Himachal Pradesh, Himalayas, Northern India.

It was February. I had been snowed up in a small village a few kilometers north of Manali, in the Kullu Valley (a most impressive and beautiful valley) for about a week. It was very cold, and the hut where I stayed had no stove. Usually I sat in bed all day, fully clothed, wrapped in a fat sleeping bag, covered in a thick blanket, a woolen hat pulled over my ears, and gloves on my hands. The gloves made reading a bit clumsy, but this was the only entertainment option open to me as I waited for the weather to turn.

Every day the snow came down. Every day I waded through it to the nearest source of food, a small chai shop about 15 minutes away. There were four travellers who met there each day. Four travellers crazy enough to be up there at this time of year. We burned whatever precious fuel we could find in an old metal bucket, usually a few small logs, and gathered in a circle around it eating toast and honey, glowing in the luxury of the warmth, but always knowing that soon it would be burned away, and we would be back in the freezer again.

One morning I awoke to the sound of rain. Rain! It was raining, the snow had stopped at last. I looked from my window to see sheets of water descending from the heavens. The rain was turning the snow drifts to sludge. This was what I had been waiting for. Now I could walk down the valley to Manali and catch a bus out of here.

I met with one of my fellow travellers who had also the same idea, we decided to go together. I packed up my rucksack, put on my big boots, and we set off together down the winding hillside road towards the town.

However, things were not going to be as simple as we had imagined. The rain had turned the road into a small river, parts of the surface had been uprooted and swept away. Streams was gushing down the mountainside and very soon, despite our best efforts, our feet were soaking wet. At times we were walking in at least eight inches of freezing cold water. As well as that the rain was getting heavier, the relentless downpour soon soaked our belongings and clothes. Before long I was wet right through.

We crossed the huge Beas river by the wooden bridge. The river was ferocious, torrents and whirlpools were dashing the massive rocks below us. Spray was flying high into the air. The melting snow had greatly added to the volume of water, and what was always a mighty river, now had an attitude too.

Shortly after the crossing we came to the outskirts of the town. We headed straight for the bus station. There were three busses parked there, under the galvanized tin roof. I asked if there was a bus to Kullu (the valleys capital, and a junction at the start of the valley). The clerk sitting behind the meshed window politely informed that there were no busses going anywhere, as the torrential rain, and the heightened Beas river had caused huge landslides which had totally blocked the roads. There was no way out. Even the taxi jeeps were grounded.

Dismayed we turned back and looked for a hotel in the town. We rented a room and an electric heater, dried out our possessions, and waited...

Due to the rain, the valley was looking beautifully lush. Manali is a bit of a tourist town in the warmer months, popular with Indian newlyweds. It is surrounded by apple orchards and pine forests which fold into the lower reaches of the spectacular snow capped mountain peaks.

During the time that I waited for the road to be cleared I spent wandering around the outer perimeter of the town, through muddy pathways, and rocky crags, always my umbrella held skyward.

Manali has a large population of Tibetan refugees. There is a beautifully decorated Tibetan monastery (Gadhan Thekchhokling gompa) just outside the main town. I spent many blissful hours sitting inside there, gazing at the murals on the walls, listening to the chanting of the monks, my mind wondering the labyrinths of symbolism and dreams. The mandalas drew me into another world.

On one occasion I was sitting for such a long time on the bare wooded floor contemplating one particular painting, when an old monk shuffled quietly into the temple with a cushion in his hands. He came up to me, putting his finger on his lips to indicate that I did not need to speak, then he bent down and slipped the cushion beneath me before leaving without a sound.

Two months prior to this, while sitting on a beach in Gokarna, Karnataka, South Western India, with some friends from England, I had discussed the possibility of meeting again with them in McLeod Ganj, Dharamsala, home of the Tibetan government in exile, to attend a Vipasana course (10 day silent meditation).

I wished to explore some more of Tibetan culture and decided to go to McLeod Ganj just as soon as the road was open again. (That Vipasana course was soon forgotten).

After four days there was renewed activity at the bus station. Myself and my travelling companion finally managed to buy a ticket to Kullu. However, we were told that we were not actually guaranteed of arrival. The road was still damaged, and there was still rain. Nevertheless, I felt that the risk was worth taking, I wanted to leave, and so I threw my bag onto the luggage rack, and took the front seat up next to the driver. Little did I know, but here began one of the most frightening journeys I had ever undertaken.

