We arrived in McLeod Ganj in the late afternoon, tired but invigorated by the mountain air. McLeod Ganj is an old British hill station and the home of many Tibetan refugees, the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government in exile. It is on the far reaches of the Himalaya and is really, really beautiful.

 

 

Our hotel, the Annex Hotel, was full of rooms that overlooked the Kangra Valley, which meant that we had a spectacular view, but a very cold room. The owners of the hotel, two lovely brothers from Kashmir, gave us a Hudson space heater. Hudson was our saving grace at the Annex. We spent many hours sitting very near to him, professing our undying love. Our room was possibly the most charming yet, with a shawl over the thick duvets, and Tibetan rugs on the floor.

 

 

The first thing we did when we arrived was go to the rooftop cafe for some lunch, which one of the owners allowed us to eat in his office, on floor pillows. After that, we had planned to go to our room to watch some TV, but the power went for the first of many times in the hotel, and we ended up sleeping for ages instead. When we awoke, T got himself a job, after spending hours Skyping and emailing all his various bidders. If you’re interested, as of June, he will be working for his old English firm, who offered him European-style vacation time. Cha-ching!

 

 

 

Two addictions reared their heads in McLeod Ganj: unhealthy obsessions with chai for me, and a burning desire to eat dal makhani at every meal for both of us. Chai, as you may know, is Indian tea, and it is warm and spicy and perfect for a winter day in the Himalaya. Dal makhani is a lentil dal cooked in milk and butter and could well be terrible for you, but OH GOD, is it good. (Fram, I don’t want to hear complaints about my food writing from you. Stick a chicken foot in it.)

 

 

A very important event happened on our first full day in McLeod Ganj. I saw real, delicate, beautiful, soft falling snow for the first time in years. I almost rolled like a dog in it, I was so happy. Unfortunately, snow is a lot more beautiful to watch than to walk in, and we promptly got cold and wet. McLeod Ganj is not the kind of place where there’s a whole lot to do; much of our time was spent just walking around and looking, sleeping, and eating. Unfortunately for you, my readers, this is the case in most of the places we visit.

 

 

 

Any plans we may have had to do anything exciting were interrupted by Losar, the Tibetan New Year, which started on our first day in McLeod Ganj. On the first three days of Losar, Tibetans go to visit their families, which means that all the Tibetan establishments were closed, which meant more Indian food for us!

 

 

We ended up going to town when the Dalai Lama was not teaching, because we were afeered of the thousands of Others who would surely descend on the town when he was teaching. It was a good decision too, because everything was booked out months in advance for his teachings. Despite not seeing him, we got to see hundreds of Tibetans, people who I honestly believe may be the most beautiful people on earth, with lovely, open faces, bright eyes and gentle smiles. I was pleased to see that even though that have been through hell and have lost their country to the wicked Chinese and fled their homeland, they still looked much healthier and happier than the Tibetans we saw in Chengdu, who looked miserable and very poor. McLeod Ganj is full of Tibetan families and laughing children and monks and nuns in crimson robes, all wandering around town.

 

Unfortunately, not everyone was doing as well as the Tibetans, because there was a LOT of begging in McLeod Ganj, probably due to the many tourists. On our first day in town, we got nailed. There was a woman who looked exactly like an Indian version of my friend Valerie, walking around with her baby. She saw us and came right over. She kept saying, No money, no money, mee-elk. We said no politely, and kept on walking. Then T took off in front, and I was left with this woman, repeating over and over that she wanted milk and pulling on my arm. I tried to keep walking, but eventually I cracked and made T buy her the damn milk. Normally, we don’t do this, because people often take the milk and sell it back and keep the money for themselves, which means the babies don’t get the milk, and we’re not sure what happens to the money. But normally, I am not left alone to fend for myself with a woman who looks like my friend, who is begging me for a few dollars to feed her skinny baby. Normally, T says no and they leave, because I CANNOT BE TRUSTED.

 

 

There was another boy in McLeod Ganj who got us on our second day. As we were turning the corner (in exactly the same place where the Valerie lookalike got us), a little boy popped out of nowhere. I remember you! he cried. He was about eight years old and was completely adorable. I had never seen him before, but wished I had. I told him I didn’t know him, and he said yes! You remember! You were dancing with my friend! I told him no, and he shrugged. Okay! What is your name? His name was Sujit and if he wasn’t the cutest kid ever, I don’t know who is. We kept walking down the street and he asked where we were from, and eventually started walking in front of us, doing a little dance down the road. Suddenly, another, older boy appeared an Sujit introduced us to him. And then it happened.

