183 days in India

day 183

2010-12-09T23:55:00.000-08:00

I’d like to say that I didn’t get sick on my last train ride in India. I’d like to say that I didn’t spend 8 agonizing hours on that train running to the toilet every hour. I’d like to say a lot of things but the truth is, I was as sick as a dog. Somehow I miraculously recovered once the train stopped in Delhi. Stomach bugs are strange and unpredictable things and one of the typically-Indian things that I would not miss.

My last few days in India were spent in Delhi, shopping. For 6 months I resisted buying too much (anyone who has been to India will understand how hard it is not to shop) but forced myself to travel as light as possible. Those days of travelling light were over and on the eve of my departure I had 2 large filled-to-the-brim duffel bags full of stuff and a huge Persian carpet in my possession. The carpet was for my mother and as much as I relished seeing her face when I gave it to her I did not find the idea of having so much stuff to carry appealing at all.

Apart from shopping and packing I also had to meet with Stephen and hand over the keys to the Yamaha. It was a ceremonious occasion and Shallu, ceremoniously, took a photograph of the ‘handing over’. I felt excited for Stephen’s impending travels and felt happy and proud that the Yamaha would be accompanying him. Like my friend Elke said ‘it’ll be easy, your bike already knows the way’. In Stephen’s eyes I saw the same anxiousness and excitement that I felt before I went up North and there was a moment when I envied him greatly but my adventure was over and my heart was yearning for my family and for the familiar. Before leaving though there were many goodbyes to say and it left me feeling sad and drained. One goodbye in particular left me feeling empty too. Saying goodbye to Shallu was harder that I thought. I never expected to find such a friend in India and there was a moment, while I was packing, when I considered stuffing her into one of my bags and taking her home with me but I was already overweight (my luggage, not me).

In the taxi, on the way to the airport, with the rolled-up carpet sticking out of the window, I felt my heart welling up with immense gratitude for the extraordinary experiences I had in this mad country that will forever occupy a space in my heart. I knew that the full weight of the experience and its effect on my life would become clear once I saw my life back home in contrast to it. I was different, that much I knew. Would my family and friends notice? I was embarking on a new adventure, I realized. Going home.

Checking in at the airport was uneventful. The checking clerk looked at my passport and noticed that my visa was expiring that very same day. ‘Making full use out of your visa, hey?’. I looked at her and smiled, a loaded, all-knowing smile. ‘You don’t know the half of it, yaar’

one more day in Bombay

2010-12-09T23:42:00.000-08:00

I had an entire day to kill in Mumbai before catching the train to Delhi and spent it taking the Yamaha for a final service and finding a safe parking for it for a week until Stephen fetched it and started his own, brand new adventure. This didn’t take nearly as long as I’d hoped and to kill the time I went to the famous Regal Cinema and watched Harry Potter. It was the only movie showing and I soon discovered that at this cinema only one movie is shown per day (well, 4 shows a day but the same movie). After the movie I went for a farewell ride through Mumbai and ended up parking it outside the famous cricket ground (I forget the name) where impromptu cricket matches are held all day long. Have I mentioned that India is cricket-obsessed? I’m not a cricket fan but I was starting to get a little nostalgic (in a few days I would be heading back to South Africa) and thought it was an appropriate end to my last ride. As expected the cricket bored me so much that I fell asleep next to the field. I woke up about 2 hours later and realized that I had less than an hour to take the bike back to its parking and get a taxi to the train station. Plenty of time. I leisurely strolled to the spot where I’d left the Yamaha but the Yamaha was missing.

A nice man with orange henna hair told me that the traffic police had towed it because it was illegally parked. What? The seriousness of the situation hit me between the eyes and I went into a frantic panic looking around for anything resembling a traffic cop. I found one across the street who told me where I could find it. It was long walk but eventually after 30 minutes I arrived at the traffic department and saw my poor bike among hundreds of towed others. I asked around and ended up speaking to a very rude and impatient Punjabi traffic officer who demanded my license and registration papers. ‘Ok look’, I said (a little more forceful than I meant to) ‘I have it but I left it at my hotel’. This was the truth but he reacted like I had just slapped him in the face and insulted him severely. ‘You’re a foreigner! No foreigner is allowed to own property in India! You’re lying!’ he spat at me. A big part of me wanted to go fetch my registration papers, shove it in his face and say ‘Aha! I told you so’ but I simply had no time. I explained my situation to him as calmly as I could but his mind was set again me and my sorry plight. I’ve been alive long enough to know that in situations like these you need to go directly to the person in charge. By the time I found the chief commander’s office I was close to tears and by the time I shook his hand I was crying. I had 20 minutes to get my bike released, park it and find a taxi. Anyone who knows me well will know that not only do I cry easily but once I start crying it’s very hard to stop. The chief was a wonderfully patient and understanding man and within minutes he had released my bike, offered me a tissue and apologised for any ill-treatment inflicted by his department. ‘Please come visit us again’ he said. ‘Ok’ I said through my subsiding tears but secretly knew that as soon as I got on my bike and rode off, I would be gunning it out of there, never looking back.

