I don’t know how, but I awoke as the train rolled into Panthakot station. I actually did sleep – fitfully and with full bladder because the thought of facing more of a crowd of Indian men staring at me as I searched for the toilet that probably didn’t exist was worse than just holding it to bursting. The train station was dark and quiet but still crowded. People were everywhere, lying on the ground sleeping. The fruit vendor was lying across his countertop sleeping without pillow or blanket, protecting his goods while he was closed for the night. A few beggars approached me. Someone solicited me for a ride to the bus to Dharamsala, but I didn’t trust him. I wanted to wait until daybreak when I would feel safer. I found a second class resting room and within it – a toilet! It was a squat toilet, of course, but a welcome find. I had to wait in line to take my turn, then sat on the wooden bench in the square, barren room with an empty wooden table at the center. A couple of Indian families who were traveling together were in the room fussing about with all their luggage. Eventually a very nice, very clean cut Indian teenager in stylish western clothes approached me. He said he was in second year of college and wanted to practice his English. Wary at first, I was then thankful for his company. He let me know that the rickshaws start at seven and that it should cost me 5 rupees to the bus station and that it just wasn’t safe to walk. He was so disappointed when I told him about the groping boys in Delhi and kept apologizing to me. He said he thought I was very nice. And he seemed almost surprised himself by that – the American reputation again. And he said I shouldn’t be traveling alone. He was on his way to get his sister so that she wouldn’t have to travel alone. It disturbed him, I could tell.

And so the gray, bent over rickshaw driver with obvious cataracts wanted 15 rupees to the bus station and we agreed on ten. And we rode down streets even more dirty and disgusting than those of Delhi. Imagine that my timing was perfect and the rickshaw driver pedaled into the dirt and gravel lane of the bus station just as the bus to Dharmsala was leaving. Incense was burning and a light blue turban wearing white bearded man was in the front seat. I snapped a picture cause it seemed so nice. Everything in life is relative…

A long and bumpy three and a half hours later the bus pulled into the station in Dharamsala. A fifteen minute wait in the diesel fumes and we took off again for McLeod Ganj. The scenery and the experience were beginning to remind me of Nepal, which I guess makes sense – Himalayan region with similar socioeconomics and culture. The bus ride was treacherous. There were hairpin turns up a mountain passing other busses on the narrow winding roads. Sometimes there was nothing but sheer drop-off without a guard rail as the two vehicles would slow down and inch past each other – literally two or three inches apart. It reminded me of the bus rides in Nepal – and of the funerals I attended when touring Pushpatinath, the cremation site for Hindus. Two Nepalese men had lost their lives when a bus in India fell over the edge killing everyone on board. Yes, this was definitely living dangerously.