Ushered into a tiny blue room to watch the groom getting ready for his wedding day, it was difficult to know who would be more nervous - him or me. Kundan Singh had a classic case of pre-wedding jitters, and as he prepared himself in a small home in the tiny village of Kathdhara, in the Indian Himalayas, he veered between staring at the wall and fiddling with his tie. I don't think he'd have noticed me if I'd been the prime minister, and for this I was relieved.
The reason for my own nerves was that my invitation hadn't come through the usual channels. I wasn't a family friend or long-lost relative; these people were strangers to me, and yet I was a welcome guest at this important event.
My tour operator - a locally-run company called Village Ways which has set up a community tourism project in this area, the Binsar Sanctuary in the state of Uttarakhand, is now offering clients the chance to attend local weddings. Tourists don't pay extra for this experience, but I was assured my presence would be a source of pride to my hosts, who interpret the attendance of a guest from out of town, never mind another country, as a mark of the event's significance.
A nine-hour drive from Delhi took me up to the mountain town of Khali, where I stayed overnight in the guesthouse home of Himanshu Pande, co-founder of the Village Ways project, to rest and acclimatise to the altitude.
Next morning we walked through amber mountains past old women taking cattle to graze, to Kathdara, which appeared to be deserted. Its white bungalows were empty, the streets silent, but this was no ghost town. Everyone had already gathered at the homes of the bride or groom, so we made our way to Kundan's place, past walnut and lemon trees and onions bursting from the soil beside a narrow stone path cut into the hillside. The house had been dressed in colourful streamers, and Bollywood music serenaded the hills through a crackly speaker.
I was greeted warmly by Kundan's relatives, who invited me in to meet him as they fluttered around in saris laced with tinsel and daubed his face with a traditional Himalayan face paint made from ground rice.
Himanshu explained the various rituals and ceremonies as they unfolded. "Here in the villages the marriages are arranged, and you don't usually get to meet the bride before the wedding," he told me. No wonder the groom was anxious.
Outside a band started playing, a cacophony of drums and trumpets, and soon there were 40 people dancing. I was only to attend the bharat, the first stage of the ceremony in which the groom celebrates before making the journey to the bride's house. Underneath a canopy of coloured streamers, the band, dressed in outfits of white, pink, blue and green, launched into mock sword fighting and human pyramid displays. Eventually Kundan got on his palanquin, to be delivered to his future wife Janki's house, accompanied by his smiling, dancing male friends and relatives. Women are not allowed to join in the journey, so I left the party here, and instead set off on a two-hour walk to the neighbouring village, Dalar, where another wedding was taking place.
This time I was to experience a wedding from the bride's perspective, so Himanshu left me in the care of his wife, Manisha, who led me off on a moonlit ascent up the mountainside.
Looming pines cast long-fingered shadows along the trail, and ahead, the wedding house shone as a beacon, flickering red, gold and silver with tinsel and lights. I've never worn clumpy walking boots to a wedding before, but the steep path would have done for the gold heels I'd been planning to wear with my spangly blue salwar kameez.
Up at the house, the sound of women singing drifted from an upstairs window. This is where Deepa, the bride and all her female relatives congregated before the groom's arrival. Inside, we opened the door to see a room crammed full of women, old and young, sitting on the floor. They turned round to greet us in a slow anemone wave of bright blue, red and yellow saris. Lakshmi, the bride's mother, broke the ice by giving me a big hug as the singers took up their refrain.
Deepa was lucky, I was told. Some brides are married to men who live far away from their home villages, so most never see their families again. Chandan, her future husband, lived relatively nearby, which meant she'd be able to visit quite frequently.
"They aren't just singing because they're sad to let the bride go," said Manisha. "They're all remembering the loss they suffered when saying goodbye to their own families."
Eventually a fanfare indicated the groom had arrived on the customary white horse. Outside we found his way barred by a gaggle of determined looking girls standing under a sign that said: "Welcome." It's tradition for the groom to give them money to let him pass, and Chandan, a handsome young man, obliged. Outside in the main courtyard, seated on the ground, two priests performed an hour-long religious ceremony to welcome the groom, chanting around the fire. Gradually the wedding party swelled to around 50 people and the feast got under way. We wolfed down delicious vegetarian food, and while their guests ate, the bride and groom met for the first time, and a much happier Deepa emerged from her room relieved that Chandan was a friendly and good-looking chap.
The next three hours were a blur of activity, priests chanting as the couple poured butter into the fire. Then came the moment everyone was waiting for. The bride's sari was tied to the groom's scarf and they made seven circles around the fire, to indicate each of the lifetimes they would spend together. Then, as exhaustion washed over their faces, the couple wished us well and prepared for their gruelling journey to Chandan's village the next day.
I felt privileged to have witnessed such an intimate ceremony, but in the past couple of years these villages in the Binsar Sanctuary have become accustomed to welcoming travellers into their lives. In 1988 Binsar was declared a government forest sanctuary, and strict restrictions were placed on the villagers' activities. These ranged from forbidding them to cull animals to preventing them from eating their crops and limiting the amount of wood they could harvest and sell.