I made it just by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin and was still trying to get my tears under control as I settled into my bunk on the train. Whew. Once I was relaxed enough to reflect I started thinking about the journey the Yamaha and I had been on. What an incredible yet incredibly hard adventure and one that I would not trade for anything. Goodbye old friend.

planes, trains, busses and omelettes

2010-12-09T23:40:00.000-08:00

The day we left Kerela was my brother’s birthday. My brother has always had the misfortune of his birthday during exams or work (my birthday is on a public holiday) and it was a nice change that he would not have to study or work on his birthday. The day, however, would be spent travelling from Kochin to Delhi and then to Jodhpur and none of us relished the idea of spending anyone’s birthday on a plane or a train (especially not the train we were on a few days before). The plan was to fly to Delhi, spend a few hours there and have a celebratory birthday dinner before catching the over-night train to Jodhur. My brother insisted on an Indian buffet but we knew that he simply wanted Indian food and he wanted plenty of it and that was easy enough to arrange.

We arrived in Delhi around 17h00 and from the airport got a taxi straight to Old Delhi. If you want to experience the chaos of India in all its glory, Old Delhi is a good place to start. That’s exactly what we did and my brother and Mieke were plunged straight into the madness I experienced on my first night in India. Old Delhi is possibly more overcrowded, busy and noisy than a bee-hive and I watched the two of them with fascination and delight and wondered if I also looked as bewildered and amazed when I saw Old Delhi for the first time. There are a million things to see and everything you see is so extraordinary that you are always torn between wanting to take a photograph of it or just look and take it in. I understand that feeling very well, for the first few weeks in India my trigger finger itched uncontrollably.

We had dinner at a place called Karim’s in Old Delhi, situated right in the heart of the bee-hive. Karim’s is a very popular place among foreigners and locals because the food it great and the location fascinating. As an added treat, Shallu was also able to join us for the birthday dinner. It was great that I got the chance to introduce her to my brother and to Mieke and the dinner, although not a buffet, was just what we wanted. We ordered shahi paneer (a rich, tomato based cottage cheese curry and easily the tastiest dish in India), tandoori chicken, a spinach and potato curry and loads of naan. It was the perfect meal, my brother was a happy man and we would probably have stayed there all night but we had a train to catch. Earlier that day, Mieke pointed out that we had already taken a bus, a plane and a taxi and soon we would also be taking a train. All we needed was to take a cycle-rickshaw (surely then we’d be breaking some kind of record?). As it happened, we did take cycle-rickshaws to the train station because the tuck-tuck driver we approached asked a ridiculously expensive rate when he saw us (3 foreigners, plus luggage) and refused to be bargained down. The cycle-rickshaw wallah was much more reasonable. We quickly settled on a ridiculously inexpensive rate and got 2 rickshaws, one for me and the luggage and another for my brother and Mieke. The two of them immediately started taking photographs like Chinese tourists. It was a fun ride through the dark, bustling streets (it’s literally impossible to ride in a cycle-rickshaw and keep a straight face) and to top it off, a bird shat on my brother’s face en route to the station. It was hilarious and I felt deliriously grateful for the few crazy, delicious hours we got to spend in Delhi and suddenly, despite all the travelling, it felt like a birthday-day.

The train ride to Jodhpur was infinitely better than the one we took to Kochin. It’s amazing what a difference it makes if you’ve actually got a bed/bunk to sleep in as opposed to sharing a small floor space with dozens of strangers. We arrived in Jodhpur the next morning at 8h00 and were welcomed by my old friend Lucky who had a hard time hiding his excitement that Olga-the-girl-on-the-Yamaha was back and this time she brought friends. I knew he would be disappointed that I was back minus the Yamaha but he hid it well and I had to compliment Lucky, again, on his wonderful hospitality and on his exquisite little guesthouse. It really was a beautiful place and this time I had witnesses who agreed whole-heartedly. Our beautiful room-with-a-view however would only be ready after 10h00, when the guests occupying it checked out, so we strolled down to the market to have some breakfast.

