09. A note on weed

Manali, Himachal Pradesh, India

Cannabis grows wild almost everywhere in the north of India. Here’s some plants that just happened to be roadside.

Unfortunately for the would-be smoker, there’s so much of it around that the plants are quickly fertilised so not very potent.

The preferred manner of ingesting cannabis is in the form of charas. Charas is made by workers who rub the cannabis plants and then scrape the buildup of resin off the palms of their hands.

Charas has been smoked for thousands of years in India but it was made illegal in the 1980s. It’s still smoked in public though, but only on the low-key. A common local method for public smoking is to remove the tobacco from a cigarette and repack it laced with charas. If you see a group of young guys sitting around, one of them will likely be doing the telltale mixing motions in the palm of his hand. More traditional methods include smoking from a clay chillum pipe.

As for the effects, well it is effective, but it’s not as strong as plain old marijuana back home. And I assume it feels stronger here than it did at sea level, since we're now at altitude. Apparently the best charas comes from around here, Himachal Pradesh.

08. Hangin’ with the locals

Manali, India

So far on this trip I’ve been spending all my time hanging out with Bruce and his friends. He has a lot of local Indian friends and also a bunch of expat friends who’ve been living here for years. Most of his circle is connected with the paragliding scene. Many of the foreigners live in India doing nothing for half the year, and spend the other half of the year doing tandem paragliding for $$ (oops, €€) in Europe.

One afternoon we had a great impromptu drinking and smoking session at a local pizza place. Everyone is always very inviting and pleased to meet me, and if they’re a local almost every time they’ll start going on about how Bruce was the first to paraglide in the region and how he helped so many of them get started, either by teaching them or lending them an old paraglider to train with, or even just by doing it and they learnt from observation and copying him.

Drunken afternoon at a pizza place. The quiet gangsta dude at the back with his sunglasses on was the Mayor

At the end of the session one of the dudes drove us home. “I always drive drunk”, he told us. I guess catching drunk drivers isn’t a priority for the local police.

More hangin’

Near Manali in the village of Vashisht are a bunch of natural hot springs, which Bhagtu offered to take me to one morning. The pools are emptied daily at 3am so the sooner you can get there the cleaner the water is. We arranged to get there at 7am.

Well, it wasn’t what I expected and out of respect for privacy I didn’t take any photos so you’ll have to make do with my description.

There was a separate men’s and women’s bath. It was quite small, only about ten metres square, and crammed inside were dozens of Indian men, all in their underwear. So I stripped down to my boxers and in I went. It was actually quite relaxing, and when an old grey-haired dreadlocked holy man came in for a dip and started chanting it was even more relaxing. It was quite a “this is India” experience.

Outside the hot baths, hot spring water flowed into the street and local village women gathered there to wash their clothes and dishes.

07. Look at me Ma, I’m flying!

Manali, Himachal Pradesh, India

As I write this I’ve finished my sixth day of paragliding training, 5 of them here in Manali.

I’ve been training at the Solang Nala ski-field just north of Manali. In winter time it’s a bit of a ski-field, with one beginner’s slope with a rope tow, and a brand new gondola to the top of the hill (currently under repair due to a freak avalanche). But the area around Manali is great for back country skiing, if you have the energy to walk to the top of the mountains.

A local showed me a photo on his cellphone of the ski field covered in snow just 2 months ago in February. However what greeted us in April was now a dustbowl of a landing area, and dozens of paragliders in the vicinity.

The grass slope in the background is the skifield – that’s all of it. The rope tow is just out of frame to the right.

When Bruce came here in 1988 he was the first ever to paraglide in the region. Back then Solang Nala in summertime was well-grassed, attracted a few tourists as a nice picnic lunch spot, there was a bit of horseback riding in the summer, but not too much tourist activity. Lots of Bollywood productions would shoot there with all the green grass and the snow-covered mountains in the background. Bruce always intended that Solang Nala would remain a paraglider pilot training area, and that actual tourist tandem flights would be taken from nearby mountains much higher. But from what I’ve been told, Indians always go for the cheaper option, so if you offer them a 500 rupee (NZ$15) 1 minute flight at the training ground, versus a 3000 rupee half hour flight from a nearby mountain, they’ll usually go for the 500 rupee option. So now at Solang Nala in the summer it’s still a pilot training ground but the majority of paragliders are tandems taking tourists for one-minute flights. Lame.

