All the Roadrunning

I am flying to Stockholm on Monday morning.

India has served its purpose. This land of contrasts and colors and camels has sorted out my head as only it can do. It has led me to finally chart a course for my near future, ending the constant floating between dreams and temporary ideas.

And after so much time spent in India over the past 7 years, I am no longer surprised by much, and this includes the unexpected direction I shall now head. You see, my grand plans were merely an outline, a fantasy created to match the one I had experienced while working on board the cruise ships.

When I flew to India two months ago, I envisioned a course that included wild and dangerous adventures to wild and dangerous countries. But the situation unfolded differently. I found myself to be completely comfortable over here, at ease amid the constant madness, skilled in the game of survival that is constantly being played out. I needed to come here once again, to hear the music and devotion, to taste its flavor, to feel the thickness of its air upon my face. India is where my mind is free from defilement, it is where clearer decisions can be made.

I leave India with the understanding that my course, no matter how it proceeds, will remain my personal adventure. As long as I do not stray from the knowledge I have gained during my years of travel.

With that in mind, I fly to Sweden, a country I have yet to visit. I will visit a friend and spend some time in Europe. I plan to remain there until the end of June. And then what?

Well, at the start of July it appears that I will find myself in a place that I am all too familiar with, a place that I had said farewell to some four months ago. No, I am definitely not making a full return to ´ship life´. Instead, I will be spending a mere seven weeks back on board the Queen Mary 2 in order to help cover my old position during someone´s upcoming vacation. My ex-boss at Cunard Cruise Line asked me if I would do them this favor.

In addition, these two months in India have been an excellent jump start to my career as a writer. I have almost completed the book I have been working on and will soon need to start the search for a publisher. I have also begun receiving some serious interest in my travel articles, prompting the need to sit down and continue writing as much as possible.

And so, with all of these new developments, it seemed logical and worthwhile to pursue such opportunities over the next couple of months. But upon completion of my short contract on the cruise ship, I will re-examine, and possibly head to Africa or South America. All I know is that this re-calculated course feels necessary despite my initial eagerness to wander off and explore the remotest parts of Tibet (a visit to which has been made nearly impossible due to changes in China´s visa policy after the their Tibet crackdown two months ago).

I certainly intend to detail my upcoming return as Tour Manager on board the Queen Mary 2, where I will live and work among 1200 other crew members from around the world. This is not just some ordinary community that I will enter, as you will understand upon reading my ¨Farewell to Ship Life¨ article. I therefore invite you all to remain tuned in to my summer of posts, to my first-hand account of an underworld, the one I call ´ship life´, that you will never believe actually exists.

For two days we walked through squalid streets, lanes and fields containing shocking amounts of refuse and waste, both human and animal. The 120 degree temperatures typical of the pre-monsoon season created such an unbearable stench that the public urinals of Delhi suddenly seemed pleasantly aromatic. The massive 16th century mosque and palace that we had come to visit was often only barely visible through the thick screen of trillions of flies surviving off of the garbage and ferociously trying to enter our mouths. There was no electricity in the village, and hence, no fans, and often no water, to provide relief in our guest house room. As we lay drowning in sweat, the massive black biting ants teamed up with the mosquitos to attack us non-stop throughout the night as hundreds of mini-cockroaches invaded our backpacks.

It was a tough couple of days in the village of Fatehpur Sikri, some 20 miles outside the city of Agra. Although the palace and mosque were definitely worth a visit, their grandeur was easily overshadowed by the troublesome conditions. When we finally boarded the Kerala Express train for our return trip to Delhi, we agreed on what we needed to do once back in the capital city.

We needed to feel normal. We needed to spoil ourselves.

In some countries there is a uniqueness of being able to ski the slopes in the morning and surf the waves in the afternoon. In India, it is also possible to be in two very opposite environments in a very short period of time. After spending the morning among some of the poorest people on the planet, amid piles of trash and shit up to your waist, you can sit in an air-conditioned, upscale ice cream parlor in the evening, eating spoonfuls of chocolate sundae among the wealthy.