There were many things I wanted to show my 2 companions and Jodhpur certainly was one of the places that I often wished I had someone to say ‘did you see that?’ to. I was deliriously happy that I could share this city with them and see it in a new light, through their eyes. During my first visit I ate mostly traditional Rajashtani food like kirchori (deep fried vetkoek-type thing filled with lentils and spices, served with a chickpea curry) and deep-fried jalapeno chillies filled with spiced potato. At the entrance to the market however there is an omelette shop (selling nothing but omelettes). Actually, there are 2 omelette shops right next to each other and, again, both claiming to be ‘the best’ or ‘the original’. I had a long chat with the omelette shop owner on the right on my first visit to Jodhpur and he assured me that his omelettes truly were the best and the original and that I shouldn’t be fooled by any other merchant making the same claim (especially not the one right next to him). I vaguely remembered that I promised to have an omelette but never did. This time, I had the ill fortune of running into him within an hour of my return to Jodhpur and had to re-confirm my promise to have an omelette. Later that day the 3 of us strolled over to the omelette shop for an omelette but we got more than we expected. Naturally I walked over to the omelette shop on the right but was intercepted by the omelette shop owner on the left who pointed an accusing finger at his competition and told me that his shop was the original. I looked at the guy who had made that very same claim (and had me convinced) but he avoided my eyes and I knew instantly that he had lied. The 2 shops were identical in almost every way but then I saw that above each shop was a banner. The one read ‘recommended by Lonely Planet Book’ and the other simply ‘recommended by Book’. Uh-hum. We went with the Lonely Planet-recommended shop and ordered the ‘famous’ masala omelette while the owner and his son shared their story with us. The owner had been making omelettes since the 70’s and a mention of his shop in the Lonely Planet had catapulted him into great fame and success. Eggs were his passion (fair enough, whatever makes you happy) and according to him and his slightly arrogant son he had perfected the art of omelette-making. I’ll be honest and say that the masala omelette I had was the best damn omelette I’ve ever had. The owner’s son should have just let the omelettes speak for themselves but he kept putting down their competition while we ate saying he was mentioned (not recommended) by an unknown Korean travel guide book and not the holiest of holies, the Lonely Planet, like they were thus implying that they were superior. Every now and then I’d glance over to the other shop and exchange a look with its owner that said ‘what was I supposed to do?’.

As with the lassis in Jaipur though, my custom was to try them all and decide for myself and so later that day I had another omelette, at the counterfeit omelette shop on the right, this time sharing uneasy glances with the Lonely Planet omelette shop owner’s son. I could see that he was eager, and a little anxious to hear my verdict. I finished the omelette, stood up, honestly declared that the 2^nd omelette was better and left. No doubt the omelette debacle continues still but it felt good that I got to give an honest, objective opinion but in the end I realized that I was perhaps giving it too much thought and had to remind myself that it was, after all, only an omelette.

Later that day SAA (South African Airways) dropped a huge bomb on us (so to speak). In an email, they informed my brother that their return flight on the 21^st of November had been cancelled. No explanation, simply cancelled. Two alternative dates were given, the 22^nd or the 18^th. Neither date suited them as both needed to be back in South Africa on the 22^ndfor work and should they fly on the 18^th, our trip would have to be shortened by 3 days. After some angry phone-calls to the travel agent and a complaint/hate-mail to SAA we gave up, accepted defeat and set about changing our travel plans. On short notice like this all the trains were full and we had no option but to travel by bus to Udaipur and from Udaipur back to Mumbai, again by bus.

The only thing bumpier than a bus-ride through India would have to be a camel ride through India and I would not suggest either mode of transport to anyone planning to travel India. Not only was it uncomfortable but it was frighteningly dangerous (Indian bus drivers are terribly reckless) and much more expensive than the train. With every painful kilometre I grew less fond of SAA and by the time we made it to Udaipur we were completely spent. We were tired to the bone and semi-sleepwalking through Udaipur, shopping. We needed to sleep but, thanks to SAA, we had only a few hours in Udaipur and didn’t want to spend them sleeping.

