There is a certain look about people who have camped in a tent the night before. Unwashed dishevelled hair, crumpled clothing and tired eyes certainly would describe what we looked like after our freezing and uncomfortable night in our "luxury" tent. Fortunately, that morning the manager brought us some hot water so Alan was at least able to shave. I managed to put some make-up on using my tiny mirror. Improvisation was not out of the question but a good shower was.

Breakfast at Sarchu was a simple affair. We couldn't come at the cold porridge but the toast was good and the coffee although somewhat cold was drinkable. We realised of course that the logistics of transporting food in and cooking meals, with limited electricity would have been a nightmare, especially in such a primitive and remote location.

The morning was bathed in brilliant sunlight and the surrounding stark mountain scenery was picture perfect. Even our Sarchu Not So Luxury Camp Site was looking better, even attractive... We exchanged email addresses and bade our fond farewells to Jose and Marcel, hoping we would catch up again one day - which we did.

Mr Tashi was unusually agitated. With no phone reception, snowy alpine conditions, rough gravel roads and a dodgy tyre, we could well understand why. We were concerned too. Not far out of Sarchu at Patseo we stopped at a makeshift mechanics' tent where after some time we had our ruptured tyre fixed. Well, it was sort of fixed. The mechanics did not have enough repair material to cover the very large tear so they cut up a spare tube and glued a large piece to the inside of the tyre. It was not at all reassuring as to how long the repair job would last and Mr Tashi was still concerned.

During the tyre repair process, Alan and I sat in our car chatting about Sarchu. Out of the blue a large convoy of army trucks arrived. Soldiers poured out of the trucks, surrounded our car and began urinating onto the ground - right in front of us. How lovely, I thought. I could just imagine what would happen if hundreds of women just dropped their pants and urinated in front of a car full of men.

Further on our journey we began to descend and at long last we saw some vegetation. Sturdy Junipers and Pines clung to impossibly steep arid slopes, interspersed with alpine grasses.

The road from here on across the Baralacha Pass was tough, with frequent landslides and wash-aways from the melting snow. Convoys of army trucks made our trip slow and frustrating.

Baralacha Pass, at an altitude of almost 5,000 m and a width of some eight km, is well known for its treacherous nature. On our descent we saw an overturned truck, a sobering reminder of the formidable road conditions. Like our journey over Zozilla Pass, the Baralacha Pass is open for a limited time of the year and in mid winter is completely snow bound. Baralacha literally means "where many roads meet" and it is here that routes from Zanskar to the east, Ladakh to the north and Lahaul to the south meet. Understandably, these roads were used for centuries as popular trade routes.

Our journey took us past the Darcha Checkpoint through the Lahaul area, a vast desolate corner of Himachal Pradesh. From the stark, arid countryside we had travelled through in Ladakh, Lahaul was relatively green with pretty waterfalls cascading down from glaciers, in some instances right to the road's edge. We drove through Keylong, the capital of Lahaul which stretches along one side of the verdant Bagha Valley.

We reached the "ski resort" of Rohtang mid afternoon via a nerve wracking steep, winding gravel road with no side railing and huge drops to the valleys below. Rohtang was a rather extraordinary. Two small areas of snow were literally jam packed with Indian tourists in expensive designer ski wear, skiing, snowboarding or riding tyres down the slopes. It all looked quite comical, if not absolutely gross.

Rigzen told us that Rohtang was very popular with people trying to escape the blistering heat of the southern regions and that it was the only place people can ski in summer. You would have to be pretty desperate to ski there we thought.

The road was completely choked with cars; some drivers trying to make two or three more lanes to get through the traffic jam, others parked in the middle of the road where they were left by their selfish drivers. It was chaotic and took us over an hour before we cleared the main skiing area.

We were going well for about a kilometer when we came to a complete standstill. Police in armoured vehicles had stopped the traffic which was mounting up to hundreds of cars wanting to get out of Rohtang. Rigzen and Mr Tashi left our car and walked on toward the police to see what was going on. Alan and I were becoming concerned as we knew we had to cross the notorious Rohtang Pass preferably before nightfall to reach our destination of Manali.

Rigzen and Mr Tashi returned saying that the police were stopping the traffic for at least two and half hours. Was it because of landslides? No, it was the police being police they told us. There was no reason but the police flatly refused to let any car through their road block. After half an hour Rigzen talked to the police again but they refused to speak to him. Rigzen then suggested that Alan, being a foreigner, might have better luck.

