I spend the next two days meandering aimlessly with Rohit and Atul. I’ve no real desire to go into town…I’ve seen many of the tourist sites on previous trips and the thought of being driven round the Red Fort in a rickshaw in 45 degree heat makes me shudder. Instead, we do ridiculously fun things – eat dosas at his local restaurant and grab homemade icecreams from a stall a few streets away...we sit under trees in the park, discussing religion, philosophy and the joys of travel...
Afterwards, we go for a stroll in the neighborhood, which is far away both from Delhi’s brightlights and endless tourists. I feel much more comfortable out, as opposed to in the touristy centre, even though I’m somewhat more conspicuous, as a white-skinned European. I realise, yet again, how staying in a hotel really can isolate you from the locals, however hard you try not to let it happen. Rohit introduces me to different friends we meet along the way…at a cool 25 degrees, a post-dinner stroll is de rigeur it seems...
It is a terrible, terrible, night. We screech down roads, and hurtle round bends in the pitch black for hours on end. Moanings and groanings are audible throughout the vehicle. I hear someone screaming, hysterically, “For god’s sake, be careful, that’s a hairpin bend we’re going round.” The Tibetan monk, next to me, has opened the window and is vomiting, copiously, out of it. As for me, I know without looking in a mirror that I’m deathly pale and I thank god I ate nothing before climbing on board. I put my head between my legs, because I feel so faint, and tell myself that this will pass. But the truth is I am bloody terrified because this driver is a mad man, and 52 people are entirely at his mercy...
I weigh up my options. Whilst visiting Amritsar is truly tempting, the logistics are a nightmare. There’s only one bus a day, which leaves at 5 am, and takes 8 hours. Even worse, it’s local (translate, wooden benches, no assigned seating, and livestock/wailing children in abundance). The clincher, though, is that it’s currently a cool 44 degrees in the Punjab, which means that any power cut in the Golden Temple, will leave me roasting like a chicken in a tandoori oven…
It’s been a long few weeks. I don’t need any more aggravation. Option B it is!
Suddenly, without warning, I crash into something. It's a solid mass and although I can't see it, I sense it's way bigger than me and it's the kind of thing I wouldn't want to mess with in a dark alley (or a dark Indian potholed street!) Ayelet is just behind me and suddenly yells out: "It's ok, I've got an idea...we can guide ourselves back by the light of my cellphone." BRILLIANT! She switches it on and suddenly the road is illuminated. And there, right in front of us, is an enormous beast...the sacred beast of India, roaming freely in the rain-lashed streets of McLeod Ganj, crashing into everything in its path (including us) without so much a care in the world...
That night, en route from my guest house, I'm shivering and pull my sweater around me tighter. The tiny restaurant we're in has a top floor and as I sit down at the table (Ayelet has yet to show) the shutters from the window bang loudly. The wind is howling and, peering outside, I can see rain bucketing down, hitting the ground like bullets. Seems like the monsoons have arrived in full force. A tremendous bolt of lightening then a terrifying crack of thunder follow. ..
About 50 minutes (and 12 prayer wheel spins later) I’m back where I began and the inner temple beckons. I love it! Beautiful golden Buddhas abound, resplendent, luminous, awe-inspiring. On every alter, all manner of gifts have been left – huge boxes of Ferrero Rocher chocolates cartons of orange juice and even – yes! – packets of cornflakes. The level of respect people inside this complex are showing also impresses me – not once do I hear a mobile phone ring. Butter burning lamps flicker (the butter comes from yaks, I believe) and, surrounded by these golden Buddhas, you could hear a pin drop...
The cultural heritage of these people is richer than I could ever have imagined and inextricably bound up with Buddhist practices. Their songs, step dances and masked opera are loaded with hidden meaning (I discover that Tang Xianzu, a prominent dramatic artist of the Ming dynasty, is regarded by many as the Shakespeare of the East). Moreover, between the 11th and 14th centuries, every significant Buddhist text was translated into Tibetan. Today, I am told, a fully ordained Tibetan Buddhist monk will have to have taken 253 vows, and then need to partake in bi-monthly “confessions...”
It’s just after 5am when we finally pull in to Mcleod Ganj (the ‘upper’ part of Dharamsala, named after the British Governor of the Punjab) and I stagger off the bus, grateful simply to be alive. The town centre is deserted, with every hotel door shut and not so much as a chai walla in sight. It’s bucketing down, I’m shivering and sneezing and the only place I can find refuge is a dirty doorway. So there I pass a miserable hour, leaning against my backpack and waiting for the sun to rise...