Later that day we got on yet another bus and with heavy hearts settled into our sleeping seats for the long 18-hour haul down to Mumbai. It was now simply a race to make it to Mumbai by the 18^th. We made it to Mumbai by the 18^th but we were completely drained. We had no more energy, humour, excitement or tolerance and my two tired companions hit the hay within minutes of booking into our hotel. I was not that lucky. I needed to find Rikesh, the guy who was looking after the Yamaha and trying to find a buyer while I was gone. It was easy enough to find him but then he told me that he couldn’t find a buyer and I soon discovered that he had simply been using my bike as his own and probably had made no effort to find a buyer. I thanked him, a little irritated (he had not delivered on his promise and had not treated the Yamaha with the love and care he was supposed to) and immediately emailed Stephen. Stephen was a guy I met long ago In South Africa. He was coming to India and was interested in buying the Yamaha. He was planning to ride up North for 2 weeks and had lots of questions about bikes and the North of India. I answered his questions with my hard-earned knowledge and an eagerness to pass on what I’d learnt. I was very pleased that the Yamaha’s adventure was not yet over and it felt like the perfect end to my own biking adventure (passing it on to someone else). I couldn’t have planned it better myself.

That night my two, still-exhausted, companions climbed into a taxi and caught a flight back to South Africa (3 days earlier than planned). I was still furious with SAA and felt they were the cause of all the rushing, tiredness and frustration. They never did reply to our angry email. Bastards. Needless to say, the moment their taxi disappeared around the corner, I went to bed and slept like a dead person. In the end, I think my brother and Mieke did experience the India I was hoping they would, the exhilaration, wonder and frustration of it all in a compact, from the South to the North, 18-day nutshell. As for me, I had one more day with my beloved Yamaha before leaving for Delhi one last time. It turned out to be an unusual farewell, but that’s a story for another time.

from Mozambique to the land of the coconuts

2010-11-28T22:36:00.000-08:00

The South of India was totally different from the North but I never expected it would be so ‘un-Indian’. It reminded me of Africa rather than India and I knew I wasn’t the only one thinking that en route to Goa we must have been dropped off in Africa instead because both Mieke and my brother kept saying things like ‘this looks just like Mozambique’. Don’t misunderstand, we were not ungrateful for the experience and soaked up all that Goa and its beaches had to offer but we knew, in our hearts, that at the Southern tip of Africa (the place we get to call ‘home’) you’ll find beaches more beautiful than you can imagine. It’s just that we were expecting something else, something Indian and it was hard to see what all the Goa-fuss was about. To add to our disappointment, we discovered that most beaches were occupied by British or Russian tourists, with only a handful of locals (mostly taxi drivers and touts), so much for experiencing the local culture.

I knew exactly the kind of India my brother and Mieke were hoping to see and Goa, sadly, was not it. We also expected the rest of the way down South would be similar and thus a new plan was hatched. We gave ourselves another week in the South, then we would fly to Delhi, take an overnight train to Jodhpur and spend the last 5 days in Rajashtan (the ‘real’ India).

It took us the best part of a day but we finally had our plane and train tickets in hand and were ready to leave Goa the next day. By some twisted twist of fate, however, it started raining. And not just rain, tropical storm rain. That same day Mieke found an idyllic cabin-like beach cottage overlooking the Arabian Sea and dozens of palm trees and we were thrilled that we would be staying there for our last night in Goa. That night, we realized that the idyllic cabin was in fact a shabby little hut and we were forced to use my tent’s outer sheet inside the cabin to keep the rain out. It was leaking everywhere and everything was wet, even the bed. The next morning, after a bad night’s sleep I stepped outside and saw our neighbor looking just as miserable and sleep deprived. We were too far away to hear each other but she, very dramatically, mouthed ‘this is shit’ and I had to agree. Needless to say, we were very ready to leave Goa but we had another problem. All the trains down to Kochin (the capital of Kerela, the most Southern part of India and known as ‘God’s own country’) were full. That morning however, Mieke and I met a lovely lady who runs an Ayuverdic massage center close to our leaking little cabin who told us how to get on a train to Kochin that same day. It was risky but we were willing to try it, spending another day in Goa was not an option. The plan was to go to the train station, wait until an hour before departure, buy an ‘unreserved’ seating ticket and once we’re on board the train ask the conductor for an upgrade to a sleeper coach. The massage lady said it was easy and she does it all the time, we had nothing to worry about.

