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Sangla Valley in theAUDI a6 2.0 tfsi

September 2014 | MOTORING WORLD | 135

Sangla VallEYABSENT WITHOUT LEAVE

By MERAJ SHAH Photographs AHTUSHI DESHPANDE

The Sangla Valley is no place for a luxury sedan, unless you’re in the Audi A6

A6’s air suspension. And much like the superhero shedding his alias’ garb, the A6 rose — and then rose some more. The suspension, already firm in dynamic mode, stiffened, and with the electrically-adjustable driver’s seat at its loftiest position, the worldview from behind the wheel changed dramatically. ‘I can see the road in front now, I couldn’t see past the hood earlier,’ piped in your photographer from the back seat. And just like that, the car, and by consequence the road, shifted in character. No longer prone, the A6 stood up to its full height and disdainfully rode roughshod over our tribulations. Stray rocks which we’d been swerving wildly to avoid earlier were soaked up with consummate ease. We no longer felt like intruders gingerly treading into a milieu we had no business being inb — we were conquerors and this was our chariot.

But I’m jumping the gun here. This adventure began two days earlier in the parvenu-infested locale of Gurgaon — the Capital’s schizophrenic suburban version of the Wild West where gunslingers drive luxury sedans. Electricity and water are luxuries here, but skyscrapers and oversized radials very much the norm — the true worth of a man measured by the

Much like a DC comic-inspired flick, the twist in the tale

came when hapless innocents needed rescuing. At a carwash 65 km short of the Kinnaur town of Rampur, this writer and a photographer friend in an Audi A6 were issued dire warnings by a local driving a Maruti Swift. ‘You should turn back now, there’s no way that car is going to make it anywhere close to Sangla Valley — it’s way too low. Even my Swift sometimes gets scraped,’ he proffered with more than a hint of condescension. Well-meaning advice on the surface, but obviously prompted by some deep-rooted antagonism for any car that took the attention away from that ugly rear-spoiler on his Swift. More than a bit disconcerted by these ominous warnings, we weighed our options: going back was last on the list, not after 500 km over 15 hours, three landslides and four detours. No sir, all three of us, man woman and car, were in this till the end.

That’s when, as a last-ditch effort, we decided to raise the

The TransforMerThe TransforMer

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altitude of his condo and the road space his ride occupies. In any case, it was in Gurgaon that I picked up the A6 2.0 TFSI for the long Independence Day weekend.

The decision to go all the way to Sangla Valley, 600-odd km from Delhi, was made in a moment of complete folly. Most people attempt to drive up to this frontier-valley on the edge of the Himachal-Tibet border when they’ve got at least a week in hand. It’s not just the distance involved, but crucially the fact that more than half of it is on the twisties — right from the time you start your ascent from Chandigarh, up to Shimla and beyond. Sangla Valley is close

to 250 km from the erstwhile Summer Capital — by no means a walk in the park. In our case, the difficulty levels were cranked up by a belligerent monsoon — which seemed hell bent on expending the full brunt of its fury — as well as the sheer number of cars swarming the highway on this particular long weekend.

With the prospect of going bumper-to-bumper all the way to Shimla, our imprudent decision to dive into the invitingly quiet turn off for Chail at Kandaghat (NH 22) was understandable. But foolish, nonetheless: the reasons for the route’s lack of traffic became apparent soon enough. With rains and winds gusting, we drove past hapless motorcyclists, only to

be stymied by a landslide on the final stretch to Kufri. Three more diversions later and confronted by an equal number of uprooted trees blocking our path, we found ourselves back at the same junction — a few hours down, lots of gas burnt, and no mileage to show for it.

Eventually, we made it to Kufri, climbed up 2700 metres to Narkanda, and were on our way down to Rampur when the

WE FOUND OURSELVES BACK AT THE SAME JUNCTION — A FEW HOURS DOWN, LOTS OF GAS BURNT, AND NO MILEAGE TO SHOW FOR IT

Oh, boy. Now, how's that for a postcard

image? Stunning

abSEnt without lEaVESangla VallEY

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OUR DRIVE HAD ALREADY BECOME SOME SORT OF LOCAL TALKING POINT... WITH SCORES OF PEOPLE WALKING INTO BANJARA CAMP TO LOOK AT THE A6

tented pad for the trip) in the north, with the Baspa River neatly splitting the valley in two. The valley floor is almost entirely taken up by apple orchards and the oak-lined hill slopes are marked by winding trails popular with trekkers.

Banjara Camp was the first camp to be established when this valley was first opened to tourists in the early 1990s. Not surprisingly, it’s got possibly the best location in the valley — tents, log cabins and a retreat plonked right in the middle of an apple orchard and abutting the Baspa (the road of the raging river is the only constant soundtrack). It’s a fantastic base if you want to completely sever contact with the outside world for a bit and spend your days walking about the valley, picking apples, and reading books lying beside pretty brooks. The river, inviting as it is, is more likely to give you hypothermia if you get tempted to take a dip. But there’s plenty of trout and experienced anglers can be seen casting a fly at different beats along the banks.

Considering the rigour of our journey up, the only trip we managed to take was a one-hour drive to Chitkul village. A quiet haven of 100-year-old wooden houses, shepherds and their flocks, an ancient temple and cooking fires where the universe seems to slide together, Chitkul is full of inexpensive homestays for those looking for a more interactive experience. It also makes sense to take a detour to the town of Kalpa,

abSEnt without lEaVESangla VallEY

into the void — I swear I heard the A6 cry out for the Autobahn — and Sangla finally emerged from the dust cloud. A journey of less than 20 km had taken us over three hours to traverse.

The Valley is stunning at first glance. Remote enough to not have been laid to waste by the tourist juggernaut, it extends obliquely from Chitkul village (the last inhabited Indian village) in the south to Banjara Camp (our luxury

road started deteriorating. Which brought us to the carwash where we were dispensed that unsavoury bit of advice by the gentleman in the Swift.

For a while, our progress seemed unstoppable. We drove past craters and stone stacks, traipsed by enormous cliffs and gorges, through gurgling brooks, swerved to avoid herds of pashmina sheep and laughed at the limericks which the Border Roads Organisation inflicts on travellers every few kilometres. Our euphoria at the A6’s transformation was short-lived, though. At Tapri, a mere 50 km from Sangla Valley, we were informed that the hill had caved in, taking vast swathes of the highway with it. The alternative was a treacherous 17-km single-lane detour to Karcham, over an unpaved road, on a mountain which seemed decidedly unstable. With visibility down to a few metres in swirling clouds of sand, and unbarricaded chasms around every corner, we drove for three hours

65 km away for unfettered views of the snow-clad Kinnaur Kailash. Needless to say, we did nothing of the sort. Anchored mostly to our tent porch, and walks limited to the evening bonfire, our two days at Sangla Valley belonged to daydreams and lager.

By the time we left, though, our drive had already become some sort of local talking point — it’s probably lore by now — with scores of people walking into Banjara Camp to look at the A6 cutting an unusual figure parked between Tata pickups, Boleros and jeeps. It’s not a sight likely to be replicated in the near future. I’d certainly not make this drive again in the A6, nor advocate it to anyone — the terrain is perfect for a small SUV like a Q3. But for this one time at least, the A6 stole some of the monsoon’s thunder. I’ll never forget the scene when hardy local cab drivers, their Boleros straining in a high gear on a gravel-drizzled incline, looked on in astonishment as we glided noiselessly past them. I’d wager that they’ll never forget it either. M

'Hey, look! Play-it-yourself music!'

Even in this still image, that bridge

somehow seems to be sagging

increasingly!

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