Tag Archives: Manali

looking back

As I continue to re-edit my travel photos from 2010, I’m revisiting some of my unbelievable experiences from that trip. It also gives me something to do as I navigate the spring allergy season in Chengdu.

My eyes are constantly stinging and watery, my sinuses feel like someone shoved a fistful of dry pine needles up my nose, my breathing is labored and shallow, and my cough persistent.  This is the worst allergy season in recent memory.  The other day I decided to visit my favorite massage therapist, but before I even reached the university gate I was gasping for breath and wheezing.  I gave it up. My next purchase:  a deionizer to purify the air in my apartment. And a face mask.



Watcher – Jama Masjid (Friday Mosque), Delhi, India



Sher-e-Punjab Restaurant, Manali, India –  before the dinner rush



Blurred monk photographer, Dharamsala, India – below Bagsu Falls




Group – main square, Dharamsala, India



Old town Varanasi, India – lone walker

Manali to Chandigarh


Chandigarh’s central city at 6:30 AM: bleak and lifeless


To resume my travel story, I left Manali on Monday evening, August 16, bound for the city of Chandigarh on the overnight bus. For my farewell lunch I’d visited one of Manali’s better restaurants, and ordered a half tandoori chicken. Instead, the kitchen gave me a whole chicken, but I ate it – every bite, along with naan and a plate of vegetable rice biryani. What a glutton (but a happpy one).

I decided to go to Chandigarh for two reasons: 1) it wasn’t Delhi, and I wanted to avoid Delhi because it was inundated with rain; and 2) I’d read that Chandighar was developed according to a master plan by visionary architect and planner Le Corbusier.


Le Corbusier sculpture, Chandigarh Architecture Museum


The first half of the bus ride from Manali to Chandigarh was uneventful; we followed a different route than the one coming from Dharamsala, a decent paved road that went through a long tunnel and emerged into a dreamscape of mountain gorges and rivers. Too bad it was night; the dreamscape must have been spectacular by day.

After a dinner stop at 11:30, the trip disintegrated into a nightmare. On a tight curve in the mountains, there was a sudden loud crash, the bus lurched slightly to the left, and a couple of passengers screamed. We sat in stunned silence, not knowing if the bus would move again or not.  Eventually, when we got off to investigate, we saw broken glass in the road, a hole where one of the bus windows used to be, and dents and scrapes on the side.  We’d been broadsided by a truck going around the curve, and the other vehicle had simply driven on, leaving us to sort out what had happened. I guessed that such incidents were fairly common on this stretch of road, where vehicles passed within inches of each other.

The bus took off again after about half an hour, but soon there was another obstacle: a huge traffic pile-up at a bridge repair site, where we waited almost an hour in the sticky night heat before eventually moving on.

From then on, the road was rough and bumpy, and everyone’s nerves were shot. Then the bus rounded a corner, stopped in what looked like a leafy suburban area of broad streets and not much else, and stopped. It was the end of the line. We guessed that this must be Chandigarh, but there was no bus station in sight, nor any buildings for that matter. After quickly ejecting us and our baggage onto the street and sidewalk, the bus took off, leaving us dazed. Where the hell were we? Apart from the abandoned passengers, there was a group of drivers and autorickshaws across the road, waiting to take us – someplace.

People wandered around wearing dazed looks, until small groups began to follow the autorickshaw drivers. Fortunately, I’d done a search on the internet the day before, and I at least had the name and address of the Hotel Alakan. By the time my driver dropped me off, and knocked on the hotel door to wake the desk clerk, it was a little after 6:00 AM. I paid for a room, left my luggage in the lobby, and was told to come back at 10 AM. What would I do for 4 hours, after a nerve-wracking, sleepless night? The hotel clerk pointed in a vague direction, and said “Go to Sector 17.” There, I might at least find some food.


Chandigarh Architecture Museum


Sector 17; Sector 22; broad, empty, tree-lined avenues leading nowhere; a slightly menacing feeling of disorientation: I felt as if I’d wandered into the Godard film Alphaville. No matter where you were in Chandigarh, you were in the middle of nowhere. This wasn’t an urban area, it was some kind of huge suburban college campus stretched to infinity.

I later learned that Le Corbusier had favored the “garden city” approach to design, with lots of greenery, wide open space, and public areas of circulation separated from human or “living” areas. The city was obviously designed primarily for a huge volume of traffic circulation – double-wide avenues and traffic circles that all looked the same. Chandigarh was a confounding place, a rectilinear grid that rigidly divided activities into prescribed zones, and where virtually no building was taller than the trees. It was an anti-city.

I found “Sector 17,” also known as Central City, but the main shopping area was just as bleak and desolate as the avenues, especially at 6:30 in the morning. Everywhere was rotting, crumbling Modernism. Every building was exactly the same: blocky, flat-roofed, supported on thin columns, but they hadn’t aged well, or were cheaply constructed to begin with. Mold and moss covered unpainted concrete, exposed rebar rusted in the damp air, and no one but street-sweepers and homeless dogs populated the shopping district. There was no food to be found; the city was closed tight.

I instantly decided I hated this place; I lasted 3 hours before I desperately began wanting a bed. Returning to the hotel, I was allowed to check in, and went to sleep until early afternoon under the spinning ceiling fan.

The city looked more livable after I’d had some rest; I returned to Sector 17 and found what would become my favorite place in town: the Oven Fresh bakery and cafe. I revived myself with coffee and chocolate-walnut cake, then set out to look for the museum area.