Just after midnight that same day, we got on the train to Kochin and were told, flatly, by the conductor that the train was full. No upgrade possible today. The reality of the situation hit us like a slap in the face and we sobered up to the fact that we had 14 hours on this packed train without a space to even sit (let alone sleep). We squeezed past hundreds of sleeping bodies, hoping to find a small open space, the situation getting more real with every step. Every available space was occupied (even the floors) but we eventually found a space, next to the urinals. We squeezed in and tried to get some rest looking at each other with a look that said ‘Ok, this sucks but let’s just get through it’ and I realized again that India is not for everyone. I could think of a few people who would simply have refused to get on this train. The 3 of us were made of tougher stuff and we would not be broken by another sleepless night next to a stinking, leaking toilet. In a few hours we would be hysterically laughing at this, right?

The next morning at dawn we were very rudely awakened by another conductor telling us that our ‘seating’ tickets didn’t allow us to be in this here ‘good’ coach and we had to switch to the correct one at the next station. I’d rather not say what waited for us in the next coach but thanks to Mieke’s friendly-but-firm way with people (a characteristic that I hugely admire) we found a spot, sat down and took turns sleeping until we finally reached Kochin, 7 hours later. We took a photograph which, I think, shows our mood perfectly, can you tell?.

Due to our new plans, to head up North, our time was limited and we certainly had none to waste. The minute we got to Kochin we enquired about taking a back-water trip on a house boat (again, a must-do according to the guide books) and rented 3 motorcycles (a long and frustrating process and after the day we had on the train, the last thing we needed). The next morning we left on our motorcycles for Kanikumari, the most Southern tip of India. This was something that I know Mieke, particularly, wanted to do. In that spot, 3 oceans meet and the plan was to ride down, along the coast, stopping in Kanikumari and swimming in 3 oceans simultaneously. The idea of this race down South appealed to me greatly and I was stoked that we would be going on a little mini bike trip after all. Further frustrating delays and more tropical rain stopped us from fulfilling that adventure though. A brief spark of intense FOMO (fear of missing out) took hold of us as we realized that we would have to get real and accept that we would not be able to do everything we wanted. India was simply too big and our time too short. We didn’t make it to Kanikumari but had to turn around and head back to Kochin without a swim at the Southern tip of India. Disappointment is a huge part of a true adventure, this much I know.

All in all I liked Kerela and I was happy to discover that South Indian food does not only consist of Dosas (a large, flat, pancake filled with spiced potato and served with a vegetable soup and coconut sauce). We had some amazing, colourful curries and coconut is used in everything. It was inspiring, delicious and a nice change. Kerela, just so you know, means ‘coconut’ or ‘the land of the coconut’. We were excited to be leaving the land of the coconuts and trade it for the chaotic and noisy India, the India of our dreams. Next stop, Delhi.

the arrival

2010-11-15T19:48:00.000-08:00

After spending 15 hours on a Bollywood movie set (which would amount to no more than 15 seconds of B-grade Bollywood fame, if that) I spent a few days recovering from a severe case of diarrhoea and eventually decided to crack open the antibiotics my mother had insisted I take with. I’ll admit I was disappointed that I had not made it out of India without taking a course of antibiotics, in my mind it would have amounted to the same as climbing Mount Everest without oxygen. All the same, I was grateful for the medication because I was, by now, very sick. Three days was all I gave myself to recover because in three days my brother and my friend Mieke would be joining me in Mumbai and it was a visit that I was anticipating with great excitement. There simply was no space for illness now. At times during this trip when I was severely lonely or the road became too long and I felt like giving up, their visit served as encouragement or an incentive of sorts and I couldn’t believe the time had finally come.

Then the day of their arrival came and I went to meet them at ‘the Gateway of India’ just a 5 minute walk from my hotel in Mumbai. I had a hard time getting my mind to calm down. There was so much I wanted to tell them and share and ask but as irony would have it l fell into a strange and uneasy silence shortly after we greeted each other and were walking back to the hotel. Later, sitting across a table from them at a restaurant, I realized that I’ve been away for almost half a year and haven’t had a real conversation with either of them for all that time. Distance causes distance (that much I knew). But I told myself not to freak out and calm right down. We weren’t on opposites sides of the world anymore, we were together and we had 3 weeks in this crazy country to explore and see and taste and feel things, together. It would take a little time to ease back into each other’s company. In the meantime we had a 3 week adventure down to the South of India to plan.

