Macleod Ganj

Macleod Ganj

Coming soon.

 October Break 2017 to Dharamshala Greetings everyone,
October break is here, and we’re spending a few days out of the big city at the foot of the Himalayas, in the Kangra district of the region called Himachal Pradesh. The city of Dharamshala is located in the valley, and we are staying up on the hillsides above outlying Macleod Ganj. With a surprising number of people and towns along the lower slopes, these steep hills point toward the imposing, rugged, impressively high Dhauladhar Range beyond, with peaks over 5000 meters. Macleod Ganj is where the Dalai Lama and thousands of Tibetan refugees set up the Central Tibetan Administration (a.k.a., Tibetan Government in Exile) in 1959. It is not a government operating from afar, but a resistance movement that would dissolve upon restoration of Tibetan independence from China (or, perhaps, more autonomous governance). We are told that 80% of the area’s almost 20,000 people are Tibetan, including long-term refugees, their descendants, and some from the annual stream of several thousand refugees from Tibet who spread across India, largely in H.P. and Delhi. (Macleod was a British administrator in the 1860’s who was seen as positive force, a philanthropist who helped set up the education system in the region, including the Punjab University in neighboring Lahore, Pakistan. G  anj  is a Hindi suffix meaning neighborhood.  Thankyou,Wikipedia.) MacleodGanjisthelocationoftheNamgyal Monastery, where the Dalai Lama resides along with forty-five more Buddhist monks. The place gets many, many visitors, pilgrims and tourists alike. Not sure which there are more of...there were many of both. Lots of people in monk’s garb, men and women of all ages.
Day 1: Saturday
The trip out from New Delhi’s Indira Gandhi Airport was a piece of cake. The Uber (today’s iPhone-managed--by Diane--taxi system) ride on a Saturday morning through light traffic bode well for the upcoming adventure. We grinned about the lighted highway sign reading “Don’t drink and drive safely.” Perhaps a comma fell off.


 At the airport, check-in was fast and easy. That gave us a good feeling about this and upcoming trips. We ran into numerous friends and colleagues from school, too, who were embarking on adventures to regions and cities we cannot call to mind, such is the number of new and unknown name places for us in India. It’s an enormous country, and the names of people, places, and things do yet have a familiar ring. They will, in time. After a welcome stop at Starbucks for an espresso and hot paneer wrap (Indian cheese with roasted vegetables and plenty of spices rolled up in flatbread), we went to find our gate. Passing the immense yoga sunsulation (good morning, Sun) bronze sculpture, down a maze of escalators, into a ground floor waiting hall, there it was. A series of glass doors opening onto the tarmac and several waiting buses. A fellow speaking strongly accented, nasal English rattled something off, in which we recognized Dharamshala, so we went in the direction he pointed, through a check, and then out to the bus. Ah, the feeling of adventure was starting to take hold. We smiled at other smiling passengers. We made room for more smiling passengers who climbed aboard. A woman with her family said she needed to go back into the waiting area for the restroom, and her husband and father told her it would be too risky, since the bus
might go. I silently agreed with them, why
complicate things? She ignored them, went
and returned without worry or trouble. So
much for the worry-wart outlook! The bus
eventually drove a short way onto the
tarmac to a pod of small propeller planes.
They looked meek and small alongside the
more numerous and more imposing jets
parked and taxiing all around. What would
the flight be like in this small craft? Who
knew what the atmospheric conditions were
like; all I knew was that it was somewhat hot and still on the ground. We boarded, and everything seemed right but slightly smaller than usual. Due to technical problems, our scheduled runway had to be closed, and so we taxied a long, long way to another runway, so far that we joked we might as well drive all the way to our destination. The acceleration on take-off was
 

 impressive, and it only took a short distance of runway to get off the ground, smooth as you like, rising gently, without bumps or jarring, no worrisome creaking in the hull, no bendy wing tips. Slick. My mild worry at flying in this small propeller aircraft was dispelled. And the rest of the flight would remain so smooth. We rose through the smog layer of Delhi and saw its limit distinctly; indeed, there is an inversion over the region, hence the L.A.-like compression of the pollution layer. Above us only sky.
Surprisingly, this layer persisted through the 90 min flight. It is burning time in the agricultural areas. Across India, there is an awareness campaign encouraging farmers to turn the previous crop stubble back into the soil; but this is labor intensive and requires heavy equipment most cannot afford, even by pooling resources. So the burning continues. (The haze was easily seen from the hills above Dharamshala, where we stayed.) The Kangra Airport outside Dharamshala is small, hosting four flights per day, all to Delhi. The plane landed on the jointed (so bumpy) cement runway and was guided by a lone yellow-vested flagman to its parking place right next to the terminal. As we “deplaned,” baggage was already being unloaded by hand from an open hatch onto a cart and
wheeled inside, where it was placed onto a
miniature belt that hardly seemed necessary.
Like the Autopia freeway at Disneyland or a
big slot-car race set. Around went several dozen bags to a small number of people gathered there.
It was warm and
sunny outside, and the mountains loomed large in the distance. Not so close you felt like you could reach and touch them, but not far. We were met by a taxi driver arranged by the school’s travel
agents. We’ve not used agents
much in our travels, but it is
proving to be a good way to start in India. No sorting out which of the throng to go with, no haggling over a price, wondering what is fair, no explaining the destination. It’s all set, even paid in advance. No fuss, no muss.
 

