Smells Like Masala

Like a beast unburied after a long hibernation, my blog breaths again.

It’s been quite a while since my last post, but this time I have a valid excuse (for half the lapse anyway.)

Part I: Joining the party

Last week I joined the continuing search for missing Israeli traveler Amichai Steinmitz.

An experienced trekker and former member of one of Israel’s elite military units, Steinmitz set off on a relatively benign day-trek from Khiraganga, a small tourist trap of a town in the Paravati Valley in the Indian Himalayas.

A religious Jew, Steinmitz was scheduled to make it back to Kalga, another town near Kasol in the Paravati Valley, in time for the Friday evening Shabbat service at the local Jewish house.

He left on a Thursday nearly two weeks ago and no sign has been seen of him since.

Rewind to the last Monday in July. Location: Old Manali

My friend Ilan and I, after a lengthy debate, decided to eat at People, a local restaurant catering to the tastes of travelers.

We knew we wanted to sit outside, but the tables in the back of the restaurant are dominated by thousands of flies.

Now, it must be said that this is not uncommon in India, where nearly every restaurant, dhaba, and eatery has a healthy (or unhealthy) population of flies.

In this case the flies drove us to the front of People, where we figured it was better to deal with diesel fumes rather than millions of buzzing, shit-eating parasites.

While downing an Indian breakfast and set breakfast respectively, Ilan and I were approached by a local Chabadnic.
Chabad houses are Jewish centers founded in locals heavily populated by Israeli travelers. They offer religious ceremonies, kosher food and various other services mainly to Israelis, but also any Jewish people from around the world.

Being a gentile myself, I’ve come to find they’ll serve the occasional goy as well.

The Chabad Houses are staffed by Orthodox Jews, often called Chabadnics.

So, anyway, Levi (pronounced levy as in that thing to which you drive your Chevy, not Levi as in the denim moguls) one of the Manali Chabadnics, stopped by and invited Ilan, an Israeli, and I to join the search for Steinmitz in Kasol.

For reasons, which even after seven bee stings and countless miles combed still remain a mystery, Ilan and I agreed.
Packing our things and checking out of our guesthouse in 30 minutes, we mad it to the Chabad house in time to board a Jeep to Kasol.

After the 2-hour ride to Kasol we continued on to Kalga, a small backwater full of guesthouses and restaurants.

Kalga is not accessible even to the hardest of the hardcore vehicles, so we were dropped at what seemed, at best, to be a mining colony. We then hiked about 30 minutes into the apple-orchard dominated town filled with colorful guesthouses and tiny stores.

After a briefing by the elite search team sent by Steinmitz’s insurance company we went to sleep in a room hardly large enough to house a queen sized bed.

There was electricity, but the thing smelled of cedar and smacked of summer camp. The bathroom was a squat toilet and bucket-shower room located about a city block away from the bedrooms of all of the sleeping searchers.

PART II: The Search begins

The next morning, Tuesday by all accounts, Ilan and I woke at 5:30 to meet the rest of the group at 6.

About 35 volunteers gathered before the stout and experienced looking rescue team to learn what awaited them in the wild. Those gathered were divided into two teams. The two groups were scheduled to make opposing circles.

Team one, of which Ilan and I became members, would leave Kalga, trek to Bunbuni, then Khiraganga and back again. Team two, the opposite, Kulga to Khiraganga, Bunbuni then back.

We left early in the morning full of energy and hope. We felt we would find at least a sign that Steinmitz had passed long his intended route. Many thought we might find him alive, bringing him back to safety and civilization.

Our team of around 17 people struck up a hill toward Bunbuni with a sky grey with the threat of future rain. We started quickly; fast slowing to spread out and search. Small groups strayed from the path to look for signs of Steinmitz.

We strained our eyes for his red shirt or yellow tent, hoped to see a backpack with his camera and prayer book. But, by noon, we were worn out from the constant vertical climbing and becoming demoralized by the thickening fog and the looming rain.

By the time we reached Bunbuni most of us were soaked to the bone, disheartened and in a mild state in disbelief that the place we sat had a name.

Bunbuni is simply a collection of three shacks, two for human and animal habitation and one for cooking.
A family of Muslim herders gathers here every season to send their cows afield to graze on the verdant green grass of the Himalayan meadow on which the shacks are arranged.

The monsoon had arrived in Bunbuni about a half an hour before we did and the whole mountaintop was almost as saturated as we were. The green of a field, which would give any suburbanite lawn envy, was covered in the thick fog of a heavy rain which stuck to the ground like Velcro until well after we left.

We stayed in the family’s shacks for about an hour and enjoyed chai while drying our socks, shirts, jackets and selves next to their small cooking fires. Standing in the hut meant sticking your head into a dense thicket of smoke, which blinded the eyes, sent tears raining down cheeks and snot flowing from noses.

Once the rain abated a bit, we set out to try and make Khiraganga by nightfall.

Walking this time in a careful single file, we picked our way down a path, which seemed more a rivulet and at some points waterfall.

It was easy to outwardly lament our fate as our shoes began to squish with saturation and our skin began to prune, but turning a corner, my breath, words and negativity were knocked out of my body by what may be the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.

Looking up, all that was visible was the face of a giant mountain half-shrouded in a thick fog of low sitting clouds.

Above and below these clouds, the mountain was alive with water. Coursing like veins into a central gulch, waterfalls colored and shaped the granite faces of the Himalayan behemoths.

My vocabulary was limited to a string of single-syllable curse words. I became a stuttering monosyllabic idiot, incapable of anything more eloquent than simply, “wow.”

Continuing, we slipped and slid down the watery way. We came to a roaring mountain stream fueled by hours of heavy rain.

We forded the waterway carefully and, might I add, fool-heartedly with the help of a porter who stood fearlessly on a log bracing us against the heavy flow of water racing down a steep mountain’s face.

Thoroughly soaked and shivering uncontrollably, we made it to a rushing river of the brand a white water enthusiast has recurring dreams. The gurgling, spewing, mountain shaping river stood between us and Khiraganga.

Surging with the strength of all the collected streams, rivulets waterfalls and melting snowfall, the river was impassable. So, with the rain easing and the clouds beginning to clear we were faced with the unenviable prospect of returning to Bunbuni.

Moral was at an all time low and exchanges like, “If I die, tell my family I love them,” were exchanged only half-jokingly.

Stay tuned for the ascent and more searching in parts III and IV tomorrow!

All the pictures in this post were taken by Ilan Hugger.