MANIRANG – A MOUNTAIN OF SURPRISES

(1994)

   It is surprising how trivial a thing can trigger off an expedition. Some wild schemes start in the most inconspicuous way. One day as I returned from my morning walk, I saw a figure sitting in the balcony on the 5th floor of a building on my road. It was Monesh Devjani, the habitual 9 a.m. wake-up-wala, sitting upright at 7 a.m.

‘I have an idea’, he shouted excitedly to me. ‘How about climbing Manirang in the second half of our Kinnaur expedition?’ In 1988, Monesh was part of the Bombay team that had reached a fair height on that mountain. ‘After looking at those pictures over the years, it has stuck in my mind’, he confessed.

‘Like the dream of Kubla Khan’, I interjected. Kubla Khan was one of the earliest de jure rulers of Spiti, made famous by Coleridge’s fanciful imagining of ‘his flashing eyes, his floating hair’.

‘We must climb it this year. We must take a quick ascent of Manirang after the Kinnaur climbs’.1

As I sat thinking, he kept repeating ‘No?’ Monesh had that typical Bombayman’s habit of asking ‘no?’ when he wanted the answer ‘yes’. What he was suggesting was that after a month of climbing in Kinnaur, the Indian-British expedition should switch regions, and move to Spiti by travelling 200 km on road to climb this well-known high peak that stands on the border dividing Kinnaur and Spiti. It would be like a two-in-one expedition, with a total change of scenery and terrain from beginning to end. A wild plan indeed. But on the brighter side, we would be acclimatised and physically fitter to tackle this high peak. So ‘yes’ it was and we began to build on this dream. Like a true dreamer, Monesh the catalyst, left the action to us, and did not join the expedition after all.

Manirang (6593 m)

Manirang was first climbed by Dr. J. de V. Graaff and party in 1952. In a letter he mildly stated, ‘The final summit ridge held no surprises for us’. In 1988 autumn the second ascent was made by the para-troopers of the Indian army. The pass at the foot of the peak, Manirang pass, was one of the earliest trade routes to Spiti. Kinnauris and Spitians exchanged produce over this high route till the advent of motorable roads.

On 30 June 1994, five Indians and two Britishers started for Spiti. Now only foreigners need permits to cross the Jangi to Sumdo section of Kinnaur. Once in Spiti the area is free of any restrictions.

‘You look like a foreigner. Where is your permit?’, the police asked Kaivan who is a Parsi and fair-complexioned. When other explanations failed, Kaivan tried a tested method. He called the senior policeman aside.

‘I can tell you ten typically Bombay jokes in Hindi, or ten bad words which only a true Indian would know’. He was waved on with a laugh. Kaivan, a light engineer from the Bombay’s theatre scene has in-born dramatic instincts. He was an old hand at Spiti having explored its western valleys in 1993. His face lit up seeing the barren grey scree slopes.

Of the three taxies, one gave Jim Curran a run for his money. With loud Kinnauri music egging him on, the driver took the jalebi turns2  nonchalantly. Finally he went over a boulder at the Malling road-block, the damaged parts were irreparable and his distraught passengers had to be transferred to a bus. That night we slept in the open at Sichling.

‘Welcome to Mane’, said Bijoy Kumar as we met near his house. A government contractor, Bijoy an old friend, was known to me through his brothers. We had crossed the Spiti river early in the morning and climbed up to the village, which was divided into two parts, ‘Gongma’ (lower) and ‘Yongma’ (upper). We settled ourselves for evening in Bijoy’s house and watched the Wimbledon tennis semi-final on television, drinking chhang till the yaks came home. What a contrast! The village had traditional buildings, but the life-style was evidently changing. Whilst we were bargaining the rates for the khotas (donkeys) a simple Spitian leaked out a secret: ‘Because you have foreigners with you we will charge you double’. Ultimately they lost to the Bombayman’s bargaining powers.

Jim Curran had a swollen leg. He therefore decided to stay put at Mane to watch the Wimbledon ladies final. The rest of us plodded on. Yang cho, a big lake was about 3 km up. We followed a narrow valley and reached Saponang by evening. The route ahead was on scree and the donkeys left us half way up the pass. Paul and Muslim made a quick recce and our base camp location was settled. In the next two days, one lot went up to the Manirang pass, which was about one hour away, while a team comprising Paul, Muslim, Divyesh and I climbed up towards the west face of Manirang.

‘This must be 1988 expedition’s camp. Their route to the west face goes straight up from here’, I said at one point.

‘I also remember Monesh talking about throwing stones down to those small ponds. It must have been from here’, Muslim added.

We decided to camp near those ponds about 30 m below. The route ahead to the southwest ridge turned to the left. Two rope-lengths were fixed and we came down to the base for rest. Curran was back with us, his leg mended and his sense of humour intact.

‘The men’s finals are over, there was nothing else to do, so here I am’.

All of us returned to the upper camp on the next day, the 8th, and climbed up the fixed ropes. Ahead, steep snow-slopes led us to the southwestern ridge where we found a sheltered camping place near a pond. Nature had dressed the mountains splendidly. It was like watching the haute couture of the mountain world. One by one each valley and peak lighted up, from Gangotri and Kinnaur to Tibet and Spiti. It was glorious!

