Spiti - Why It Should Be Your Next Adventure

The landscapes. Spiti falls in the rain shadow of the Himalayas. And so, like it’s bigger sister Ladakh, it is part of the desert Himalaya. What that means is, you get to see the Himalayas in a different hue- grey, harsh in a way the greener parts can never be. But those greys and the whites of the snow capped peaks, the deep canyons and gorges, the small whitewashed villages, the crumbling monasteries, all set against the incredible blue of the sky make for landscapes that inspire awe, quite like no other. 

The river Spiti itself. It looks like a wide stream of mercury in most places, the glacial grey glinting in the sunlight. Spitian villages are mostly on its banks, or the banks of its tributaries, and you are invariably following it as you drive around the valley. It’s rarely very wide, but you can feel its power as you gaze awestruck at the gorges and canyons it flows through.

The monasteries. Spiti is Tibetan Buddhist land. And there are an incredible number of monasteries, for such a small population. Most of them are set high up, a number of them are the oldest living monasteries and are crumbling, and each has its own mythology that the monks are happy to tell you about. My favourite was the ancient Tabo one, with beautiful murals on its mud walls that are not going to remain for much longer if the archeological society isn’t going to do something soon. The Kee monastery has a stunning setting and is probably the single most famous image of Spiti. The Dhankar monastery (Dhankar means fort on a hill) stands on a cliff that is eroding. And while it provides some spectacular views, UNESCO declares it endangered. 

The high altitude lakes. We saw 2 of them - the breathtaking Chandratal and the Dhankar lake that required a bit of a hike to get to. These, to be honest, are no comparison in size or beauty to a Pangong Tso in Ladakh, but surrounded by snow-capped mountains, these water bodies still have a magic difficult to ignore. 

The villages and the people. Literally hamlets, with each comprising of little more than a dozen houses, the villages are spread right across the valley. They are some of the highest inhabited ones in the world - Komic is at at 4750 meters and claims to be the highest motorable one in Asia, Hikkim, at 4400 meters has the world’s highest post office. The houses are white washed and they stand out beautifully against stark backgrounds. Given that the valley is cut off from the rest of the world for more than 6 months in the year, the villages house hardy but simple folk, who tend their sheep, cows and yaks and farm the little they can in a really short summer. They welcome you with smiles and happily offer you what little they have. Tourism is gaining ground and home-stays and guest houses are gaining popularity, but it’s going to be a while before these pretty villages become part of the mainstream. 

The night skies. We were pretty unlucky on this front in Spiti- cloudy skies meant little chance to stargaze. But one night in Tabo, we looked up and were mesmerised. I hadn’t ever seen this many stars or the Milky Way. We weren’t adept enough in photography to capture that beauty - but it sure will stay with me in my mind’s eye. 

The inaccessibility. It literally takes 2 days to get to Spiti - the European Alps have easier access. The roads are terrible and crumbly, it takes incredible driving skills to get there, you will have to budget for extra time spent on the roads due to landslides, and god forbid you fall seriously ill - the nearest well equipped hospital is at least 12 hours away. Combine that with altitudes between 3800 and 5000 meters, and you are in a place that is quite untamed from a tourist perspective. But that’s part of the thrill that is Spiti travel. How many beautiful places in the world can you think of that provide this kind of an adventure? 

Our 7 day trip to this wild gorgeousness was rough. As it should be. The altitude meant our day hikes needed to be taken real slow, to take into account the the low levels of oxygen. Everything that the valley needs comes in by trucks through high passes on almost non-existent roads. So the food tends to be simple (though Kaza has some organic restaurants) and was mostly dal rice and Maggi. Hotels were basic, homestays were rudimentary. We were stuck for 12 hours on a mountain road that had been washed away. For a middle aged city dweller, it all tends to come as a bit of a shock. And then you take a look at the incredible beauty around - at the grey, snow capped mountains and the sky that invented blue and the ever-present winding river, the blue sheep and the yaks, the whitewashed villages and the monasteries. And you offer up a prayer of gratitude, and recognize how lucky you are to be there at that time, that place. 