Not only did we indulge in cool and creamy deserts but we also visited trendy coffee shops, leafy, immaculate parks (Lodhi Gardens – well worth a visit!) and one of the fanciest cinemas I have ever stepped foot in. As Indiana Jones drove through the jungles of Peru last night, we grabbed handfuls from our tub of popcorn and laughed out loud simply because we needed to. When the ´cinema waiters´ passed by during intermission asking if there was anything they could do to further enhance our experience, we asked for nothing as we were already far more than satisfied.

And now, well, let´s just say that I thoroughly enjoyed my high-pressure shower and I anticipate a most comfortable night´s sleep in my room of cooled air, without having to swat and scratch and itch. Actually, I anticipate a few of these glorious nights, which will most likely be the last few that I will have in India during this visit.

My time here is coming to a close as it is simply time for me to move on. I have a few options at the moment and a decision should be made shortly. Meanwhile, if you need to get in touch with me, I´ll either be watching ´Iron Man´ at the cinema or drinking a Passionfruit Milkshake in the comfy cafes of Connaught Place.

If you ever feel the urge to really know how it feels to be a movie star, just visit the city of Amritsar. Home to the magnificent Golden Temple, the holiest of shrines for the Sikh religion, this city is much more accustomed to receiving Indian pilgrims from the rural countryside than foreign visitors. As a result, once my friend and I had given our shoes to the shoe-keeper, covered our heads in cloth (a required rule for all visitors), washed our feet in the somewhat unpleasant basin, we instantly became the center of attention, somehow becoming a much bigger focus than the most impressive glittering gold temple itself.

Surrounding the golden temple, which sits in the center of a square lake, is a marble structure. Once inside the gates, the masses simply walk around and around the lake along a wide marble floor, stopping to rest, pray or bathe in the waters, with the temple always directly in front of them.

After only a few seconds of our entrance, the amount of time it took for the first person to gather enough courage to approach us, we were mobbed, the crowds around us growing rapidly. Each person tried to push their way to the front of the group, with the hopes of staring directly into my eyes as they shouted out their praise of my latest film. They wanted autographs and photographs, lining up just to ask ¨One photo please?¨, and then fighting amongst themselves for the chance to be the one standing directly next to me.

I shook hands, patted backs and yelled out phrases such as ¨I could never do it without your support!¨ and ¨I love you all!¨ My few minutes of fame had finally arrived.

And so, for the first 45 minutes of our visit, we were followed by our adoring fans – children, women and men, from 5 years old to 80 – who seemed to forget that they were standing inside the most revered religious sanctuary in their religion. Dressed in their beautifully colorful and traditional Punjabi clothes, these people had come to find a special closeness with god, but were instead choosing to share a moment of closeness with me. They wanted me to bless their babies, grandparents and families, hoping that I would bring them more success than their prayers.

During our stay from 6:30pm – 8:30pm we completed one circuit of the lake, a distance that ordinarily should take no more than ten minutes. And it was tiring indeed – so many smiles, so many photographs, so much small talk, so little peace and quiet. But when small children approached us and left beaming with joy from a simple hand shake and ´hello´, I was genuinely satisfied that my cinematic career had touched the lives of so many people.

Yesterday we left the Kinnaur Valley, making our way straight across the state of Himachal Pradesh to the Western Ranges of the Himalayas.

At the bus station in Kalpa, every time a bus arrived, a crowd of eager villagers would grab all of their belongings and rush to board it, pushing and shoving each other with an accepted level of necessary aggression. They fought for the best seats, argued over who arrived first and crammed into every inch of space. Moments later they all disembarked the bus, re-grabbing their belongings, and headed back to the benches and floor space of the bus station. Wrong bus.

This scenario repeated itself several times without it ever occurring to the two dozen people to ask the bus driver where he was headed before they involved themselves in yet another pointless battle. Buses pulled into the station that clearly said, in both Hindi and English ¨Destination: Jammu & Kashmir¨ yet the rush would still take place, even though the crowd was trying to get to the state of Haryana, some seven hundred kilometers in the opposite direction of Kashmir.