Check it out – Zorbs, an NZ invention. Bruce said he once contacted Zorb HQ in NZ about setting up here, and they had all sorts of requirements around space, tourist numbers, revenue, marketing budget, franchise fees, safety, yadda yadda, so he didn’t bother. Sooner or later a local copied the design of a Zorb, got a bunch made in Delhi, and set it up here himself. They still call it Zorbing, and of course he’s not paying Zorb HQ any franchising fees. Well well well, I just found out that Zorb-fakery is quite popular worldwide, and it looks like Zorb NZ didn’t invent the concept either but copied it from a Frenchman. OK, enough about Zorbs.

Lessons 2 and 3

The first couple of days I was mostly practicing ground handling, which is controlling the paraglider while you’re on the ground. The most dangerous part of paragliding is the takeoff and landing, cos that’s when you’re close to the ground and can get slammed, so having good ground handling skills is essential.

I also practiced my forward launches, and got short little hops of flight in.

Most of the time it went OK but I did have the occasional crash:

Run Forrest, run!

Man, I’ve never seen video of myself running before but the above looks pretty funny, with those fast little steps as I try to drive the paraglider up and generate enough speed to get off the ground. Go boy!

Anyway, in this case the paraglider started to deflate on one side so I should have pulled the brakes on the other to catch up with it. Lesson learned!

I also started to attempt the reverse launch, which is where you stand facing backwards and use the wind to get the paraglider above you. But that was frustrating as I couldn’t figure out which strings I needed to pull to correct the paraglider on the way up.

Lesson 4 and 5

I kept battling trying to get the reverse launch figured out, but was getting more and more frustrated. I’d get confused as to which brake line I needed to pull to straighten out the glider, and I kept getting rope burn on my fingers. Bruce suggested a variation on my grip with the A lines in one hand and the Ds in the other and that worked much better for me, so I finally got the hang of the reverse launch which was a victory.

Fitness

I tell you what, it’s a great cardio workout doing the sprint takeoffs, and then walking back up the hill carrying the paraglider. Especially when we’re at 2600m. Bruce likes to tell a story of the pasty English stoner he took on a week long paragliding course. By the end of the week the guy had a decent glow on, and was tanned and fit.

Man, if you had to lose some weight, a paragliding course in India would be the way to go – altitude training, cardio, plus diarrhoea thrown in for good measure (more on that in another post).

Patience

Learning to paraglide in the mountains is an exercise in patience. It’s a lot like learning to surf – first you’re battling the white wash trying to get out the back, then you’re lying there waiting and waiting for the right wave, finally it comes so you paddle and paddle and either miss it and have to turn around, or you catch the wave and barely stand up before falling off.

Here you’re battling walking to the top of the hill carrying your paraglider, unpack it and lay it out on the ground, check for line tangles, strap up your harness and then you’re standing there waiting and waiting for the right breeze. It needs to be a headwind, but not gusting too strong (8-15 km/h). If the conditions are good you won’t wait long but sometimes I’d be waiting 5 or 10 minutes. Finally the wind comes and you start to lift the paraglider over your head but then it twists to the side and crashes into the ground before you even get going. So you lay it out on the ground again, check for tangles again and wait for the right breeze.

On some days we’d only get about 3 hours in before the wind would get too strong and we’d have to call it a day. And on those short days I might only get a handful of launches in – frustrating. But on Day 6 it finally all came together – the wind conditions were good and we were able to get about 6 hours of training in before I was too tired and called it a day.

Lesson 6

With the reverse launch figured out and growing confidence in my ground handling I was able to make some reasonable flights by launching from the slope and getting a bit of air time. So it was time for me to step it up a level and fly from the top takeoff.

Here’s the view from near the top:

and here we go:

Notice I start with the reverse launch, where I’m facing the glider and I use the wind to launch it, instead of doing the Run Forrest run thing I did on the forward launch.

It looks like I’m heading way out to the left over the rope tow and into the trees but I’m not, keep an eye on my shadow on the ground to know where I really am.