 

 

 

Will you buy us food? they asked. Now, our rule with kids is that food is okay, money is not. Just when we were about to say yes, they changed their minds. Will you buy us milk? We have little sisters at home. Crap. We had already forked over the money for milk to Valerie and swore that we would not do it again. T gave me 20 rupees to give to them, but they said no, no. Milk! Formula is 180 rupees, so I can’t blame them for trying. In the end, I took the 20 rupees and shoved it into his little hand and ran away, feeling enormously guilty until I saw him later with an English woman, whom he clearly knew. She asked him if he wanted some chips, and he said no, which she said wasn’t like him. Ha! Maybe he used the money we gave him to buy food. Ssh, it could happen.

 

 

After the first day, the weather warmed up and the sun came out and everything was perfect: about 50 degrees with bright sunshine. We walked past the Dalai Lamas home and down a road that led us to the Tibetan temple. Unfortunately, we went the wrong way (you are supposed to walk clockwise, not anti-clockwise), so we had to hike back up the big hill, back past the Dalai Lama’s compound, and around the other way. Fortunately, the walk was worth it—the views were stunning and the temple was very peaceful.

 

The Tibetans walk through, spinning the prayer wheels as they go along, and then spinning the large ones three or four times (I couldn’t tell which) before heading back up the hill. The prayer wheels are brightly colored, with yellows and reds, and there are Tibetan prayer flags fluttering all over, blanketing the whole area.

 

 

One of the most exciting things to happen in McLeod Ganj was that we made our first Indian friend. Deepak was staying in our hotel; he had come up for a quick trip from Delhi, where he was on a business trip. He lives in Bangalore, where he works for Oracle, and he was very informative about India, and a great old conversationalist. We had dinner with him one night and we closed down the restaurant, talking about India and American politics (the issue du jour everywhere we go; if you’re wondering, everyone we meet abroad thinks Obama should be the next president. These people are smart).

 

 

 

According to T, the most important thing Deepak taught us was that you don’t need rice with your food—you can eat it just with bread. And trust me, Indian bread is the only thing T loves more than me (and dark Beer Lao). We met Deepak in the street again the next night, when we ran into him in the town square, where a group of Indians and Tibetans had formed a giant circle for some impromtu dancing. This is the kind of place McLeod Ganj seems to be—the Indians and the Tibetans all play nice and every so often, they all dance in the streets.

 

 

One day, we tried to go to Nick’s pizza place for dinner, but of course, it was closed for Losar. A Kashmiri man came over to tell us it was closed, and asked if we would come to his shop. T gave me the stinkeye, but I said yes, of course. He walked with us some stairs, into a tiny room in the back of a building, where he let us in and then locked us in. He had some really lovely handmade necklaces, so I bought one. For the rest of our time in town, he would come up and say hello on the street and tell us how many necklaces he had sold. Meanwhile, I liked mine so much that on our last day, I went back and bought two more, as gifts. There seem to be a lot of Kashmiris in McLeod Ganj, and for the most part, they seemed to be very funny and sweet people. The guys who owned our hotel were great, and we had a long talk with them and Deepak about cricket one night, until my toes started to fall off from frostbite and we had to reunite with Hudson.

 

 

Sarah and Mick had highly recommended Nick’s Pizza Place for the views, and we finally made it there. The restaurant has an outdoor terrace that overlooks mountains, some more mountains, a valley and the towns on the mountainside. It was gorgeous. We tried some Tibetan momos there, and found them to be quite delicious (shocking, I know, that we would find food delicious). Momos are steamed dumplings with a variety of fillings—we tried them with mushroom and cheese.

 

 

After the momos and the views, we decided to walk to Bhagsu, the next town along. We walked with the locals along the road, dodging cows and motorbikes and occasionally gawking at the mountains (have I mentioned that the mountains were beautiful?). In Bhagsu, we climbed a big hill to a waterfall (our waterfall excursions are neverending), and on the way down, we decided to check out the wooden stamps that a woman was selling. T wanted to buy a Ganesh stamp for his grandmother: easy, we thought. Stupid, we are. We approached her, and she had us sit down. Bad sign # 1. Then she asked for my hands. Oh, I thought, how nice! She wants to show how they work! My stupidity is endless. She stamped both my palms with a series of henna prints, and then put the Ganesh stamp on T’s arm. 400 rupees, she tells us. Eh? 100 for the actual stamp, 100 for T’s henna stamp, and 200 for mine. T managed to talk her down to 300, but damn if we didn’t get scammed AGAIN. And the henna only lasted about 2 days of doom!!

On our last day in town, the Tibet Museum was finally open, so we went to see it. It was a heartbreaking experience. The museum is an historical exhibit about China and Tibet and tells the story of how China came in, killed thousands of Tibetans, destroyed most of their culture, tried to ban their religion and is trying now to repopulate the area with ethnic Chinese. I read one man’s story about how he fled Tibet over the Himalayas, and had to have both his legs amputated because of frostbite damage. Because his case was so dire, he was allowed to stay in India, but his two friends were sent back. When he met the Dalai Lama, all he could do was cry. All I could do was cry, reading his story.