These conservation measures severely limited their income and ability to remain self-sufficient, and most of the men were forced to migrate to the cities to find work. But just as it seemed they would be abandoned, the villages were saved when Himanshu, who had grown up in the area, came up with the idea of Village Ways.
Today travellers come to the middle Himalayas to walk between the five Binsar villages, each of which has one three-bedroom guesthouse that is owned collectively by the community. The operation has deliberately been kept small-scale, but many local men have been able to return from the cities to work on the project as guides and porters, while profits are ploughed back into the village.
Now the scheme has been launched in another area, the Saryu Valley, a seven-hour drive from Binsar, with the first guesthouse now open in Supi - a village in the higher Himalayas near the Pindari glacier. Another is to open this October in the nearby village of Jhuni, along with a campsite at Jakuni Bhugiyal, a small area of flat grassland surrounded by snowy peaks.
We set off for Supi from Binsar after a breakfast of bananas and spiced tea, driving north and leaving the mountains for green rice fields, dense forest and a winding ascent above a rushing river. After a seven-hour drive we got out to walk for an hour more up to Supi, past swathes of green mountainside cut into terraces for farming. White houses hugged the flatter parts, and we passed traditional bungalows flanked by jowly cows and stacks of grass. An elderly woman, hands clasped, greeted us with the salutation "namaste". Durga, manager of the guesthouse, met us at its vivid blue door, and we went in for a delicious hot shower, powered by solar electricity that ran the entire house.
The next morning, after piles of omelette, we set out for our first trek, to the village Jhuni 10km away. The sky was a crisp blue and the clank of cow bells clamoured in the distance. Behind Supi's fields, mountains rolled towards the misty snowcap of Nanda Kot. At the village of Tarshal, loud "namastes!" and smiles greeted us as we passed, then we made a steep ascent to the next ridge, where, through the delicate twists of a rhododendron tree in full bloom, spectacular views of the Saryu Valley's green mountains came into sight. Supi is more remote than Binsar, with a more pristine environment, and strenuous walking; I would recommend travellers combine both areas in a trip to experience the contrast.
At Kal Jhuni, the last Indian village before Tibet, we looked down at Himalayan griffons wheeling against the mountainsides and ate our packed lunch of spicy potatoes, pickle and chapatis. The Jhuni guesthouse was not yet ready, but guests here will throw open their windows to one of the best views in the world, of dazzling Nanda Kot, a peak almost 7,000 metres high.
The next day, we set off on a gruelling journey to Chiltha near Jakuni Bhugiyal, where the Village Ways campsites are to open. From Supi, it was a steep walk of almost four hours, and I was glad of the walking stick our guide Raju insisted we use. But at the top we were rewarded with stunning views of Kotila, Nanda Devi and the Madhari Pass.
I spent another day hanging out in Supi, and went to the lower part of the village where handicrafts are made. Village Ways is encouraging the locals to capitalise on their natural products, such as honey (Himalayan bees love the rhododendron flowers), lambswool bedspreads and woven bamboo mats.
On our way down we met Captain Sahib, one of the village elders. "People think that it might be disrupting letting tourists come to such an untouched area," he said, "but it's made a positive difference. We've found good administrative roles for women, and there's been a boost in employment." Women do the lion's share of work in the villages, and it showed in the deep lines on their faces and the callouses on their fingers. But now they are beginning to have a say in how things are run, and hope their daughters will have a better life.
We called at the home of Chandraram, a shy, local craftsman, who displayed the woollen sleeping bag he had designed for shepherds to use when they have to take their flocks to the uppermost peaks to graze. His wife fed us cooling slices of cucumber in the sunshine, and then, on our way back to the guesthouse, we passed the surreal sight of a cricket match.
Amid the serene landscape of the Himalayas, there was even someone delivering a commentary through a solar-powered loudspeaker. We caught the lag end of the game, just as the village of Tarshal stole the trophy from Supi, then it was time to hand out the "man of the match" award. The boys turned to me, and asked me to present it. The unexpected warmth of the gesture took me completely by surprise and I realised how precious was this pure spirit of hospitality.
When I first started the trip, Himanshu told me a story about a tourist who had visited the villages twice in six months, and to be honest, I thought she must have been nuts. But having visited Supi and Binsar, I can understand her enthusiasm. The sense of peace the journey instills stays with you a long time, and Himanshu has rescued a way of life that might otherwise have been lost.
Getting there
Expedia (0871 226 0808, expedia.co.uk) has return flights to Delhi from £288 rtn inc tax. Village Ways (01223 750049, villageways.com) offers a 10-night tour of Binsar and Supi starting from £769. From this October, you can book a 10-night tour of the Saryu Valley, including Supi, Jhuni and Jakuni Bhugiyal, starting from £779, including meals and transfers. Wedding season is April-June.