Altogether we did 4 takeoffs from the top and I practiced my turns in the air on the way down. Now I need to keep flying to get used to the feel of the glider in the air.

Update: Day 7 was shit, only half an hour of ground handling practice before the wind got too gusty and we called it off. Damn mountains. There’s something to be said for learning the basics near the beach with a constant sea breeze.

06. To Manali

Manali, Himachal Pradesh, India

Bruce decided that I needed a bit more space to move than at the Dhelu training ground so we headed to Manali so that I could train at the Solang Nalu paragliding area. Petie rode in a chartered taxi with our luggage and the paragliders, while Bruce and I rode together on his Enfield 500.

The trip ended up taking 6 hours, with a couple of chai (tea) stops along the way.

We took the back roads there for parts of the trip, and the views were amazing.

Female road workers

The Enfield is fun to ride – a big 500cc single cylinder, so it’s all about the power at low revs, not like the 4 cylinder 250cc I used to ride which redlined at about 19000 rpm. And because the Enfield is so heavy it handles the potholes reasonably well. Like many of the cars in India, the bike is based on 1950s technology yet it’s only a few years old. The design has barely evolved. Unlike most motorbikes the gearshift is on the right foot and the rear brake on the left, which takes some getting used to. It’s like trying to drive a car which has the clutch pedal and the brake pedal swapped – sure, you get the hang of it, but in an emergency you’ll probably instinctively stomp on the wrong pedal.

About the only traffic we’d come across on the back roads was the occasional sheep or goat herd:

Once we arrived in Manali we stayed with Bucktooth, an old friend and business partner of Bruce’s. Actually his name is Bhagtu but in hearing his name in conversation I’d thought it was Bucktooth. I also kept hearing about another friend of Bruce’s who I thought was called Knuckle. Turned out to be Nakul.

Bhagtu is in interesting guy. He’s only a couple of years older than me but he’s already got a number of businesses and has built his own house, something that is quite an accomplishment anywhere but especially here. He’s lived his whole life near Manali so whenever we take a trip into town to visit his adventure sporting goods store, the half hour trip takes double that because of all his stops along the way to chat to the locals. I commented that he knows a lot of people and he said that he always tries to be friendly to people and that he’s well respected around town because of that.

Luxury

Bhagtu’s house is sweet – located amongst picturesque apple trees (Manali is famous for its apples).

It has a hot shower, clothes washing machine, sit down toilet, and a fridge! Bruce’s bachelor pad in Bir had none of the above – no hot water, no fridge, no washing machine, communal squat toilet shared with the neighbours, and to bathe is quite a performance – fill a large 20L plastic bucket with water to the brim, then dangle an electric heating element in said bucket. After about 10 mins give it a stir, cos otherwise the water at the bottom would still be cold. After about 20 mins you’re good to go, so carry the bucket outside into the back yard and scoop water over yourself with a plastic scoop. Best to bathe in your underwear lest the neighbours see (there are no fences).

I got used to this bucket-scoop bathing system when I was in SE Asia a few years ago and it was fine there – the climate was hot enough that a splash of cold water was refreshing, and the water was tepid anyway. But up here in the mountains it’s quite a drag having to heat the water first, and it’s hard to feel hot when you’re wet and exposed to the cool mountain air.

Although Bhagtu’s house has all the mod-cons, it seems that old Indian habits die hard. His wife barely uses the fridge and it’s switched off at the wall. Likewise the electric hot water cylinder – it’s usually switched off at the wall so when you want a shower you need to switch it on 10 mins before. His wife still washes the dishes and some of the clothes outside in a large bucket and still gets hot water from a huge kettle on top of the wood-burning stove. Back home we think nothing of having hot water on tap 24/7.

But they have been perfect hosts and it only just occurred to me that while Bruce and Petie are in the guest room, I am sleeping in Bhagtu’s & his wife’s bed! They are bunking down with their daughter and the wife’s brother on mattresses in the living room. Bruce says they are used to that, and in winter they sleep on mattresses in the living room around the fireplace anyways, but I still feel stink about it. Of course I’d be happy to sleep in the living room but maybe they’d feel weirder having the foreigner sleeping amongst them.