 The driver, named Mano, was welcoming, heavy-footed, informative, and accommodating, inquiring about how we were enjoying India and the build-up to the Diwali celebration, stomping alternately on the gas and the brake, swerving in and out of the lane, answering our questions
about the region, and graciously stopping
when we said we wanted to buy some
fruit. He chose a stand on the outskirts of
Dharamshala he said was good and
taught us some basic Hindi words for the
fruits and weights of interest. Can’t recall
any of it now; learning some Hindi is for
another time...soon, I hope. The roads
were narrow, considering the amount of
foot and two-wheel traffic along the side
and no “bike lane” of any sort; add to that the tendency to cut the middle line, particularly around corners, and it makes for a tight-fisted, 100%-attention, dancing on the pedals job for the driver. Lots of speeding and slowing, edging across the back of slower vehicles to get a view of oncoming ones, aborted passing attempts, and gunning the engine once or twice to make the occasional pass finally.
There isn’t much you can say to people
about driving on their own roads, but
Manu seemed to shift up to pass, forcing
the engine in a low-rev effort at
acceleration against the many factors
contributing to the car’s inertia. You
could feel the car straining and not
making the hoped for headway.
Stretches between developed areas
were fairly smooth and fluid; in villages
and towns, the road surface was rutted and rough and shared by all manner of people, objects, vehicles moving and parked, a chaos of movement. The steel bridge
   
 
 we crossed seemed shaky; given the general humidity and apparent lack of regular maintenance, steel seemed a less than reassuring construction choice. (On the way back, the heavy traffic meant the bridge was fully loaded, bumper to bumper, and just behind us was a dump truck brimming over with wet sand. I wondered about the weight of that rig...as we crept across amidst the congestion.) The road eventually became narrower and steeper as we approached our destination and was lovely to behold, in the moments we weren’t hurtling along dangerously fast. Of course, I examined the road with an eye to future cycling potential. I have to concede that the driving style, narrowness, and steep gradient don’t argue in favor of a pleasant two-wheeled excursion.
We passed the
stalwart dark grey granite
block of St. John’s of the
Wilderness Church, set in
a shimmering clearing, with
its Belgian stained glass
windows, and we
wondered at the factors
that coincided to result in
such an impressive and
sturdy edifice in so remote
a place. (Darn, no photo!)
It was built at a remote
time, as well, when the
political, social, and
physical landscapes were
surely very different. The trees were tall and thick-trunked, mainly evergreens, the air smelled clean and easy to breathe, and the green canopy filtered the bright sunshine into dappled, soft, shifting light and shadow. One final sharp turn (about 150 degrees!) and we chugged the last kilometer in first gear along an especially steep cement block road so narrow the compact taxi just fit; no passing of any sort would be possible, as the sharp edge of the road surface was a foot or more above the adjacent ground. The tires were at moments right at the edge. Any mistake would have made, at best, an unpleasant rescue and repair job, and at worst, a deathly


 tumble down the steep hillsides. A not improbable possibility best not pondered. We were glad to arrive.
The welcome from our hosts was warm and friendly, with refreshments and good conversation about our anticipated visits in the area and drifting into Indian politics for
a bit. Regional elections were within a week. Aha! After settling into our cabin, Diane and I strolled the grounds, enjoying the afternoon warmth in the shade of the forest and a brief rest on stone
benches set about the garden.
I wanted
to look up at the sky and the rapidly moving, mutating,
blending clouds, but immediately felt myself slipping into nap mode. Mosquitoes not yet accounted for, we decided we couldn’t just nod off. So we got up and
  kept strolling. (It
turned out that
mosquitoes were
not numerous or
particularly ravenous. This is always a concern, due to the possibility of contracting the dreaded
   and painful--but not really deadly--dengue fever. We’ve been spared so far.)