Finally, when our bus pulled into the station, my friend and I pushed our way right into the middle of the madness. We fought hard to secure two good seats near the front, sending a solid elbow into the face of an elderly man and throwing a small child out of the window. After two minutes the battleground was littered with bodies, some in seats, others on the floor, others hanging out the door and the child still crying on the ground outside. I was not sure whether or not to urinate around our area in order to claim our territory once and for all. (Ok, not all of the above is true, I didn’t elbow the man!)

The bus departed Kalpa at 8:30am, taking us on a typically torturous journey to the mountain junction town of Rampur, where we arrived at 2:00pm. The bus to our next destination, Dharamsala, departed at 8pm, which gave us enough time to get a day room at a budget hotel, have a quick nap and eat one of the best meals I have had the good fortune to consume during my life. Let´s just say that the biryani, vegetable korma and butter naan, served in the luxurious hotel restaurant overlooking the Sutlej River, almost brought me to tears. I love food. And naturally, I really love really good food. This meal, which only cost 200 rupees ($5 USD), possessed that rare power that instantly dissipates any negativity and brings one miles closer to enlightenment.

In the end though, this meal proved to be the last happy moment that I would enjoy for a considerable amount of time.

The bus departed on time at 8pm, after I went and pleaded with the bus station manager to find my friend and I two seats on the already full vehicle. After some strong begging, the man walked on to the bus, made some forceful demands in Hindi and suddenly two seats opened up. Where else can you simply make two empty seats appear on an overcrowded bus? Anything is possible here if you know how to play the game.

All was well…for the first sixty minutes. After one hour of winding around the mountains, the bus stopped in a tiny village consisting of a few wooden shops and local dhabas (eateries). The ticket man on the bus yelled out something and all the passengers immediately disembarked. I looked at him and wagged my head to display my lack of understanding as to why we had stopped. He simply repeated his statement, which sounded like ¨Harfal jaga a roodle dee¨, while making a circular motion with his hands. That was a good enough explanation for me so we joined the others outside. And then the bus drove off, leaving all fifty of us passengers in the middle of the road.

It turned out that there was a puncture in one of the tires, but go figure, we did not have a spare tire. And so, the bus had to turn around and return to Rampur to get a new one. In the meantime, as the nighttime temperatures continued to drop, we all sat on a stone wall in the middle of this dark village for two and a half hours, wondering if the bus would ever return or if this was just a sick game played by the driver.

When it did return everyone hopped on board quickly, eager to make up for lost time. But once we were all finally back in our seats ready to go, the driver turned off the engine and went into a restaurant with the ticket man where they proceeded to indulge in a thirty minute dinner. How considerate of them.

The following eight hours involved traveling along an unpaved, dirt and rock path in the middle of the night, a crude road carved out of high cliffs that seemed to bitterly reject the presence of such a symbol of civilization. Had I been four feet tall the short seat back would have made it quite easy to sleep, but unfortunately being of normal size I could only sit and stare into the darkness. Dozens of Indian heads bobbed and bounced around me in a state of semi-consciousness, somehow remaining attached to their necks despite the constant jerking motion of the bus.

At five in the morning, after another hour delay due to another tire puncture, we finally arrived into the market town of Mandi. Our arrival here brought a moment of relief as the bus emptied for a brief moment and we changed to what appeared to be more comfortable seats. Unfortunately, after the bus filled up once again, we realized that these new seats were actually much worse, with an amount of leg room suitable only for someone without any legs at all. But alas, we only had to travel for six more hours and the road was paved! Out of sheer exhaustion, we did nod off from time to time, although the constant lung clearing spitting of the man directly behind me ensured that a deep sleep remained an impossibility.

As the dawn became actual morning, when our knees had lost sensation, our neck muscles forced into permanent spasm and our heads bruised from smashing into the metal wall, we reached our destination. The entire journey took 26 ½ hours, not exactly what one would describe as a reasonable amount of time to cover the not too great distance of 160 miles.

Uganda.  No, don´t worry, I am still in India, still high in the mountains here in Kalpa.  Although, I must admit that I do have this African nation on my mind.  But more about that in a moment. 

