MANALI MEANDERINGS

 

The first piece I wrote for this blog was about Hans Humpy Peter up in the hills of Manali, his organic farm, his Himalayan cows and the fabulous Swiss cheese he makes, the rich ghee he makes for himself and presents some only to a very few people, the wonderful bread he makes, also for himself only, the dogs, cats and geese that have the run of his farm and more. Naturally, he was first on the list of people I had to meet and a visit to his farm was the first must-do on my Manali trip. But you can’t always get what you want; there were other priorities that needed attending to. I first heard of Peter accidentally last year and managed to make my way to his farm up on the hills above Nashogi village for a wonderful experience and though we had been getting his Swiss cheese regularly I was hell bent on repeating the experience.  The visit this time to his farm happened accidentally.  We were staying at the newly opened Vivaan-The Sunrise resort up in the Kanyal Hills with its breathtaking views (much more of that later) and everyone kept talking of the hiking trails from the forest adjoining it to the ancient Hadimba Temple atop the hill on the other side. A couple of days later we- the spouse and I- managed to find time and started out for the hike.  Since we didn’t have a guide we took some wrong turns which meant regular steep climbs and going down, which let me assure you is not an easy task with fallen dried pine needles making it a dangerous slippery affair. It was much later that we realised that right at the beginning we had taken a wrong turn and that instead of simply going uphill all the way to the top and walking the trail that everyone takes, we somehow managed to cross over the barbed wire fencing and took a mid path. The worst was when we came across a tiny stream, a really minuscule one, running down the hillside. The small barely there water going downhill could have been child’s play but for the miserable fact that quite a stretch of land around it was extremely wet and watery. If there is one thing that I detest, it is  soggy land, the kind where your feet sinks and there is nothing more disgusting than have water seep inside your hiking shoes ugh!  There was no stepping stone, nothing, just wet marshy ground. While the spouse dexterously managed somehow to get to the other side, I had to do some going down and coming up and then going down and coming up again while some thorny bushes had a field day scoring some ugly lashes, on my arms in particular. But well you can take the girl out of the hills but you can’t take the hills out of her. You know there is always another way and finally, I was safely across.

 

The view from where we started our hike 

 

To walk through a virgin forest with not a soul in sight is without doubt one of life’s greatest pleasures. As we grew accustomed to the hilly terrain and more comfortable with our pace, we looked around and just took in nature at her best. We had been told that once we managed to reach the hiking trail all we had to do was just keep walking till we came across two villages and that from there, Hadimba Temple would be a stone’s throw. By the way when hill folks tell you that the destination you are looking for is just there, take it with a huge sack of salt and multiply the ‘just there’ several, several times over. What is just there for them is killing distance for city dwellers.  After more than an hour we came across a little water fall lilting its way further down and right in front of it the dense canopy of trees opened up to let us take in our fill of a view that could have  been painted only by a superior being. Stunning would be a poor word – across in the horizon the snow capped peaks glistened in the hazy sun over another row of green hills. At one point, as we began another round of ascent, one looked across to the snowy peaks again and it was a trance like moment, right in front me at eyesight level was the branch of a Deodhar tree, its deep green needles spreading like a lacey tablecloth and just beyond it the snow peaks, not very clear, rather hazy and all the more dreamlike because of it.

 

It was quite a climb up

 

Deodhars that reached up the skies

 

How peaceful can it get

 

The mini waterfall

The snowy peaks across the lacy leafy branch

Does it look like there is a hiking trail here? Well we found one

Up down and down up, we walked and walked and suddenly we came across a lady carrying a conical cane basket with the strap across her head like a fat headband, the basket laden with fodder for her cattle. We had been hiking for about two hours. The lady seemed extremely amused, I guess at the sweaty sight we presented.  For the Hadimba temple you go up further she said, while she nimbly scurried down a narrow path to her village, way down.  There were two other ladies, this time walking into the forest; they said they were looking for firewood. Another bit of a somewhat steep climb and we could see some houses on our right. We began to hear human voices. They voices turned out to be those The of three women washing clothes next to what appeared to be a covered well. They were only too happy to pose for pictures; I guess that was an interesting interlude in their busy lives, what with tending to homes, farms, cattle and such.

