34°08’43.18”N, 77°34’03.63”E, Elevation: 5,172 ft
Passing through lower Dharamsala, the last stop on the road is just shy of six miles (9k) up hill to the upper section of town called Mcleodganj, a hillside village nestled into the side of a mountain. The last stop on the road. The end of the line.
It is colorful and lively with a friendly air about it, even through the veil of gray fog and silver rain that had rolled in the afternoon I arrived. I stopped in a jewelry shop to ask directions, soaking and shivering, road weary and tired from traveling all night. Instead of pointing directions, a woman pulls out an umbrella and opening its chute, steps out into the deep puddles of the mud slicked street and, standing close so as to share this small shelter, walks me around a corner and down a lane to deliver me at a gate beneath a sign that reads: The Yellow Guesthouse.
I check in, as their only tenant, and for the equivalent of a dollar a day have a quaint room with a curtained window and a slim balcony offering a view overlooking the whole of the valley. The first evening, I sign my name to the ledger in the office, copy down information from my passport, climb a staircase, turn a key and fall into bed. Exhausted and worn from the trip, bone cold and wet and hungry. But, I am here. In this place. The Himalayas. Four days and more than 8,000 miles (more than 13,000 kilometers) after leaving home, I have arrived at the destination for which I set out.
In the morning, emerging and stepping out onto the balcony, my balcony, the world is all brand new. The fog has lifted, dissipated, and is replaced by clean, bright light of morning sun. The valley has wrung itself out and is cleansed and bright and simply beautiful. Swaddled tightly in blankets, I drag a chair outside and sit and watch as the village wakes up and begins to move around.
Above me is a thick pine forest climbing up a slope to the snow covered peaks and mountain ridge lined with hundreds of rows of Tibetan prayer flags tied along branches, flying streaks of bright colors like kites, flapping in the wind, tossing out prayers for all sentient beings across the world. Below me, the valley opens and spreads out. Ridgelines sloping downward and twisting, with small roads and paths following along the angles of the slopes.
Within this walled cradle, the brightly colored houses and shops and buildings of the village have dug themselves into sloping mountain walls in neat, tiered rows along the half-moon shape of the crescent valley. Guesthouses and restaurants, tea stalls, schools and homes painted in soft pinks, mint greens, lemon yellow, eggshell blue. My tiny room, too small to park a car in, and without heat, contains a bed, a desk, a chair and a view of the foothills of the Himalayas. It is perfect.
Postcards from the Perimeter: NOTES ON TRAVEL 