all. But our laughs stammered off as a faint whistle in the distance grew louder. We traveled through the gauntlet of signs and into the crescendoing music. And all of a sudden we surmounted the hill, the signs cleared away, and the whistling faded off. A long white gate opened and we sat staring at the Hotel Great Manu. We looked at each other, nodding in silent understanding. This was it. But alas! Deepak and Sanjay, and in turn we, had been foiled. We turned back and drove down the hill, the signs now shaming us. Fifteen minutes later and we arrived at the Manu Guest House. Two flights of stairs and we found our rooms. Unloaded our bags and Joe, Jacob, Jordan, and I headed down to a nearby cafe, the Rising Moon, for some Butter Chicken, Kingfishers, and France vs. Switzerland, all while seated at a candlelit table.

I woke up in Manali to a loud banging at the door on a stinking bed next to two shirtless Englishmen. I was clearly set to have a memorable weekend.

The festivities began at noon. All of us (Emily, Grace, Erin, Callan, Jordan, Shaun, Joe, Jacob, and me) met at the famed Dylan's cafe, dedicated to the great Bob Dylan, for a brunch, the world's greatest chocolate chip cookies, and a bit of planning. Though my meal (a honey banana pancake, eggs, toast, Turkish Coffee, and ice cream with cookie) was a bit distracting, I managed to hear loose ends of the ideas being thrown across the breakfast table. A few hours away was the Roh Tang La Pass, the world's highest road, where rumors say you can read a book by starlight. But there were dozens of activities and sights within Manali itself. The town has prime location in northern India, set beautifully just an arm's length from the mountains. Overrun by hippies, Manali is a touristy spot ruled by unwashed baggie clothes and long dreadlocks. The city is one long street that swirls up to Heaven. Near identical tourist-centered shops of jewelry, pipes, clothes, and tattoos occupy each side. Our crew worked its way up the street, which was quickly becoming steeper and steeper. Cars, even rickshaws, could no longer travel up the path. But the hippies, the tourists, the locals, and the yaks kept the life here as active as it was below. As we trudged onwards into the early afternoon sun, a nasally wind instrument caught our ears. Tucked away from the bustling of the main road, an old snake charmer sat with his snakes in their baskets. Within a second we were bargaining prices for a show. Within a minute, there was a cobra slinking on my shoulders.

We continued our ascent and reached a peak where a mighty temple stood gazing out at the mountains. Here, our group split, half to go shopping, half for a short mountain trek. After nearly an hour of climbing, views of the Himalayan snow peaks becoming increasingly surreal, and pleas from our tired bodies becoming increasingly real, we stopped to rest and absorb the natural splendor. On one side, waterfalls, mountains, and a grand view of Manali from above. And on the other, as absurd as could be, a tan cow, casually chewing grass hundreds of meters up the side of a mountain.

When we reunited with the rest of the group, Jacob rushed over and announced, "I may never again be in such an awesome place, with such amazing people, doing such incredible things. I'm going to get a tattoo." Before I had a chance to properly understand his logic, I was swept away by the spontaneity of it, and I found myself with the others, huddled around Jacob in a tattoo parlor as he got the 'Flower of Life' permanently inked below his left collar bone.

The locals were in agreement that of all experiences Manali offers, the Vashist Hot Springs is the sight to see. Entranced by visions of a steaming pool at the base of the Himalayas, surrounded by snow caps and waterfalls, we decided our next move without hesitation. The nine of us made the beautiful one-hour trek, accompanied at our side by a gushing river, headlong into the ever-clearer mountains.

By the time we arrived the sun had already set. We entered the Vashist Temple, and our expectations were smashed just as darkness seemed to swallow Manali whole. The inside of the temple was a simple open square with a shrine, and instead of the hot springs we thought we would see, two signs at the ends stood above two entryways to two corridors which read, respectively: Men's Bath and Women's Bath. Our shoes had been left outside the temple, so we stood in the darkness, congregated in the center of this little square, barefoot and utterly confused.