 

Houses on the way

    

    

As we moved further up, there was a sense of déjà vu, the surrounding areas seemed somewhat familiar as if I had trudged through it before. Then wham it hit me, somewhere higher up the hills was Peter’s farmhouse. Was it serendipity? There could be now no turning away without dropping in to say hello to the Swiss farmer. The spouse had had enough of hiking for the day; there was no way he was going to make the final scale to Hampy’s farm, no way. So while he began to hike towards Hadimba Temple, I moved further up. On the way I saw a lady dressed in the traditional Himachali attire (Pattu) combing through the thick foliage. Then with a smile she stood up holding some ‘lingdi’ in her hands.  The fern like greens that grow in the wild is much sought after in Manali and is usually pickled.  Another climb up, thankfully a short one and Peter’s farm appeared in sight.  From last year to now nothing seemed to have changed. The three floor building was still incomplete (if you make the mistake of asking why be prepared to listen a long litany of an irate Himachali ex-wife, court cases and more), some his Himalayan cows were as usual lazing in the sun while the rest were grazing further up the hill, the smell that says loudly you are at farm was still strong; everything seemed as it was.  Incidentally Hampy is the only person in India to rear Himalayan cows, a fact confirmed by the certificates he showed and the official communication from animal husbandry department of some states, particularly Odisha, who were keen to collaborate with him on how to rear Himalayan cows. The rest of cow rearing farmers in India seemed to have succumbed lock, stock and barrel to the charms of the imported Jersey cow as apparently they believe they get more milk, a point Hampy vehemently denies.  Incidentally Hampy’s official name is Hans Peter Weuthrich and he has been living in Manali since 1974. The last visit that the sixty year old made to Switzerland was in 1989!

 

The Lady with the Lingdi

  

Finally the entry to Hampy's farm and some of his Himalayan cows

A little walk, a left turn and something new caught my eye. Peter had finally put up a little board announcing ‘Local Cow Milk Cheese available; Made by Swiss Farmer’. The farmer in question appeared and he too looked the same at first glance. At second glance one realised that he looked better and more filled out. Initially all conversation were lost in the cacophonous din the geese raised. I don’t know whether they disliked my presence or were welcoming me or simply putting in their bit into the conversation. The more one shushed them, like naughty kids the shriller they got. And to think there were just five of them in the pen, later I realised that the others in another pen below had contributed too. Remember his dog, strangely named Vajpayee, well the bloke way past his tenth decade was also part of the welcoming committee as were other dogs. The only canine missing seemed to be Michael and Hampy knew where exactly he could be found.  Well Mr Michael, nearly 17 years old (honest to god that’s how old he was insisted Hampy) had found himself a cosy corner among the greenery and he was not going to budge an inch, whatever the cajoling, he preferred his nap thank you! The new addition this time was the rabbit hatch with some really heavy inmates and unfortunately, they were not pets, they were for his dining table. My pleas to let them go away and not go under the butcher’s knife seemed to highly amuse Hampy. I can’t believe how can anyone even think of dining of bunny rabbits? The cats as usual were countless and as usual they were their arrogant selves, least interested in what was going around, the only concern seemed to how to sneak into the cheese making room.

 

The cacophonous chorus!

Hans 'Hampy' Peter Weuthrich

 

Vajpayee!