When we approached, the police in the armoured car refused to open the window. Alan then banged on the glass and they reluctantly wound the window down a fraction, saying "Go away we can't help!". Alan said: "But Sir, we have a flight to catch..." and tried to explain that we needed to reach Manali that afternoon as we were boarding an overnight bus to Delhi where we would be catching our flight back to Australia the next day. "Go ask the BIG MAN" they shouted, pointing down to the road block. And so the four of us did.

The BIG MAN according to Rigzen was the Superintendent. A large man full of his own self importance looked at us contemptuously, striking his legs menacingly with a long baton. It was not looking good. Alan in his most mealy voice told the BIG MAN of our plight who then began interrogating Alan. I froze. I had never heard Alan tell direct lies before and was sure we would all end up in jail. God, I thought. I hope they don't ask me anything.

"Where are you from?" he roared. "How are you getting to Delhi? What time are you leaving Manali?". I was gob smacked when Alan replied we were travelling on the overnight bus that he thought was leaving at around 5.00 pm and arriving in Delhi at 7.30 am the next morning. When asked to show him our tickets, Alan replied that were purchasing them in Manali. "What time does your flight leave for Australia?" he demanded. Thank goodness BIG MAN did not ask to see our airline tickets, although he did ask what time it left. Alan to his credit quickly answered "midday", thinking fast enough on his feet to accommodate the time we needed to get to Delhi airport from the bus terminal.

"OK, you can go but you must follow me" spat out BIG MAN. Rigzen, Mr Tashi and I departed quickly for our car while Alan was paraded in front of the long queue of traffic to the road block. Passengers called out "Uncle, uncle, help me! Please let us through!". We assume they were referring to BIG MAN but it didn't help their cause. BIG MAN was enjoying making much out of Alan getting special treatment because he was a foreigner. I was worried the police officer's provocative manner may understandably cause them to stone us.

The police guards opened the barricades and we drove through, all of us looking straight ahead. Where did Alan get all this information about the overnight bus I wondered. How did he get the gaul to lie so well? By a miracle Alan had been talking with Marcel over breakfast. Apparently, he and Jose were going to catch the bus from Manali to Delhi and by another miracle Alan thought quickly enough on his feet to work out the times of departure and arrival - as well as "the purchasing tickets in Manali" bit. I would never have dreamed of doing anything so outrageous. But I was very pleased he did, although he shamefully bragged about it later. The conversation to Rohtang Pass went something like "We could all be in jail". "Oh, for God's sake...Aren't you pleased I did?" I was.

Rohtang Pass at an altitude of 3,978 m rivaled Zozilla Pass for its treacherous conditions. Its name translates to "Pile of Corpses" in reference to the many people who have died trying to cross. The Pass is only open from May to November and provides a natural divide between the southern predominantly Hindu Kullu Valley and the Buddhist Lahaul and Spiti Valleys of Himachal Pradesh.

The narrow muddy pass was as bad as it gets, again with no railings and huge drops to valleys below. Glassy ice and melting snow made for atrociously slippery conditions. I know we were all thinking about our dodgy tyre but no-one mentioned it. Rigzen told us the the main danger was the unpredictable snow storms and blizzards. We thought the road was bad enough without the storms. We were relieved to cross Rohtang. Interestingly we did not see any other cars travelling on the pass road, either to or from Rohtang.

On our descent we followed the Beas River toward Manali. It was a very pretty journey through lush green valleys surrounded by pine covered mountains. A sudden clunk, clunk was a familiar noise and sadly we knew had another flat tyre. Thankfully, the tyre had lasted over Rohtang Pass as goodness knows how we could have parked to change the tyre. Somehow we hobbled on our spare dodgy tyre and into Manali before nightfall.

Sadly, it was Rigzen and Mr Tashi's last night with us. They had a room in Manali and hoped to get a passenger for their very long drive from Manali to Leh. We said our farewells that night as we knew they would be leaving early the following morning. Rigzen and Mr Tashi gratefully accepted our tips. We watched in amusement as we saw them head off at a sprightly pace smiling and fingering their notes. We think they were to have a VERY good night! And we hope they did. They were good people and obviously were not very well off.

Our lovely Mayflower Hotel was located high up a narrow lane in a beautiful garden setting. The staff was friendly and we enjoyed a very good meal in the restaurant.

Chhape Ram, a senior person in our travel agency Himalayan Frontiers, paid us a personal visit that evening at our hotel. He apologised profusely about our accommodation in Sarchu and informed us that we were invited to dinner at (Director of Himalayan Frontiers) Gopi Chand's house the following evening. We appreciated his apology.