The Last Days of Summer

Kaup Beach

You are not a beach person. You hate the sand in your clothes and salt on your skin. And never having learnt to swim well, you are afraid of the sea. So the weekend getaway to a beach one hopes will be an exception to the general feeling a beach evokes.

The Blue Matsya

The Blue Matsya is a lovely little house right on Kaup beach, about an hour away from Mangalore airport. It has blue slatted french windows that lead to a porch on the ground floor and a balcony on the first. Both of which look out into the sea, less than a 100 m away. Awesome location and you are quite smitten at first sight.

And then, even you, who have to be dragged kicking and screaming into the water, realize the magic of close proximity to the sea. The sound of the waves, the rhythmic beat of it, the infinite stretch into the horizon. And if you happen to be sitting on The Blue Matsya’s balcony at night, with the lights of the house switched off, the intoxicant of your choice in your hand, the waves sounding a symphony in the background, the dark empty beach in front of you, the stars playing hide and seek with the clouds above you - well, you hit a moment of near perfection, when you begin to shed all those minor irritants at the back of your mind, when you tell yourself, I am happy now, in an Eckhardt Tolle kind of way.And then after a long while, you go back in and fall asleep to the lulling sound of the waves.

View from bedroom

You wake up to a glorious Saturday morning. You sit out on the porch, with Nancy Mitford on your Kindle and the beach still whispering its magic. You can sit there forever. But breakfast and tea come calling, and once done with that, you tell yourself, it would be a shame to refuse the invite of the water. So you go in to dip your toes and end up with sand in your clothes and salt on your skin. But you don’t fail to notice the water is cool, the sand is warm and the beach is virtually empty. You come back to the house and settle back on the porch with Nancy. The waves keep pounding the shore, the temperature climbs up and you catch yourself dozing. Until your stomach reminds you it’s time for lunch, which is just a phone call away.

But you decide to walk the kilometer to Ravi Anna’s for his fish. So you walk and you walk and lose your way and the sun is blazing hot, and just when you are beginning to question the sanity of the decision, you find yourself in this tiny place smelling of frying fish, right next to the highway. You sit on plastic chairs and eat fish curry and fried fish and red rice on a plantain leaf, and it’s as good a fish curry as any you have tasted in your keralite-i-know-all-about-fish life. You eat till you are stuffed and then you walk back along the highway. A bad decision - it’s hot and the concrete road has little charm. But you sweat yourself back up to the cool house by the beach and plonk yourself right back on the porch. An afternoon nap is inevitable, the sea breeze and the sound of the waves cooling you off. And this time you wake up to chai and mangoes.

Mangoes! Not the Mumbai Alphonso variety, but your childhood summer ones, the ones you threw stones at, to bring them down from trees, never knowing if they would have insects in them, the sweetness tasting sweeter because of the effort and the uncertainty. And then more plonking. On a hammock, now, swayed by the evening breeze, warmed by the setting sun. It’s a slice-of-paradise moment, one you can bring up in your mind’s eye when you are dozing off in a conference room in the not so distant future.

You rouse yourself and make the effort to get to the lighthouse, a 100 metres away from the house,

The Kaup lighthouse

down the beach. There are holiday makers there - semi-clad men and fully-clad women. You do a bit of jostling and climb up. The setting sun, the sea, the breeze. Ah! Again, a moment to capture in your inner camera, to savour later on a not-so-kind day. You walk back in semi-darkness to the house, where wine, the stars and more delicious food await you.

And so the last days of summer come to an end. You have a flight to catch that will take you back to life’s hustle. But a warm beach and a lovely house on it have created some memories that can make that hustle just a bit more bearable. And for that, you are immensely grateful.

For more information on The Blue Matsya, visit http://www.thebluematsya.com/