The three of us guys ventured down the wet, 20-foot long passageway, to the doorway at the end. One by one we peered in, and we met once again in the square. Each of our faces wore the look of a man who had unknowingly tasted something bitter. The small room we had looked into contained a fairly small pool, a strong odor of masala, several almost-naked as well as fully naked men, and in our minds, a catalog of diseases. Maybe it was the darkness, but at the time we could not see the widely-acclaimed magnificence of the Vashist Hot Springs. There was no way we were going to submerge our bodies into that.

Until, from out of nowhere, maybe straight from the heavens, a colorful, 200-year-old looking swami came up to us, his smile revealing three disintegrating teeth. He was short, clad in dirty clothes, and had long dry hair. In his own brand of English which used only nouns, the swami explained he was a wandering ascetic and then described the story of the Vashist. Thousands of years ago, Vashist climbed the mountain we stood on and, feeling the brisk winter air, thought it was too cold. Summoning the power of the gods he shot an arrow deep into the rocks, and from them, hot water sprung out to fill the baths that are used today.

The swami left us to say his prayers, and we stood in the same place as before, still barefoot. But now, motivation from the swami's parable replaced our confusion, and we were ready for a bath. "We've come this far, we might as well," we spoke convincingly. "The water is spiritual, so we will be protected from disease," we assured ourselves, with growing confidence. And like that we were off again down the corridor, no longer peering in with caution but thrusting forward fearlessly, stripping down to the dress code of the regulars, and gliding into the water. It was intensely hot, and steam filled the room. But our bodies adjusted, and we relaxed. Ignoring the fact that I shared a pool with people who hadn't showered for weeks, maybe months, for a half hour, I found peace in the Vashist.

Having brought nothing to dry ourselves with, we put our dry clothes back on our soaking bodies and said goodbye to the lovely Men's Bath. Laughs and shouts coming from the Women's Bath told us the girls too had decided to go in and weren't regretting it either. Joe, Jacob, and I were trying to decide if we should wait for them or venture out when the sounds of drums and singing from outside baited and quite easily hooked our curiosity. We stepped into our shoes and out of the temple. A scene of dozens of singing women dressed in an assortment of colored sarees, men hitting drums, and children jumping and dancing at the tail end, told us we were witnessing a local wedding procession. We followed it up to an elevated ground before a house. It was filled with men and women, all facing a massive pot and a priestly looking figure stirring away and leading chants. A restless fire beneath the pot lit up the night with help from the torches that circled the ground. We asked one of the villagers if he could offer any insight. This was Day Three of the Wedding celebrations, a union that would tie together a woman of this village with a man from the one next over. The entire village had gathered tonight for the final and grandest of feasts. Trumpets blared and I soaked up one last look at the unbelievable spectacle before me.

Even our trek down the mountain road that night was an adventure. In pitch black, brief encounters with drunk men and wild dogs kept us walking closely as a unit for ages until we finally found a taxi to bring us back to home territory. Once back, we relaxed at the Rising Moon and sat recalling the eventful evening.

The following day, before driving back to Bir, we went zorbing. For those of you unfamiliar with the term, zorbing is where two people are strapped helplessly to the insides of a large, plastic, supposed "shock-absorbent" ball and mercilessly bounced down an endless hill in a neck-jerking, back-breaking affair, somehow still a semi-enjoyable experience. Its one of those things you're glad you did but would hesitate to try again. After a seated lunch at the ultra-hippie World Peace Cafe, we began our long journey home in the cramped taxi with Deepak Kumar. Around 1 a.m. we returned, weary after the wild weekend.

Manali will live long in my memories as the craziest and most beautiful place I have ever visited. 'Breathtaking' is an apt description. One day, when reminiscing about the views simply isn't enough, I'll make another pilgrimage to this sacred place. To a terraced roof of a cafe perhaps, suspended amidst the heart of the Himalayan mountain range, to read a book and unwind. Or maybe I'll write.

But for now, the candle light is becoming too dim for the darkening sky, and the relentless Kovalam shores are calling out to put the pen down and listen to their song. Namaste.