If you happen to be fond of remoteness, simplicity and experiencing what life was like before the internet, shopping malls and much else of modern civilization, Kalpa should be etched into your personal ´must-see´ list. 

Less than one thousand people call this area home, and most of those are scattered in the outerlying villages in the forest.  The village center is a paved intersection the size of a dentist´s office where four walking paths connect.  There are a couple of shops, selling nothing more than toothpaste, sacks of rice and near-rotten bananas.  The two ´restaurants´ are merely tiny wooden huts serving a most basic assortment of unappetizing soups, noodle dishes and inedible omelets that take over an hour to prepare.  Electricity is sporadic, spiders share your bed.  Steep, uphill hikes in the thin air are required to reach anywhere.  But that is all part of the appeal here, in placing oneself in an environment so unlike what your body and mind have become accustomed to during the course of your life.   

The local Kinnauri people, dressed in their traditional green velvet hats and thick woolen vests, are most hospitable.  They create a pleasant atmosphere, quite content with their simple existence in one of the most difficult to reach places in the world.  Their smiling faces are a unique shade of brown, almost a hint of purple that creates the beautiful effect of appearing dark and light skinned at the same time.  They are definitely mountain faces, worn from the cold wind and inhospitable terrain, but they are also happy faces, with soft light eyes and frequent laughter.   

A Tibetan Gompa, with colorful prayer flags flapping in the strong wind, sits above an exotic wooden Hindu temple in the oldest part of the village.  The dwellings are all made of piled stone and wooden beams, with rooftops of slate to hold in any warmth.  The Himalayas are always in sight, always reminding you of the grandeur of this planet.  Their massive presence  holds the power to make you feel so ridiculously small yet so unbelievably confident at the same time.  You want to prostrate under their magnificence and then climb to its highest peak. 

The main activity for visitors in Kalpa is doing nothing.  Although occasional walks along the  paths and narrow roads allow you to explore the pine forests and even more remote villages of the area.  Look below, over the straight edge of the road and you see the river thousands of feet below.  Look above and you not only see the snow line directly in front of you, but death-defyingly placed villages proud of the disbelief they create, ¨Ha ha, you can´t even fathom how we exist up here!¨   

By four in the afternoon, when the sun has vanished behind the mountains, the light breeze turns into a cold wind and the temperature drops considerably.  Noses start running, ears start aching and the body shivers, forcing us to return to our hotel room, bury ourselves under our four thick blankets and watch a movie on the only English-language television station we receive.  Tonight we watched ´The Last King of Scotland´. 

And here is where Uganda comes into play.  Oddly enough, we met two British fellows yesterday who had arrived into India from Uganda a couple of weeks ago.  They could do nothing else but recommend visiting this African nation, talking non-stop about its beauty and people.  And the ´The Last King of Scotland´?  Uganda…a country hardly mentioned during the past 31 years of my life has now suddenly appeared twice in two days, just at a time when I am trying to decide where to go next…hmmm….            

I know it has been a while. Plans changed and suddenly we found ourselves in the remote Himalayan village of Kalpa instead of the busy Punjabi captial city of Amritsar. Here´s what I wanted to say about a week ago…

Tonight I write from the village of Kalpa, located in the Kinnaur Valley of the Himalayas at a height of 9000 feet above sea level. I cannot say that I am disappointed with our decision to travel here. How can we complain? The above photo on the left was taken ten minutes after our arrival this evening, while sitting on the toilet in my bathroom. There is an even better view of the 19000 foot Mount Kinnaur-Kailash from my balcony, but this just might be the best bathroom view on the planet.

We had spent three days in Rishikesh last week, passing our time with dips in the frigid waters of the holy Ganges River, meeting a holy man who had renounced the material world after losing his wife and five sons in the tsunami, eating apple strudel and brown bread at the German Bakery, participating in the ritual of releasing small leaf baskets full of beautiful flowers into the river at sunset and waking up at 5am every morning to dozens of monkeys jumping on the tin roof of our guest house as they made their way from the forest into town.

