'Small wayside stations have always fascinated me. Manned sometimes by just one or two men, and often situated in the middle of a damp sub-tropical forest, or clinging to the mountainside on the way to Simla or Darjeeling, these little stations are, for me, outposts of romance, lonely symbols of the spirit that led a certain kind of pioneer to lay tracks into the remote corners of the earth.'
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Spiti has been hovering in our travel consciousness for a while now. We’ve been hovering near Spiti too, but somehow we never quite made it beyond Kalpa.
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Little monasteries and chortens dot the landscape. A cluster of whitewashed buildings with a playing field has a board with primary school written boldly across it. It's devoid of all touristy claptrap, and somewhere on the road you abruptly pass from thickly forested hills to bare dust ridden snow capped mountains. It's as if the curtains have parted on a grand proscenium.
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