Chocolate walnut cake, Oven Fresh bakery and cafe


My second favorite place in Chandigarh was its Architecture Museum. Patterned after Le Corbusier’s 1965 design for a World’s Fair pavilion, the museum housed documents and drawings that told the story of the city’s design and evolution. Unfortunately, it was also un-air-conditioned, and there were only a couple of working fans inside. I took in as much as I could, before fleeing the museum, panting for air and soaked with sweat. Just across the way was the Art Museum, but I didn’t venture inside. Fortunately, some of its works were displayed outside, where I claimed a spot in front of a huge floor fan and simply tried to cool off.


Le Corbusier’s design for the “Open Hand” or Peace Monument, Chandigarh Architecture Museum



Display of some of Le Corbusier’s sketches, Chandigarh Architecture Museum



“Hyperbolic-Parabolic Dome,” Chandigarh Architecture Museum [model for the Parliament Building, Punjab governmental complex]



My favorite item in the Architecture Museum was this carpet designed by Le Corbusier’s cousin, Pierre Jeanneret


I had learned a little more about Chandigarh: it had replaced Lahore as the capital of Punjab, after the partition of Pakistan and India left Lahore in another country. There was also the need to house many displaced persons after partition, and Prime Minister Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru wanted to create the country’s first planned city, to help to push India into the modern era.

In the late 1940s, Indian architects weren’t capable of handling a project of this scale, so the government hired the American architect Albert Mayer. But, Mr. Mayer was unable to complete the mammoth task and withdrew from the project, severing connections between the Government of Punjab and America. The search for a new architect ended with the appointment of the [Swiss-born] French architect Charles-Edouard Jeanneret [known as Le Corbusier], his cousin Pierre Jeanneret, and the English couple of Maxwell Fry and Jane Drew. This team made the plan in weeks and handed it over to the government of Punjab, leading to the creation of this magnificent city.


I didn’t get to see other sights such as the Rock Garden, or Le Corbusier’s public buildings, some of which looked quite striking in photographs. The humidity level was simple too oppressive to do any more wandering. Instead, it was back to Oven Fresh for a delightful grilled sandwich and more coffee.


Ancient sculpture, Chandigarh Art Museum


I spent only about 30 hours in Chandigarh, before taking a bicycle rickshaw to the bus station, where I just caught the 11:00 bus for Delhi. Le Corbusier’s city had left me unmoved: many of its buildings were in the impersonal, cold, rectilinear style of early 1960s Formalism that I abhor. Le Corbuiser may have been a visionary, but he wasn’t always well-informed about what makes a vital, liveable urban center. For instance, in the 1920s or 30s he had proposed replacing the historic center of Paris with drab, impersonal apartment towers and spaghetti-bowl freeways. This was, after all, the architect who had famously claimed that “The house is a machine for living in” [Vers une architecture, 1923].


A rather perplexing statement by Le Corbusier: “The curve is ruinous, difficult and dangerous, it is a paralysing thing. The straight line enters into all human history….” Obviously, he had never heard that perfectly straight lines occur nowhere in nature.

For now, Chandigarh would have to be just another memory. It was time to return to Delhi, a couple of days before my return flight to China.


Sculpture, based on Le Corbusier’s Modulor design

A short walk to Vashisht


Grazing cow (with necklace), Vashisht 


Realize the Undivided Mind

We often feel our everyday existence is a distraction from our spiritual
intention. When this happens, life is divided between the sacred and
mundane, and the mind pits one concept against the other. But belief shapes
reality, and if the belief is maintained that the sacred lies somewhere else
other than Now, our spiritual life will be governed by that limitation. The
truth is that the sense-of-self is not separate from the moment in which it
is arising, any more than the sense-of-self is outside the mind that it
thinks it possesses. In fact, realizing the undivided mind also heals the
dualistic notion of “me” being outside the moment.

Rodney Smith
Thursday 12th August 2010
Tricycle Daily Dharma

Yeah, so I keep wondering, “When am I going to have a spiritual experience?”  It’s kind of a silly question, but then after a week in Dharamsala, where everybody goes for a spiritual experience, I was feeling a little left out. I am, after all, on the edges of the Himalaya, a spiritual place if there ever was one.

I had to remind myself today, during a walk out of Manali to the hillside village of Vashisht, that everything is practice. That is, my state of mind informs my actions and perceptions. Everything in my daily life is a part of my sobriety, just as everything can be meditative. Somewhere in my Buddhist reading was a quote to the effect that sitting to meditate is silly. So today I did a walking meditation along the highway by the River Bea, then up a twisting road to a touristy little village that looks like somethingleft over from the hippie era.

There’s a little temple in Vashisht (yes, I know it’s hard to pronounce), and well as a sulfur hot springs. I didn’t go; something about sharing a small pool of water with other people….

And then, I chickened out. I started following a group of hikers up a mountain path, but when I started dripping sweat in the humid air and my breathing problems acted up (too many years in the smog of L.A. and Chengdu) I stopped. I was wearing shorts, and I thought, what if there are snakes? Poisonous plants? Wild animals? So, I wimped out. My next trip will be the trekking trip. Promise.


Small hillside temple on the road to Vashisht


Kind of a cool hangout – The Freedom Cafe, Vashisht. Terrible coffee, though.


Temple roof in Vashisht


Traditional house




Cool and green – moss growing on rocks