On our final day we treated ourselves to one hour ayurvedic massages, in which the male masseuse seemed to particularly enjoy massaging my buttocks, spending what seemed like thirty minutes on that specific part of my body.

When we left Rishikesh we had absolutely no way of envisioning the thirty-six hour expedition that would follow. We traveled in four different buses; were delayed due to one busted engine, one flat tire and one landslide; spent a night in a room with the most foul smelling, nausea-inducing blankets; drank tea with a village judge; endured a temperature change from 100 to 50 degrees and an altitude change of 8700 feet; were forced to hitch hike and had time to eat only two meals.

The total distance traveled was a mere 273 miles, but it had to pieced together from town to town. In this aspect we were extraordinarily lucky, finding bus connections almost immediately upon arrival into every town. This further proved the undeniable fact that in India, you can get from anywhere to anywhere else at anytime, no matter what the geographical relationship between your origin and destination nor the time of day or night. Here are the segments of our trip into the mountains:

Rishikesh to Dehra Dun – 8am – 9:30am – distance of 22 miles – Easy ride, no complaints.

Dehra Dun to Chandigarh – 10am – 3:00pm – 78 miles – Hot, dusty, crowded and painful while sitting on an impossibly hard bench directly over the rear tires.

Chandigarh to Shimla – 3pm – 7:00pm – 48 miles – Incredible air-conditioned deluxe bus complete with Hindi movies, free bottles of water and complimentary ´sick bags´ for every passenger! Perfect for the slow meandering up the Himalayan foothills.

Shimla to Rekong Peo – 8am – 6pm – 120 miles – Although the official distance was 120 miles, the total distance on this leg was probably closer to 140 miles when one includes the distance traveled in reverse. As our standing room-only bus would zoom around blind corners in the ten foot wide semi-paved road chiseled out of the mighty Himalayas, we often met another bus or a truck coming in the opposite direction. Both vehicles would slam on their brakes and blast their horns, windshields ending up inches from each other, narrowly avoiding a head on collision. The mix of tribes people and Tibetan villagers (and of course the two of us!) would gasp as we would barely avoid, yet again, tumbling over the sheer cliff edge directly next to us and dropping thousands of feet to the valley floor. Sometimes our driver won the standoff and sometimes he lost, having to reverse a great distance until the other vehicle could pass. On one occasion our puny driver found himself in a fist fight with another driver in the middle of the road. He somehow emerged victorious despite his scrawny frame, forcing the other bus to reverse.

The bus desperately hugged the mountainsides, climbing and winding over mountain passes and descending into perfectly inspiring valleys at dizzying speeds, as tribal villages appeared in the most impossible locations. Huts and dwellings were dug into the sides of the mountains high above with no roads to reach them and no other signs of civilization in sight. A trip to the closest market would surely involve a multiple day hike. I would not want to be the person to eat the last apple or spill the milk on the floor.

When the first glimpse of the 12,000 – 18,000 foot range of Kinnaur-Kailash appeared on the horizon, the song ¨All the Roadrunning¨ coincidentally played on the mp3 player. It is the song by Mark Knoppfler and Emmylou Harris, the song that inspired this blog. And there I sat, 33 hours into the adventure, with my rear end destroyed from repeatedly bouncing up and down onto the thin plywood seat, my face covered in a thick layer of dust, my stomach furiously grumbling and my knees unable to straighten. I could not be happier as my eyes remained glued to the mind-numbing scenery on what is perhaps the most awe-inspiring bus journey in the world.

It is the heart of the great Himalayas, a magical but daunting land considered inhabitable only to the tribes people who have remained here for centuries. Traveling into this part of India is one of those experiences that cannot be understood without living through it yourself, as although painful and dangerous to reach, life-changing rewards await any traveler who chooses to enter this isolated region.

Rekong Peo to Kalpa – 6:30pm – 7pm – 5 miles – As the buses along this short route had finished operating for the day, we had to hitchhike to our final destination. However, the first car I flagged down turned out to be the Executive Magistrate of Kalpa, who not only drove us to his village, but also introduced us to his family, gave us a tour of his home and of the mini-court room located just off of his living room and kitchen.