  

The sleepy Michael

 

The poor bunnies

 

Manali had some rains before we landed there and its effect was to be evident in the abundant greenery around. Hampy has now taken to growing his cow feed, tallish wheat like grass which he claimed was the best organic fodder ever and that he had got the seeds from Switzerland. The Kiwi flowers were in full bloom and clearly he is going to have an abundant crop this year. In the garden patch there were spinach, leeks, onions, asparagus, dill, coriander, carrots and what have you. As if having flowering kiwis and chestnut trees were not enough, Hampy has grown some grapes too and the grapevine, sorry Hampy’s firm assertion is that he is in for a bountiful crop. There were also rosemary’s in pots, chamomile blooming everywhere, a strange berry of which he knew only the German name and whose pronunciation I couldn’t latch on to for all my efforts and wild strawberries. There’s one thing you must know about wild strawberries, don’t just pop them into the mouth blindly, first ensure that none of the berries have any seed popping out the fruit, if it is there discard it pronto or you will be the victim of the mother of all headaches. Call it folk tale or whatever but believe me, Hampy was not the first one to tell me about it. In the hills that’s accepted fact as is the fact that you do not go anywhere near wild mushroom that are not all white, a touch of colour and its poison.

 

Cow feed!

 

 

Kiwi blooms

 

Chamomile tea anyone?

 

Dill, coriander, spinach

  

Rosemary

 

Anyone recognise these berries? And please don't say gooseberries!

 

Heard anything from the grapevine?

 

Wild strawberries

 

The incomplete house seen from the vegetable patch

  The cheese making room seemed cleaner, more organised and the shelves more packed this time.  Some had aged, some were in the process, some of still babies and some more were in the making-process with milk cooling in a huge pot.  From an ancient fridge Hampy took out some cream cheese- fresh, luscious, naturally sweetish and melt-in-the-mouth affairs that no money can buy. Unfortunately, he doesn’t sell them; too much of hassle he says. His staple homemade ghee packed in tiny plastic bottles, only for his consumption, were plentiful too. Yes he gave one bottle gratis this time too. By the way if he goes out to town or meets up with friends for a meal, which he rarely does, Hampy always carries a bottle of ghee which he pours liberally over his rice/chapatti/dal. The next day he was gracious enough to come all the way to Vivaan-The Sunrise Resort and during lunch time the ghee bottle popped out of his bag, only this time he had little of it because others around the table helped themselves generously!

 

I'll say it again- How Cheesy!

  

Its universal rule that one can’t have too much of a good thing and it was time to leave. The idea of trudging first to Hadimba Temple and then all the way down to main market was a bit dampening. What I had forgotten was that in the hills there is always a way and there are ways and ways. In Darjeeling, Sikkim and Nepal such ways are called chor-bato (literally thief road! In ordinary parlance known as short cuts). It is as if the hill folks watch the authorities cleave a decent path/road through difficult terrains and then disdainfully ignore them and forge their much worn, much walked, much, much narrower ones that cut walking time by more than half. As I complained about the bright sunlight and hours of walking, Hampy had a good laugh. Pointing to the little nulla (teeny-meeny stream) that descended from somewhere in the hills above and flowed down past his property , he said just follow it and walk by its die, at one point it turns left naturally and you do the same and you will be in the market in a jiffy. A little sceptical but accepting he knew better I stuck to the nulla faithfully and hey very soon I neared a village and before long I could traffic noise and the market buzz. Once I hit the village I had to however ask my way down, as the tiny lanes seemed to be snaking around, at one time it led me to a beautiful sight – an unattended weaving loom sporting bright magenta, orange and green threads, someone must have been working on it and must have gone out to attend to some other chores as the green door of the little room sported a huge lock. But the weaver need not have worried; a local dog was sitting guard! At one time I came across a delightful scene, three little bright eyes girls, in school uniform (red checked kameez and white salwar) were taking turns to drink water from a public tap. A public tap yep! Can you imagine us letting our kids ever do that? When did we city folks began to shy away from drinking tap water and if we do so today, would we have to be hospitalised! Ah the price of civilisation. When I asked for directions, all three chorused chirpily.

I could hear their laughter and chattering long into the night.

  

The unattended loom and its guardian dog

By the way, it took me all of 16 minutes- yes just 16 minutes; I timed it – to hit the market in town. Hampy knew what he was talking about; it was as he said just a matter of scrambling downhill. Just watch out for your knees but.