There was one other thing that needed my attention before the adventure down South could begin in full swing. I had to decide the Yamaha’s fate. My beloved companion had overnight become a burden. The plan to do part of the trip down South on motorbikes faded into nothingness and it hit me that my adventure with the Yamaha was over. To say that it was hard for me to accept would be an understatement. I felt devastated. It felt like I had to sell a friend or a family member. This deep and unexpected sadness made me even more silent and distant but I couldn’t shake it. That night I told Mieke about my heartache and she told me about their beloved family Kombi that their father had sold when they were younger and how sad and empty they all felt after the sale, almost like losing a member of the family. She understood and it felt good.

Our plan was to take the train down to Goa and then move down the West coast of India stopping wherever we wanted but we did not make it out of Mumbai without visiting a Bollywood movie set, again. This time we were not 30 extras. It was just me and Mieke (Mieke and I) that they needed. Poor Hennie was told that he was most welcome to tag along and experience the Bollywood experience but they wouldn’t need him for any of the scenes (as it happened, he did, almost accidently, end up being in one of the scenes). It was another long day and this time Destiny the bus didn’t come to fetch us. We had to take a taxi, a train and a rickshaw to get to the set (in the middle of nowhere) and it was 23h00 when we finally made it back to our hotel. Mieke and I were both beyond desperate to take a shower. We had huge fake tattoos on our arms (long story) that we had to scrub off and poor Mieke had huge amounts of hair gel and hairspray in her hair that would take a couple of washes to wash out. Lying in bed, exhausted, we laughed again at the bizarre day we had.

But like I said, I still had to sort the Yamaha out before I hopped on a train (I couldn’t just leave it in the street while I went South for 3 weeks). But selling a motorbike in India proved to be much more complicated than buying one and it frustrated me that everybody thought I was completely clueless and kept telling me the most ridiculous things. Eventually, after a couple of frustrating days, I gave up and left the Yamaha with a young Indian guy called Rikesh who promised to take good care of it while I was away and would, in the meantime, try to find a buyer. This was trust on a whole other level but I had no real choice. I handed over the keys to Rikesh and hopped on a train to Goa. The bike admin had kept me in Mumbai a day longer than I planned and my brother and Mieke were already In Goa waiting for me. This was the last stretch of my trip and it was with sadness but that ever-present sense of the unexpected that I got on the train to Goa.

The guide books have much to say about Goa. About the beaches, the food, the Portuguese influence but in particular about the infamous party scene. In the late sixties a group of true blooded hippies rocked up on a beach in Goa and indulged in sex, drugs and rock and roll. When there was a full moon they danced naked on the local beaches while Jimi Hendrix blasted loudly from a Volkswagen kombi somewhere. The locals were appalled but not too alarmed. However, the next season more and more hippies appeared and the beach parties became larger, louder and out of control. Soon everybody (hippie or not) in other parts of the world knew that if you’re looking for a good party, Goa was the place. Over the years the parties became even bigger and a little more organized and by the late nineties Rock and Roll gave way to Techno and soon the Goan beaches turned into huge trance party venues all year round. Needless to say, party drugs were everywhere and after a few drug related deaths at such parties the government stepped in and shut it down. I could imagine the locals (and even some of the hippies of old) cheering loudly in celebration of the end of the madness that lasted for several decades. Of course it still lives on (especially during the month of December) and several clubs have sprouted up to facilitate the masses in search of a wild party. The government knows all too well how lucrative the party/drug business is and the biggest party club in Goa is actually owned by the government.

The party scene didn’t appeal to us in the slightest but Goa, surely, had more to offer than just a party and we wanted to find out what it was.

camel safari

2010-11-08T04:45:00.000-08:00

http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=452717586817&saved#!/profile.php?id=612126817

Ferengi goes to Bollywood

2010-11-02T04:44:00.000-07:00

What you are about to read is a true recollection of the events that took place on Monday 25 October 2010. However elaborate or ridiculous the facts may seem, I would like it recorded here that not even I can make this kind of stuff up.

There were about 30 of us. Foreigners (ferengis). Extras. We were all approached by slick Mr. Bollywood the day before and were now waiting to be collected from our hotel and taken to the movie set. It was 8am when around the corner suddenly appeared a bright yellow bus with blue letters on the side ‘DESTINY’. It was an auspicious start. The bus ride through the Mumbai streets was incredible and I definitely got to see parts of the city that I would not have seen otherwise. It looked like this was going to be an unforgettable day.

We arrived at the studio an hour later and were led to a large room where we were told to wait for further instructions. We were all a little nervous, not knowing what to expect and to break the ice, my new German friend, Benjamin (we met on the bus) made a joke and said that he thought this was a Bollywood scam and that we were going to be called in one by one, and then robbed and murdered. Everybody laughed. Everyone except the 3 Swedes (they looked even more nervous than before).