And so that is how we ended up here.

But I must stop writing now, it is definitely time to sleep. My legs hurt. My shoulders hurt. My spine is twisted and my rear end has been bruised and beaten into mush. Although I know that the view and the pure silence and the fresh air will undoubtedly help heal the aches and pains, I will admit that the slightly uncomfortable buttocks massage in Rishikesh, would be a most welcome therapy tonight.

What a feeling! To finally have a whole tooth (lower left #7) where for the past two months there had only been fragments and a large hole in my mouth. It was such a wonderful…24 hours.

Dr. Kathuria simply had to remain true to the nature of his fine country. The commonly held idea, proven time and time again, that nothing ever works exactly as planned in India has now infiltrated my last remaining hope, the field of dentistry. Two days ago I said goodbye to the kind receptionist, to my personal saliva suction man, my personal napkin provider, my personal x-ray button presser and to the two dentists, thanking them all for their fine work on my oral issues. Today I said hello to them all yet again, while handing over the chipped piece of my crown, securely wrapped inside my contact lens case (right eye side).

It all began when I awoke this morning with the taste of sand in my mouth. The fact that Delhi does not have any beaches to pass out on allowed my mind to immediately reach the most certain conclusion. With my tongue as my search equipment, I quickly located the chip in my two-day old crown, a grain of rice sized hole at the base of the tooth along my gum. Within five minutes I was on the phone with the dentist and within thirty minutes I was in a rickshaw speeding through morning rush hour traffic, on my way, once again, to the most inconveniently located dentist in Delhi.

¨Oh, just that small chip? You did not say it was that small,¨ the doctor declared upon her first inspection, almost making me feel ashamed for wasting her time. After her second, closer examination, she proceeded to arrive at the proud conclusion that, ¨The crown is perfect, absolutely perfect, nothing wrong, just a part of it sliced off.¨

As indicative of top-notch dental work as that conclusion may have been to her, it had a considerably different meaning to me. And while she seemed absurdly content that the rest of the crown still remained in place, I refrained myself from informing her that the fact that I was once again sitting in her office meant that her work was indeed quite imperfect. I pondered whether or not to redo my comment sheet from the other day, with its ´Very good´ and ´Excellent´ markings now being displayed for new patients to read on the waiting room table. ´They tricked me,´ I thought to myself in disappointment, upset for having actually believed that my dental work would problem free.

The dentist proceeded to make a temporary repair for my tooth, while making jokes about the small size of the chip throughout the procedure. Upon finishing her work, she then added a most comforting disclaimer, ¨This might break off also, but if it does, no problem, the crown is still in perfect shape.¨

I am back in my hotel room now, with some sort of strange taste in my mouth and a plastic band wrapped around my tooth. Tomorrow morning I am leaving Delhi, hence the reason why I could not wait the three days required to have a new impression taken and a new crown manufactured by the lab. Upon finishing the procedure today, the dentist informed me with complete nonchalance, as if my life consisted only of bi-weekly visits to Delhi, to revisit the clinic the next time I was in town so that I could have a new crown made, completely free of charge´ (how nice of them!).

So now, despite not having been in my plans at all, I will have to return to this city once again, for visits #5 and #6 to the dentist. As I walked back to my hotel today, I cringed at the thought of more days in the unbearable heat, the long rickshaw rides, the pollution, the crowds and the noises.

At the moment when I took a deep breath and repeated my personal calming mantra of, ´I love India, I love India¨, a young man leaned out of the window of a bus parked along the side of the road. We made brief eye contact and exchanged light smiles. Then, without warning, he spewed out a nice steady, thick stream of vomit that landed right on top of my sandal clad feet. I love India.