05. First lesson

Bir, India

Prior to taking our tandem flight, Bruce gave me my first paragliding lesson at Dhelu, an easy paragliding area about 20 mins taxi from Bir.

Dhelu practice ground 

There’s a hell of a lot to learn. I think of a paraglider as being like a giant kite with dozens and dozens of strings. So first step after unpacking the chute is to make sure the strings aren’t tangled.

Checking the brake lines 

The goal of my first lesson was to do a forward launch, which is what you do when there’s no wind – you need to run forward to generate enough wind to lift the paraglider above your head. Once it was up I’d just keep running and running down the hill, steering it slightly if need be, and occasionally taking little air-steps as I’d slightly lift off.

Getting the chute up 

Easier said than done of course… sometimes I’d get running and it would drift to the side and into the ground.

Like learning any new activity, there’s a lot to think about and it’s just a matter of practising and practising until you don’t need to think and it comes automatically. I’m nowhere near that yet.

After the lesson a shepherd walked his flock of sheep and goats past us.

Shepherd and his flock 

The shepherds here spend their whole day amongst their flock and the sheep seem very obedient. He’ll just whistle and tongue-click and they’ll follow – no sheep dogs necessary. I suppose it’s because the sheep see him as the leader of the flock, not like in NZ where the farmer will just boss them around from paddock to paddock every now and then, using barking sheep dogs to keep them in line.

04. To the North of India

The peaceful towns of the north of India are a stark contrast to the melee that was Delhi.

We took a night bus north from Delhi to Bajinath in the state of Himachal Pradesh, and from there chartered a taxi half an hour to the town of Bir, where Bruce lives.

Let’s see if I can find a map for you.

There we are, up in the north between Punjab, Kashmir, Pakistan and China (Tibet).

Bir is an interesting place. Bruce lives pretty much within the Tibetan quarter of Bir. Around there most of the population are Tibetan refugees who’ve been there since the early 60s. Dotted around the area are numerous beautiful Tibetan monasteries. Most of the businesses are owned and run by Tibetans. So it’s more like being in Tibet than in India.

<cue photo of Tibetan stuff>

Bir sits at 1500m altitude nestled in a green valley in the foothills of the Himalayas. It’s early spring and it’s warm enough for shorts and T shirt during the day, but it gets a little chilly at night.

As well as the Tibetans there’s also quite a few expats around, mostly for the paragliding scene. Since it’s early spring the season is just beginning. It’s fair to say that Bruce is the Godfather of the paragliding scene in Bir. He’s been living there permanently for like 10 years, has taught lots of locals how to paraglide and they now make nice livings taking tourists on tandem rides. This flows on into other areas of the economy, for example the taxi drivers make nice livings dropping paragliders at the top of the hill. Hotels, restaurants too of course.

Bruce flies solo

So our first day in Bir and Bruce was quite keen to go for a solo flight since he hadn’t had one for a few weeks. We rode his Enfield 500 up to the launch site at Billing (2440m) 14km away. I watched as Bruce mingled at the launch site, greeted old friends, asked other paragliders the about the weather conditions (“bumpy”), and was greeted by the some of the local Indian and Tibetan paraglider pilots, many of whom past students of his.

Many of the pilots were cautious and waiting for the right conditions, but some were taking off anyway. Not always successfully – their chute (or wing in paraglider terminology) would inflate and rise above them for lift off, but then it would get blown sideways into the ground.

The view from the launch site at Billing

After a bit of waiting Bruce decided the conditions were right so he unpacked his chute and and off he went. I stayed on the hill quite a while watching him circle upward to 4000m and chatted with the other paraglider pilots, then rode the Enfield back down the hill into Bir and around town a bit.

Tandem time

The next day Bruce’s tandem paraglider arrived from nearby Manali so we went up to Billing for a tandem flight. This was it! This was what I came to India to learn how to do!

Conditions weren’t exactly ideal, the wind was gusting a bit so we sat at the launch site for about half an hour waiting for it to die down, mingling as before. The wind seemed to blow for about 10 mins and then die for about 1 or 2 minutes and then start to blow again. Bruce’s girlfriend Petie went up first and although she hadn’t paraglided in a month she did a nice reverse launch and in less than a minute she was circling 100m above us, whooping with joy.