We did not get robbed or murdered. Worse, we got assessed: short/tall, fat/skinny, dark/light, pretty/ugly, male/female, dancer/non-dancer. After you are assessed you go to ‘hair and make-up’ and then ‘wardrobe’. I met Leda (from Argentina) while standing in the wardrobe line. We were both tall and dark (compared only to the Swedes, I thought) and were given our costumes together. The wardrobe lady took one look at me and yelled ‘dress! Yes! Yes!’ She was overjoyed that she would get to put one of us into a dress and to be honest, so was I. I’ve been riding a motorcycle for a long time and I’ve been fantasising about wearing a dress again (and take a bath with scented candles, buy flowers and other girly things). Yes, I was excited about wearing a dress, until I saw the dress I was supposed to wear. Leda and I both nearly had a heart attack followed by a laughing fit. It was a summer dress, yellow with a big brown corset closing around my bosom with, matching, yellow buttons. That in itself, was not so strange but didn’t quite ‘fit’ with the make-up I had been given. Thus, from the neck down I looked like a Bavarian dairy farmer and from the neck up, a prostitute. Ok, just work it girl, I told myself but Leda and I nearly rolled on the floor laughing. She also looked ridiculous but I took first prize.

Next, shoes. Needless to say they had no shoes in my size. I wear a size 8 (7 on a good day) and had to force my poor feet into a size 6 silver sandal (again, ill-matched to the outfit, I think). The wardrobe lady told me not to worry (who’s worried?) I would not have to walk in this scene. This would prove to be incorrect as, in this particular scene, I not only had to walk but I also had to dance, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

All made up, Leda and I returned to where they had all the extras waiting and the moment I walked in, the room froze. Nobody knew what to say until an Australian guy at the back managed a ‘whoa, now THAT is an outfit’ and everybody (including me) broke down laughing. At that moment one of the assistant-directors came in and did a double take when he saw me. ‘What?!’ I felt like saying to him ‘it’s not like I did this to myself’. But everybody looked a little ridiculous and I assumed it was part of the plot. By now, I had overcome any shyness or reserve I might have felt earlier in the day. It was clear that I was still going to feel very foolish and I made peace with that. An hour later we were called onto the set.

The scene:

A bar (a Cuban bar).

In Scotland (?)

1991 (suddenly the wardrobe made a little more sense).

The extras had to occupy the bar, i.e. sit at the tables, stand at the bar, dance on the dance floor and so on. I was told to sit at a table with Benjamin and pretend to be in deep conversation. This, I have to add, is much harder than it sounds. Benjamin has a wicked sense of humour and kept saying things that made me burst out laughing when I was supposed to be ‘in deep conversation’. On the dance floor were the ‘stars’, a young Indian couple, wearing normal (not 80-ish) clothes and dancing very closely together. Another assistant director told us that there is a big difference between ‘actors’ and ‘stars’ and very rarely do you find both qualities in one person. These were stars. Vain to the core.

The Australian guy that told me I had quite an outfit had a big role. He was supposed to dance up to the female star, rub against her and pick a fight with the male star. He also had to pretend to be extremely drunk while doing so. The poor guy was a terrible actor and looked retarded rather than drunk but the director didn’t seem to notice (or mind). After what felt like 500 takes of the same scene an assistant director (there seemed to be at least 10 of them) told me to wait for the music to start, count to ten and then stand up and walk out of the bar. And so for the next hour, I counted to ten, stood up, walked across the dance floor (in my size 6 silver sandals) and out the door where I waited with the light and sound people until the director yelled ‘Cut! Back to positions!’

My feet were screaming by now and just then, another assistant director told me to rather sit down again, wait for the music, count to ten and then get up and walk over to a table he indicated and have a short (15 seconds) conversation with the guy sitting there and return to my table. I waited for the music, counted to ten and then got up and walked over to a table on the other side of the dance floor occupied by a young guy from Finland. ‘Hi’ I said when I reached his table ‘I’m supposed to come over here and have an imaginary conversation with you. What’s up?’ But he was too shocked to react. Nobody told him that I was supposed to do that and all of a sudden I heard the director scream ‘CUT!!’ ‘What are you doing?’ he asked me, bewildered. I blushed, instantly, and (stuttering) told him that the assistant director had told me to do this. Of course, at that moment, that particular assistant director was nowhere to be found and I was told to go back to my table and sit down. Thankfully, shortly after that embarrassing incident we ‘cut’ for lunch. During lunch we all had to wear massive pink bibs (to keep our costumes clean) and I remember thinking, in that moment, that I didn’t think it was possible for us to look more ridiculous than we did, but I was wrong.