Roads in the Himalayas are daunting at the best of times. They wind and snake their way through near sheer mountain walls, blind bends are normal, and there is often a plunging drop down the ravine to remind you to say your prayers.

Under these weather conditions the roads had become a nightmare. Parts of the asphalt had eroded away and fallen into the river, large boulders and trees had tumbled from the rockside and were strewn all over the place, often leaving only the smallest of gaps for a bus to squeeze through. I consoled myself with the fact that the bus driver must know what he was doing. He did not want to trash his bus, it was his only source of income. He had been driving these roads for years, he knew them like the back of his hand. Every corner, every bump were well known to him...

About 3km out of town, negotiating the first steep bend, the bus collided head on with a truck! The front window of the bus shattered. Glass flew everywhere, and most of it landed on me. Luckily we were not travelling at great speed, and I had slumped low into my seat, and had my feet braced against the dashboard. That took most of the impact.

After a short fist fight between the truck driver and the bus driver we continued on our way minus the windscreen. Eventually we came to the first roadblock. A huge deep dark river of thick sloppy mud was covering the road, slowly drifting down from the mountainside and into the high waters of the Beas. A gang of people armed with shovels and buckets were trying their best to stem the flow, but to me it seemed like a futile attempt. The bus came to a halt, I wondered what would happen now.

To my astonishment one of the workers waved the bus driver on. I could not believe it, he was actually going to drive through this! Stunned, it crossed my mind to jump off the bus there and then, but I was too late, and so were the other passengers. He revved the engine, changed into a low gear, and proceeded.

I figured I should trust him, I had no choice. After all, the truck that we collided with must have come this way too. As we moved forward the bus started to slip and slide in the currents of the flowing mud. The wheels started to spin. The workers were shouting and banging on the side of the bus. I looked down at the river and held tightly to my seat. I prayed that we would make it through this mudslide alive and not plummet to our deaths in the cold angry waters below. I closed my eyes.

Suddenly the bus increased speed again. We were through. It was a miracle! I was most relieved, nervously laughing under my breath. Nothing could stop us now! Not even the next mudslide, where we repeated the experience, or even the next. Our driver was a mudslide expert!

Eventually we reached Kullu. I thanked Shiva that it was not yet my day to die and found a small chai shop where I ate an omelet and gave myself indigestion.

We soon picked up another bus bound for Mandi, about eight hours away under present conditions, a main crossroads for the region. We arrived without further adventure and stayed the night there, picking up a bus next morning for the seven hour, 160km trip to Dharamsala. The roads from Mandi to Dharamsala had not suffered like the Kullu road. In fact there was no evidence of rain or snow at all. Eventually we came down from the rollercoaster mountain roads, through lush forests to the plains which stand before the jutting peaks of the Dhauladhar mountain range. There before us was our destination. The magnificent awe inspiring view took my breath away.

The sun was shining down onto the golden fields that surrounded the road, small villages punctuated the landscape, and there in the distance, the land steeply rose to meet with the heavens.

Mc Leod Ganj was up there on the ridge, about 2000m above sea level, and 1000m above the town of Dharamsala itself. This is the home of the Dalai Lama, and a large population of Tibetans who had fled their homeland following the Chinese invasion. The Tibetans outnumber the local Indian population. This cross-cultural mixture makes for a highly interesting town, also even tinged with remnants of the British such as a the Church of Saint John, a fully european-style church hidden amongst the trees.

The last part of my journey was by local bus from Dharamsala, which wound its way up the mountainside in the twilight of a beautiful evening. The huge Namgyal monastery always in view as we drove around the horseshoe shaped ridge, a sense of deep mystery and elation pervaded my being as we drew ever closer.

The bus arrived, stopping in the small square, next to the towns main Buddhist temple with its red and gold spinning prayer wheels set into the walls. An old Tibetan woman was circumnavigating the perimeter, her frail hand spinning wheel after wheel, murmuring a prayer. I climbed down from my seat and stood in awe of the magical atmosphere of the place. Night had just fallen, I looked down almost 2000m to the faintly glowing lights twinkling on the plains below. Breathing in the fresh air, scented delicately by the the pine forests, I was sure I must be dreaming.

I decided there and then that this was my new home. I stayed there for four months, only forced to leave India when my visa expired.