Bruce strapped me in to the tandem paraglider which are much larger and stronger than a solo glider. He pulled on the strings to lift the glider above us, while I was instructed to sprint forward as fast as I could. Unfortunately the first launch didn’t go exactly as planned, the chute went straight over our heads and crashed in front of us, and we went down in a pile of dust and grass stains. The same thing happened again, but on the third go we decided not sprint forward straight away, and that time the paraglider was strong enough to lift us straight up off the launch site and we were away!

We’re up!

Wow, it’s a lot noisier in the air than I expected, with all the wind noise and the wind whistling past my helmet and through the paraglider’s strings and the chute itself. Duh, really noisy!

Woah it’s actually scarier than I expected too. To think we’re only held in the air by strings and fabric. And we’re fucking high – we’re flying at about 3000m altitude, and the town of Bir is 1500m below us.

It’s quite cold too, duh, but I’d been told to expect that.

What a view though! I’d thought the view was wicked from the launch site, but the higher you go the more you see, and now we could see over more and more mountain ranges and behind every range was a new green valley dotted with houses and towns.

Then we descended a bit and looked at a house Bruce was building just out of Bir – I hadn’t seen it at ground level yet.

Petie was miles away from us and Bruce was wondering what she was up to, since it was her first flight since she’d broken her wrist. So we gained altitude by riding the wind up, and then headed over to where she was. But she was just having a ball, practicing “wing overs”. We flew towards her and she flew under us, whooping some more.

Every now and then we’d get blown around a bit and I’d feel a bit queasy, like airsick. Bruce said that can happen.

We descended to the landing site and made a nice landing. Petie came down behind us and overshot her landing slightly, landing in the barley fields growing at the edge of the landing site.

Now that you’ve read my version, here’s the video:

 

Mum, relax

So overall verdict was it was scary, but amazing. Mum, try to relax, OK: Billing is an intermediate to advanced site, and the day we went up many pilots chose not to go because it looked a bit rough. Bruce knows the area and the wind patterns like the back of his hand so he knew where we could fly safely. I won’t be starting my training at Billing! I may not even get good enough to fly off it. I’ll be learning at much smaller training sites nearby.

03. Delhi… hell

Delhi, India

The next day (Sunday) we were intending to leave Delhi and head north up to the state of Himachal Pradesh where uncle Bruce lives. He’d booked our First class train tickets for the 9pm train that night and we were on the waiting list. We spent the day hanging out at the hotel smoking and having the occasional pool dip, while old friends of Bruce’s stopped by to say hi.

As 9pm approached we realised we were still stuck on the waitlist for the train so we wouldn’t be leaving that night. So we would have an extra day in Delhi which I would try to make the most of and do some sightseeing.

Warning: whinge alert ahead…

First on my list was Delhi’s Red Fort. By the time I got there at around midday I found out the bloody thing was closed on Mondays. It would have been nice if the rickshaw driver had’ve told me that beforehand.

So then a cycle rickshaw driver offered me a tour of Old Delhi, which sounded worthwhile.

First stop was the Jama Masjid, India’s largest mosque, where I was turned away because it was midday prayer time.

I really can’t be bothered writing in detail the rest of the afternoon because now that I look back on it it was a shit time. Here’s the quick version.

I was starving and just wanted to get to a restaurant but the fucking rickshaw driver insisted on doing a tour of Old Delhi before lunch. He took me to a spice wholesaler which was interesting cos you’d walk in and the smell of chillies was overwhelming, dudes were carrying massive sacks of chillies over their shoulders and coughing the whole time. Lots of eyes watering, sneezing and coughing from the guys working there too.

Nearby was a flower warehouse, and the view from up on the roof of that was pretty good. In fact that was probably the highlight of the day, seeing the flowers drying on the roof alongside the busy street full of spice sellers and the rundown buildings of Old Delhi.