Within minutes of leaving town, our driver’s putting his foot down, despite the heavy rain, poor visibility and windscreen wipers working intermittently. He’s taking the bends like there’s no tomorrow. Rain is dripping steadily through the roof onto my head and soaking fleece. Out of the window, the road is unlit and all I can gather is that yellow headlights of other vehicles hurtling towards us. Fast. My fellow passengers, naturally, are munching on chapattis, not a care in the world. I don’t know what’s worse – over the Himalayas by day in blazing heat, or round hairpin bends at night in the rain.
We lunch with a man Rohit is working with – that night he takes us to his home, where I meet his daughter and wife, both dark-eyed and shy. I want to talk to them, even though they barely speak a word of English, and gesture that I’d like to help in the kitchen. Of course, I’m hustled straight back into the salon – it’s unthinkable that a guest would lift a finger in an Indian home. We eat excellent sag paneer and chapattis, pickled vegetables and fluffy rice, sitting cross-legged on the floor, looking out into the valley...
And then I hear a growl. I jump a metre high. It’s a low growl, not an angry roar admittedly, but it’s scared me witless. This isn’t Alaska, where Grizzlies climb trees for for a tasty bite and it’s not Africa, where lionesses dine out on hapless safari tourists every year. I’m in apple country, for god’s sake, and only 2kms from a noisy city centre. But I know what I heard – I’d bet my last rupee on it. I look right, look left, I look in front and…my goodness, it’s an enormous brown bear, with huge soulful eyes, looking me straight in the eye...
I am rooted to the spot. I shut my eyes, open them again and look once more. It is not my imagination – in front of me are the Himalayas. And all of the words I’ve always thought might do them justice – awe-inspiring, imposing, majestic, overwhelming, superb – fail me. I am utterly overwhelmed. They stretch as far as the eye can see, these craggy, untamed, structures, their peaks covered in pure white snow. I cannot help but gasp. I have seen a few sights in my time…but this? Truly a room with a view, and all for the princely sum of $9...
Whilst Yael and Nir are filming the monkeys, I fall into conversation with a man in his 50s who is walking our way. He tells me he’s a Professor from Delhi, here for a conference at the academic institute the Lodge now houses. He’s erudite, charming and soon I discover he has two daughters, one a VP at Citibank in the States and the other an engineer in Paris. When he hears I’m an academic editor he is thrilled to bits...
Shimla is completely charming! I am captivated. It’s like a scene out of turn-of-the-century country England, complete with churches (Protestant and Catholic), a town hall and library (where you can pore over faded exhibits) and guards, dressed oh-so-smartly, scattered across the main square. There are few Westerners around; the centre is full of well-to-do Indians, strolling happily, their kids trotting round the square on donkeys whilst their parents take endless photos of them screaming with joy....
By the time we arrive at Shimla, it’s late, and I’m a wreck. My palor is ashen from the hair-raising bus ride and I look like something the cat dragged in. I can’t believe we actually made it here in one piece and mouth a silent prayer to the Big Guy. Yael, Nir and I scramble off the bus and prepare to catch our dusty backpacks, as they’re thrown off the roof in chaotic style. Frankly, I’m just glad they’re still there, after the hairpin bends. OK, three passengers plus luggage intact, mission accomplished...
The windows are cracked. The doors look like they could fall off at any moment. And it’s packed. And when I say packed, I don’t mean every seat is taken. I mean, it’s two or three to a regular seat, people jammed in, squeezed up against each other like sardines, screaming babies, cute kids, shy women and old people that I can’t even give up my seat for. Oh yes, and don’t forget the woman with the livestock in her lap (luckily, she’s at the front). Nir throws our backpacks on the roof and we bundle in...
The Punjab is a “safer” option (we can always find a place to spend the night) but if there really is no direct bus, we could find ourselves sitting at this bus terminal all day, which won’t be pleasant. I spy two young, pretty women with small holdalls and run up to them. Yes, they tell me, the “short cut” is fine. In fact, they’re going that way, because they’re studying at Solan University, about two hours south of Shimla. That’s it. Never one for procrastination, I make my decision. “Short cut” it is...
We leave late (always a bad idea) but it can’t be helped I guess. Trudging over the suspension bridge (I’m weighing in at an impressive 8 kilos, but Nir and Yael are carrying packs so heavy one could be forgiven for thinking they’re schlepping corpses) I take a last look over my shoulder at the Ganga. Well, not quite. The guys are starving and want a quick bite. We stop at the German Bakery. It’s almost 6pm, and I’m conscious that the sun’s going down. The river at dusk is at its most beautiful...
This place is pretty New Age by anybody’s standards. Without a doubt the yoga and ashram capital, of India, there’s no better place to come if you want to stand on your head, stare at a wall (I’ll give this one a miss) bang a drum, use healing crystals, learn to play the sitar or just ‘get spiritual man.’
