Nothing deflates morale on a road trip quite like vomit or car trouble. And on Wednesday, we had plenty of both. Following a "rest" day in Shimla (i.e. Sam and Allie carve out a quiet morning to hike through the forest up to Jakhu Mandir, Sam convinces Allie--against her better judgment--to ride the ropeway down to Mall Road where they sit outside leisurely sipping cappuccinos before returning to the hotel to be wrangled into an afternoon of horse riding and sightseeing) the long drive north to Manali began with multiple digestive episodes, induced, no doubt, by the relentless mountain roads.
Heading into the trip, I'd been most concerned about Allie. The one time we drove through the Adirondacks together she'd had a rough go of it (admittedly, I'd rented a large pickup truck for the occasion and I'm not shy about driving a powerful vehicle on unfamiliar mountain roads). But that was the Adirondacks--we were heading into the Himalayas. As a cautionary measure, I advised her to bring ample dramamine. She heeded the advice and proceeded to remain dosed up and pretty drowsy for most of the driving, but never get sick once.
Not so for Rakesh's family, sitting behind us in the back row. It's possible Divyansh and Honey had an adverse reaction to the dramamine tablets Allie gave them before hitting the road Wednesday, or maybe they just didn't take them early enough, or perhaps it was simply the the sight of Divyansh getting sick that induced Honey's subsequent illness. Who knows, and in the end it doesn't really matter. I'll spare you the graphic details, but some 50 km outside of Shimla we'd stopped no fewer than three times, Divaynsh had changed his entire outfit, and our "early morning" departure had slipped into early afternoon. Only 200 kilometers to Manali.
After that, things leveled out somewhat, both literally and figuratively. The mountain passes melted into low valleys, temperatures rose steadily outside the car, and traffic noticeably increased. But stomachs stabilized, the AC in the Innova kept cranking, and that was good enough for me. By the time we started to climb into the cool hills surrounding Kullu and up alongside the Beas River that flows downhill from Manali, we'd lost two or three hours to motion sickness and tourist traffic. Our slated eight-hour drive from Shimla to Burwa Village was starting to look more like eleven or twelve. We bypassed downtown Manali in bumper to bumper traffic, continuing to climb, and as the traffic worsened we saw the culprit of the most recent wave of congestion: a large flock of goats and sheep being herded up the narrow mountain road by local farmers. The start-and-stop traffic continued it's lethargic crawl as vehicles navigated the obstruction, careful not to hit livestock or induce a head-on collision. Now through Manali, and a mere five kilometers from the Kalista Resort in Burwa, our chance to pass the animals finally arrived. In that moment, it hit me that the noxious smoke I'd caught whiffs of for the past fifteen minutes was, in fact, emanating from our vehicle. I alerted Rakesh, who alerted Raju, who pulled over, popped the hood, and confirmed that our clutch was burning. So close, but yet so far.
The smoke now subsiding, Raju cranked the Innova only to find he couldn't shift into gear. I checked the time: 9:30 pm. We'd pulled out of Jakhu Vibes around nine in the morning. The race was on: would we make it to Burwa with time to check-in before the hotel kitchen closed for the night? Stranded on the side of the road, hungry, and now being passed by the very same goats and sheep we ourselves had managed to pass only moments before, it wasn't looking good. I wanted nothing more than to rid myself of the entire situation, snap my fingers, and be magically transported to a comfortable hotel room with room service, a hot shower, and a soft bed. Thanks to the two Panjabi guys who out of nowhere pulled up behind us, that would be our fate sooner than I could have guessed.
Having now watched Rakesh in action at length (a Panjabi by descent, though a Delhiwalla all his life), it seems to me Panjabis have a kind of sixth sense for finding and helping other Panjabis. The finding is perhaps not so difficult, as many of them--Sikhs--wear turbans, but the helping never ceases to amaze. And there was no way these guys could have pegged Rakesh--who is not Sikh and does not wear a turban--as Panjabi. Or could they? Maybe Panjabis are just inclined to be outgoing and helpful across the board. Or maybe it's all part of some Panjabi code to which I, an American, remain oblivious. In any case, after chatting briefly with Rakesh, one of the Panjabis disappeared and within 15 minutes had returned with a full-size SUV that could accommodate our motley, demoralized crew and all of our luggage. For five hundred rupees, gladly paid--hell, I would've paid double, he raced us the remaining five kilometers to our hotel, where we checked in and quietly slipped away to our respective rooms. It was dark out, and all the blinds were drawn, but I sensed remarkable sights awaiting us from our corner room on the third floor. I pulled back the blinds, revealing nothing but blackness, opened a window to let in the refreshing mountain air, and we called room service for our much-needed, much-delayed dinner. As we drifted off to sleep with full bellies, the cool breeze and quiet mountains enveloping us, my only wish for the following day was to remain as far away from vehicles as possible.
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