The clear highlight of my third dentist appointment in this fine city was when the sharp, inch-and-a-half drill bit popped off inside my mouth and flew into the depths of my throat, providing me with a most intriguing glimpse into the last actions and sounds of a person choking to death. Of course it also took three attempts to make a successful impression of my lower teeth, with the doctor actually having to chase me down the road as I was hailing a rickshaw in order to drag me back upstairs to redo the mold. And of course a dentist trainee was given the task of preparing my tooth for the impression, unfortunately finding himself the recipient of a severe reprimand by the actual dentist upon showing her his work. ¨Too sharp, what is this? Too sharp, look at these edges, much too sharp!¨ she yelled in English, shaking her head along with an audible ¨Tsk, tsk, tsk¨ while proceeding to correct his errors.

Only one more appointment left, tomorrow evening, and my dental troubles shall be over, or perhaps just beginning, if this experiment with Indian dentistry proves to be a failure.

Returning to Delhi from the mountains…The sleeper compartment I had reserved for the bus journey would certainly have been glorious had I been a four-year old child. But a human of my size was obviously not the intended passenger of the bus designers. For most of the ride I had one foot hanging out of the window and one leg hanging over the other edge, most surely to the disappointment of the person below whose face my foot was dangling in front of. I remained in a twisted position for the 13 hours, unable to find room among the randomly placed metal bars on both sides of me to turn over. The constant bumpiness of the roads and the resulting rattling of my metal bed, also helped ensure a bout of nausea remained looming in the gut.

However, my ´neighbors´ in the two double compartments next to me happened to be a most happy entourage of four Buddhist monks from Thailand. They had all randomly met in the mountains, all on separate journeys to study Buddhism in India, but now they were traveling back to Delhi as a group. Its random enough when two Americans meet up in a remote Indian mountain village, never mind four independently traveling, orange-robed Thai monks.

During our 10pm ´now you rest break´ and the 2am ´Toilet, dinner break´, I sat with the monks at roadside food stalls, snacking on coconut cookies and mango shakes. It was refreshing to be in the presence of such constant smiling and carefree laughter, something I realized is not too common in every day scenes in India. But on this long journey, it was a most pleasant escape, reminding me of my wonderful days in Thailand and the culture that fosters such happy people. Every time I re-boarded the bus, ready to begin the next leg of the trip, I brought with me some of the monks´ positive energy, which helped me endure the discomfort and pain of being forced into a contortionist. But I cannot lie, my mind wandered often, as the interactions with the monks also caused me to question why on earth I was headed to the 110 degree, pre-monsoon Delhi heat and not to the beaches of Thailand!

The air cooler in my room right now is spitting out boiling hot air, simply unable to combat the temperatures outside. Four showers a day and about six liters of water keeps my brain cool enough to function semi-normally for brief periods of time. I burn off my meals even before I finish eating them, with the sweat pouring off my face by the gallon. As I gulp down glassful after glassful of cold fruit juices and yogurt shakes, I find it amazing that Indians are still drinking 27 cups of steaming hot chai every day.

I am off for dinner, to a rooftop cafe where dozens of half-melted people stare into the distance in silence, at times muttering a few incomprehensible words to themselves in between bites of vegetarian curries. In Delhi during this season, meals take two hours to complete, not because of the slowness of the chefs, but due to the inability of the diners to summon the motivation to lift their rears from the seat and head to their next destination.

In the end, however, even this seemingly unenjoyable aspect of India plays a vital role in creating the entire experience that somehow remains as addicting to me as Dunkin Donuts is to Bostonians.

Here is a photo of the view from the balcony of my room.  It is the location where I write, where I study my Hindi, where I chase monkeys away from my carrot cake.  For some reason up here in the mountains, the body craves sweets all the time.  At home I might have some ice cream or a piece of chocolate every now and then, but here I eat brownies and apple tarts in the afternoon, milkshakes with dinner and my carrot cake at night.   

After a much needed weekend break, I resumed my Hindi classes again today, finding that the two days of rest allowed the prior week´s intense overload of information to finally settle into my brain.  I can speak a little now, without having to take five seconds to recall every single word of a sentence.  My interactions throughout the day are quite smooth and somewhat natural now, as long as the person I am speaking to does not start speaking back.  I have four more classes left, by which time I should  have a decent base to build upon when I leave to go hopping around the northern plains for a couple of weeks.     

