Bird’s eye view:
Today we had a 100 km drive to Kapkot. Now, the discerning gent, quick off the starting block, might ask: “Why Kapkot?”. The answer is rather complicated, and I am sorely tempted to retort: “Why not?” and switch off the main server. But let me make an attempt to share the workings of my Machiavellian mind.
Our ultimate short term goal is Binsar. But driving from Munsiyari to Binsar would take us around seven hours, and leave me a nervous wreck, tearing my vestigial hairs. So I examined the route to Binsar that Google maps suggested (usually the shortest route) and picked a town roughly half-way there, and Kapkot drew the short straw. The more popular route to Binsar is via Thal (that too would have been 7-8 hours), but this is what we chose as a route and stop. Knowledgeable folks at Munsiyari (read KMVN sous chef) confirmed that ‘via Kapkot’ is the more scenic route to Binsar, though the road has a single-track mind. Pretty and dangerous, just the way I like them.
Leaving Munsiyari (8.30 am):
We did not want to. We simply did not. But our time here was over. We woke again at 5.30 am and greeted the big Ps one last time. They were still there, partly covered by clouds, relaxing after having put up a special show yesterday for our benefit. Today was quite sunny, but chilly too - typical mountain weather.
We wanted to leave early, but did not want to ditch the KMVN breakfast. A bit of wheeling-dealing got it to our rooms at 8.00 am, thirty minutes before official brekker time. Alu paratha for me (mmm, succulent) and boiled egg and toast for Panna. We had one last balcony breakfast, paid up, loaded up the brat, and rolled out of Munsiyari.
Birthi waterfall (10.00 am):
This was around 30 kms out of Munsiyari, but took 1.5 hours. The roads were right up my street - well-tarmacked except small stretches where landslides had been scraped, but narrow, twisty and steep downhill. I could not maintain an average speed of above 20 kmph, what with the hairpins, stoppages due to traffic coming up (right of way), stoppages for allowing Munsiyari maniacs to pass at 40 kmph, and general stoppages in order to ooh and aah at the natural beauty around.
For that was there in spades. The big Ps were visible for a little while and then vanished to enjoy the long Easter weekend. However, the natural vegetation was aplenty. By the time we had arrived at Birthi falls, several thousand feet down, we had been shedding clothes like a teenage son coming home from school, such was the sting of the sun.
To top it all, the falls, though visible from the road, needed a steepish climb of almost a kilometer. We decided out of selfish interests (selfie-ish, got it?) that having come this far, we did need to get up closer. At the end of half an hour of deep breathing, frequent rests, and cursing the sun, we decided that we were fitter than we thought, but less fit than what others thought. We walked to the viewpoint right at the foot of the falls and gazed upward in awe.
The falls fall (pardon the pun, if it is one) from a height of 450 ft. It is not very voluminous, but sort of skim the surface of the black rock, like a beautician applying foundation. The fine spray caressed us now and again as we pursued our selfish interests. The Birthi village, where we had parked our car, was a bunch of toy houses. We practically had the place to ourselves; a placard there proclaimed: “Ye jharna, ye pahar, our tum.” We were carrying tea with us in a flask, and raised our cups in a toast to this sprightly child of nature.
Crossing Ramganga (1.00 pm):
At the 47 km mark from Munsiyari, we said goodbye to the road that led to Thal and turned right towards Kapkot. This was no longer the popular commercial route, and traffic reduced further. The road, if possible, became narrower, with hardly any verge to utilise if two vehicles had to pass each other. It was the classic mountain road of a cliff on one side and a chasm on the other. There were many places that had suffered landslide and the recency of road repairs were evident. In fact, we could see lots of stretches with stones in the middle of the road, which signified that the rocks above were loose. I notched up my speed to 30 kmph, as I did not want to be exposed to this stretch of 50 kms, longer than necessary. By then I had got the hang of how to handle it when a vehicle suddenly appears around a bend, without honking. Cars passing in a squeeze were particularly nerve-racking for Panna, especially if her side was the one which would fall off the road first.
The Munsiyari mountain peaks had yielded to valley views, and they were really beautiful, the ranges vanishing in the distance in overlapping folds, while a thin strip of green water wound about way below. This was the Ramganga, originating at the Namik glacier, and joining the Sarayu a while later. As we descended slowly to it, and crossed over, it turned out to be a fast-moving stream, though quite underfed, like an anorexic heavy metal female lead singer. Hopefully after the monsoons, it will fill out to cover the wide rocky boundaries that the riverbanks showed.
Lunch at Sama village (1.30 pm):
We had hoped to reach Kapkot by 2.00 pm, but we were running late, so we stopped at a village an hour before Kapkot and popped into a restaurant for their - hold your breath - thali lunch. Now, don’t laugh. There is nothing better if we want to complete the marathon that we are running. Their cooking is simple, the menu modest, and the price very reasonable. Their most popular vegetables are potato and cauliflower, and legumes/rajma for the liquid part. So rice, mixed daal, dry veggies, salad, with added curd, was a meal we could feel at peace with.
Reaching Kapkot (3.30 pm):
As we neared Kapkot, we passed through one of the loveliest pine forests we had seen in this trip. Although we were tired, and keen to rest, we simply had to spend a few minutes in the midst of the needles.
Kapkot (pop 3,000) is a very small town at a height of 3,800 ft. When we entered town, it would have been above 27 degC. That’s quite a fall from Munsiyari, in more senses than one.
We had been hard put to find a decent hotel here, but had finally tied up with Maatribhavan Homestay, at the princely price of 1200/-. It turned out to be a good deal. Located just beyond town, on the banks of the Sarayu (of Ramayana fame), it was a brand new building with decent rooms. The family who stays there to take care of the property were very friendly and caring. Moreover, their 11-year old son is also named Rajat. Need I say more as a testimonial?
After a bit of rest, we scrambled down the banks of the Sarayu. Panna did her wading and visual documentation, while I sat on the banks and bit my nails.
Why was I doing that? While driving downhill, taking hairpins turning right, there was a consistent tak-tak-tak sound below the car. After checking into our homestay, I called the Tata Service Centre guy in Kolkata, who reassured me saying: “Must be a broken tie-rod. Don’t panic. Drive carefully, that’s all. Check with the Tata facility when you reach Lucknow.” A broken tie-rod on the hills? Now if that’s not a reason to panic, I don’t know what is. We finally got it checked out at a local garage. Mr Mushtaq, the ustaad there, patted my back and said my tie-rods were fine, but my axel may be a little hmm, nothing to worry.
Why I am relating this, is in response to all my friends who, at various points in time, have asked me: “Aren’t you worried about your car’s performance? What would you do if you have a breakdown?” They are valid concerns, but I guess if we worried too much, we would not get anywhere in life, let alone Binsar. Personally, I trust the universe, that it knows what is good, even if it may not seem good for me. Let it come.
Tomorrow morning, we leave for Binsar.
Photo credits: Panna Rashmi Ray
Comments
Post a Comment