He kept trying to take me shopping, and of course you know the story – he would either get commission on whatever I buy or he’d just get a fee from the store owner for dropping me off. I agreed to one stop if it was on the way to the restaurant but I knew I wouldn’t buy anything, and I figured I’d play along so that the driver would get his cut. So off we go, out of the way down a maze of back streets and side alleys to a pashmina scarf shop. I pretended to be interested but really, fuckface, do you think I’m going to wear a pashmina shawl? One for my mother? Oh yeah, I can see her rocking that on the golf course. That’ll help her swing. My sister? Fuck, if she wants one she can buy one in NZ for cheaper than whatever inflated price you’ll try and sell it to me for. Can we go now?

After that we headed towards the restaurant but the traffic was insane. The main wide street was filled with bikes, motorbikes, trucks, cars, moto-rickshaws, cycle-rickshaws and pedestrians, all side by side, and none of them were moving anywhere, except maybe the pedestrians.

Cue detour down some real narrow streets:

By the time we got to the restaurant it was past 3pm and I was fucking over it. The romance of the cycle rickshaw had long worn off – slow, little sun protection, and a bumpy ass-bruising ride.

The restaurant we went to, Khalid’s, had high recommendations. Its walls were plastered with positive reviews. The meal wasn’t all that cheap though, the bill for a meal with a drink was 450 rupees, NZ$14. The lunchtime special at Raviz’ in Auckland is the same fucking price, and at Raviz I won’t sit on a plastic outdoor furniture, the service will be good, and the food just as good. Fuck.

Finally we went back to the Jama Masjid mosque, and I paid 200 rupees to get in. That seemed a little expensive and I was grumpy enough to not enjoy it, so I walked in, took a photo, and left (the photo is at the top of this post). Apparently for 50 rupees (NZ$1.50) you can climb one of the towers for an awesome view but I was really over it by then and spent all of 3 minutes in there. I just wanted to be out of the heat and noise. And now for the real kick in the guts – I just read in my guidebook that admission to the mosque is free, and you should be on the lookout for fake guides insisting there’s an admission fee. Mother fuckers. I was pissed off enough about it then, now I’m entertaining fantasies of returning to the mosque as a tourist again and stabbing the fucker who ripped me off.

Back to the rickshaw, and the driver suggested I check out the Mahatma Gandhi museum. Dude, I’m tired, fuck, how far is it? Only 5 mins sir. Well, I’d heard this was good so off we went. 15 mins later we arrived and guess what – it’s closed on Mondays. Awesome.

Across the road was Mahatma Gandhi’s tomb so I went and checked it out. This was nice because it was set in the middle of a large grass park so I could at least chill out on the grass for a bit. Until another friendly Indian approached me for a chat. I’ve developed a strategy, I ask them what they do for a job. If it’s tour guide or whatever then they can fuck off, but this guy was an air conditioner mechanic so I invited him to sit and we had an agreeable conversation.

Back to the rickshaw and I asked him just to drop me off at the nearest Delhi metro station so I could find my own way back to our hotel. He dropped me off “just around the corner” from a metro station, and I gave him a decent tip cos I was still feeling rich. I soon regretted the tip when it took me half an hour to find the metro station, and I doubly regret it now that I realize he had an active part in the fake-entry-fee scam at the mosque.

Delhi has a nice new subway system but it’s ridiculously inefficient – lots of queuing to buy a ticket (Delhi: take a lesson from Tokyo – ticket vending machines only), then even more queuing to stand in line to go through metal detectors (which beeped even if you had no metal, so everyone gets the pat down), get patted down, oh, and get your bag X-rayed, just like at the airport. Just to catch a 10 min subway ride. For fuck’s sake!

I finally got back to our hotel and we weren’t taking the first class train north – Bruce had passport issues and you need to show your passport to buy train tickets, so we took the night bus. We arrived 5 mins late but fortunately we still caught it. I’m sure we only made it on time cos I was telling the rickshaw driver to jump lanes and I was hanging out of the rickshaw stopping cars so that he could change lanes.

Despite the let-down of taking the bus, on the bright side I was able to buy enough Valium at the pharmacy to knock me out for the trip, so it went by quick enough. That’s the great thing about pharmacies in developing countries – a prescription isn’t often requested and the medicines are real cheap – 10 x 5mg Valium for 15 rupees (NZ$0.50).