‘The only thing we miss here is haute cuisine’, someone remarked while gulping down insipid noodles.

On 9 July, the ‘mountain of no surprises’ started to show its true colours. Paul and Jim were way up in front and we could see them moving slowly. Divyesh, Muslim and I followed them. As we approached the ridge, we found it full of ice. We had to slow down our speed and protect ourselves.

Being the slowest of the lot, I offered to go down, so that Divyesh and Muslim could go faster.

‘We are too high up and on ice. It will not be safe for you to descend alone’, they said. After a thought Muslim added, ‘I’ll come down with you’, sacrificing his own goal. Socialism may be dead, but who says there no comrades left!

In any case the weather deteriorated and all of us had to return. The mountain was proving to be more difficult than we had guessed. What we had read of the history of the peak misled us about its geography. After a discussion it was agreed that Manirang was no walk-over, that it would require more equipment and time. It was decided that Paul Nunn and Divyesh Muni would attempt it the next day. It was our only chance to give it a go.

Paul and Divyesh formed a good team. Paul was an old hand at climbing, a doyen of British mountaineering and the President of the British Mountaineering Council. There are not many Presidents around who climb as actively as Paul did. Divyesh, was a young energetic mountaineer, known for his strong-willed temperament. Sometimes he was called Kubla, as his Gujarati blood matched the Mongol strain when the need arose.

On 10 July, they left at 5 a.m. and climbed unroped over the ice as there was not much protection available.3 They dis-appeared over the upper rocks by 7 a.m. and we did not see them till 2 p.m. The rocks were crumbly and piled upon each other. Proceeding slowly they had reached the summit, a narrow, sickle-shaped ridge at 10.15 a.m. When they came into view again they were abseiling back and they reached the camp by 4 p.m. In the meantime Kaivan was busy climbing two interesting peaks to the west of our ABC. On 10 and 11 July he climbed both, each giving vantage views of Manirang and the Kinnaur valleys.

Manirang Pass (5550 m)

Manirang pass was the historical trade route. The Spitians called it ‘Ropakla’ as it led to the Ropa village in Kinnaur. The pass is now in complete disuse as trade is carried out via motorable roads, though they are about 250 km longer.

As Divyesh and Paul came down to the base, the main party left for Mane village to return by road to Kalpa. Muslim, who had come up to the Manirang pass in 1986 led Kaivan and me down over this route. At first everything went well. The pass was crossed comfortably and the route followed steep snow-slopes that went down between giant walls. At Rankali three valleys merged. We had to follow Ropa gad. Soon we were climbing up and down scree slopes. Due to snow-melt we walked through mire at many places. Finally, tired after a long day, we camped at Liti Thatch. On the 12th, all went well till Sumdo, a place full of rhododendrons. But from there the route climbed almost 1000 m and traversed high above the river. The rocky slopes faced downwards and we encountered all sorts of problems. Exposure and the lack of water took its toll too. We eventually found a small pond at Thatang and camped there. Ropa was 6 km away. Soon we were on the motorable road, on our way to Giabong, completely exhausted. Suddenly, we came across some vehicles.

‘Will this army truck give us a lift to the main road?’, I wondered.

‘No’, replied Muslim after enquiring. ‘The driver is looking for rajma dal for his commandant who is expected from Chandigarh today.’

‘How about that jeep?’, I asked, hopefully.

This time we were lucky. We fitted snugly in that jeep, which belonged to the manager of a local bank. He literally believed in dealing with money, for the man wore a garland of rupees around his neck.

Muslim and I exchanged glances as the driver swerved through turns, for we could smell liquor. We anticipated trouble and trouble we got. The jeep screeched and two wheels almost hung out on to the Ropa khad below. Muslim pushed me out and was himself out in a flash, while Kaivan who was on the wrong side, struggled with a door which did not open.

After nearly a minute the driver recovered his senses and just managed to reverse the jeep, dragging along the bank manager, who was struggling to get out through the door, in the process. Despite the dangerous encounters we’ve had in the mountains, this was the nearest one to death—at least on this trip.

We changed jeeps at Siasu khad on the main road, and proceeded to Kalpa where we were to meet the others. Locals reassuringly told us, ‘A party of Britishers and Indians have gone to Kalpa, with a crate of beer’.

The celebrations at Kalpa were full of joy and the return journey to Bombay, without any surprises.

It was a dream fulfilled. Like the Kubla Khan in Xanadu, we on Manirang had ‘drunk the milk of Paradise’.

Notes & References

1. We were going to climb Rangrik Rang in Kinnaur as part of the Indian-British expedition. The Manirang ascent was proposed in addition to that expedition.
2. Jalebi is an Indian sweet, bright orange and shaped in concentric circles, rather like a complicated puzzle. Locally, sharp curves on road are nick-named as such.
3. When terrain is too steep it does not allow to place proper protection, like here on ice. It is then thought to climb without rope between two climbers, climb at one’s own ability. If roped, if one climber falls he will drag down the other without proper protection fixed on the mountain.