Friday night I will once again be on the overnight sleeper bus, this time on my way down the mountains and back to Delhi to have my dental work finished and pick up my friend who is coming to visit for a month.  I plan to stay in Delhi for only a few days if all goes well, especially since today´s temperature there was 116 degrees!   

I already bought the 650 rupee bus ticket, wanting to ensure that I would have a sleeper compartment reserved.  I simply could not repeat the suffering endured on my bus trip here, when the 14 hour journey was passed in a narrow, non-reclining seat, next to a family of four sprawled out on the bus floor next to me, using my lap as a pillow, my feet as a toy and my window to vomit out of.  No thank you. 

This second photo is from my weekend outing to the ´swimming pool´ in the nearby village of Bhagsu.  I spent an afternoon there with some Tibetans and foreigners, drinking chai, listening to some local Tibetan folk music and taking a quick dip in the absolutely frigid mountain waters.  Notice the Calvin Kl ‘A’ in underwear.  It was almost as precious as the dozens of Indian males flapping their arms around in fear of drowning while wearing miniature (and consequently very tight around their bulging bellies) inflatable tubes around their waists.   

I must return to my balcony now to continue studying.  I actually have to make a pit stop first at the Registration Office to find out if the Dalai Lama, who just arrived home two days ago from overseas, will be giving a public audience at some point this week.  And of course I will have to make another detour to my favorite bakery, leaving me about twenty minutes to do my homework, which involves mastering how to read and write 54 letters and vowels in the Hindi script!

350 words, three tenses, post positions (not prepositions here),  imperatives, possessives, verbs, irregular verbs, singular plurals, pronunciation and writing of the Devanagari script – all in my first four Hindi lessons by Sunil.

Each class is only one and a half hours – with half the time spent learning something new and the other half with me eeking out barely comprehensible sentences at a pace of one word per minute.  Intense indeed.  My brain twitches and overheats often, my muscles tense and my eyes itch from extreme concentration – but, I am progressing, somewhat.   “I sometimes watch Hindi films in India” is becoming natural – “Main kabhi kabhi hindi filmen dekhta hun.”  It is the “Your older sister is not cooking food now because she is washing her expensive clothes in the room outside of the house behind the lake” where I begin to have some difficulties. 

The classroom is a tiny concrete room in a small, crumbling yellow building on the side of a hill.  From the one window I can stare down across the massive valley below all the way to Dharamsala, the scenery dotted with colorful Tibetan houses and prayer flags.  It would be an inspiring place to learn, if I could only take a second every now and then to glance out at this magnificent view.  Unfortunately, even a millisecond of not focusing on Sunil’s small whiteboard results in a serious interruption of the flow.  As time presses on and my brain starts to reach its absolute limit of information intake, my entire body relaxes in one great wave of calm when I finally hear the words, “Bahut accha, Derek.  Kal milenge.” – “Very good Derek, see you tomorrow.” 

I am then forced to spend several hours decompressing completely, usually by roaming aimlessly around the village and its surroundings with the awareness of a cucumber. 

When my brain begins to function yet again, I stroll along the scenic and peaceful mountainside path that loops around the Dalai Lama’s temple.  It ends at the entrance to the temple where I join the daily candlelight vigils taking place each evening.  Hundreds of local Tibetans and foreigners take an hour to listen to the chants of the monks and offer their prayers of peace for the people inside of Tibet and for all living beings around the world.   Twenty-five monks, ranging in age from 12 to 70, on an indefinite hunger strike in order to draw attention to the Tibetan cause, chant quietly in the background. 

Upon its conclusion, I follow the procession along the mile-long route back into the village.  It is now time for me to go to my favorite Indian restaurant, eat some korma, dal and rice and practice my Hindi. 

As I try my best to order a cup of tea (“Ek chai dijiega”) and ask the ten-year old waiter if he plays the guitar (“Kya ap guitar bajate hain?”), Air Supply’s “Making Love Out of Nothing At All” suddenly blasts out from the restaurant’s speakers and I find myself humming to the tune instead, my overworked brain trying desperately to cling to something familiar.    

Apka din accha ha (Have a nice day!)