After lunch we were shooting the fight scene, which sounds exciting but after 500 takes gets a little old. In this scene, I had to dance with the others on the dance floor until the fight was picked and then act really surprised. I went for this scene, whole-heartedly, dancing and overacting my little heart out. After all, this was the 80’s. This was Bollywood. Overacting was expected.

At 22h00 one of the extras, a charted accountant from London said that she wanted to leave. We were told in the morning that we would be finished by 21h00 and everyone was tired and wanted to go back to the hotel. I was also tired but I knew that we would never finish on time. By now, I knew India better than that. But before I knew it the lady from London had gotten all the extras to walk off the set and demand to be taken home. I didn’t want to feel left out so I went outside and stood at a distance while she argued with the assistant director. He begged us to stay for ten more minutes but our spokes woman was fierce and refused to budge. Boycott! Boycott! Moment later, Mr. Slick arrived on the scene and also begged us to stay (the real drama was taking place off the set) and offered to pay us each 300 rupees more if we stayed for ten more minutes and eventually we were convinced to go back to the set.

For the next ten minutes we were all gathered around the 2 guys fighting and had to act really shocked. Everyone was too tired to act anymore and we ended up just pulling strange faces until the director yelled ‘Cut’ and then we were on the bus, Destiny, on our way home. All in all (and all and all..) it was a great day and I even earned a full R 100. You gotta love India.

day 146

2010-10-26T21:22:00.001-07:00

The road to Jaisalmer was long but I left before the sun was out, my MP3 player fully charged and I was making good time. If all went well I would reach Jaisalmer just after lunch. This is about as far into Rajashtan as you can go, beyond lies only the Great Thar Desert. The idea of reaching this final frontier was especially exciting for me but I had other reasons for looking forward to Jaisalmer. Samesyn. Sarah, a friend that I’d met in Cape Town, shortly before I left for India was going to be in Jaisalmer for a few days at the same time that I would be there. Sarah works in India and for months we kept missing each other (sometimes by a few hours) and I was looking forward to actually spending some real time with her. Her brother was visiting from London and the 3 of us were planning to, among other things, do a camel safari into the desert. I got to Jaisalmer a day ahead of them and spent it sleeping and asking around about camel safaris (prices and so on). The best deal was a 2 day, one night safari, organised by (you guessed it) Lucky’s cousin. When I arrived in Jaisalmer it was obvious that Lucky had phoned ahead telling all about my impending arrival. The words ‘Madam’ and ‘motorcycle’ were used in every Hindi conversation I overheard.

After Jaisalmer and a few days of great companionship with Sarah and Tim I headed back to Jodhpur for my promised visit with the spice sisters. Again there were many stories and lots of chai but soon the open road was calling me and I said my farewells to the sisters and their poor mother and left for Mount Abu. I decided to add Mount Abu to my Rajashtan trip because it’s a hill station (which means the weather is heavenly) and it sounded like the kind of place where peacocks roam around in the streets and people fly around on magic carpets. I was wrong about the magic carpets (and the peacocks) but right about the climate. Unlike the dry, intense heat elsewhere in Rajashtan, the weather in Mount Abu was deliciously moderate. The only thing, as far as I could tell, that bugged me about Mount Abu was that everybody in my guesthouse seemed to be on honeymoon and I became acutely aware of my single serving status. The owner of the guesthouse was shocked to hear that I was still planning to ride all the way to Udaipur, on my own no less (!) and told me to find myself a partner (clearly a honeymoon hotelier). I told him that was working on it (so to speak) and went to my room. The next morning, before the nosey owner or any of the lovebirds stirred I left for Udaipur, the most romantic city in India. On my own.

Udaipur was my last stop in Rajashtan and was a perfect finish to, probably, my favourite Indian state so far. The night before I left Udaipur for Mumbai I did something the Lonely Planet told me to. I watched the James Bond Movie ‘Octopussy’ at one of the rooftop restaurants while enjoying a meal. ‘Octopussy’, you see was filmed (partly) in Udaipur which is certainly not its only appeal but definitely adds to the charm of this exquisitely beautiful, and yes, romantic city. To my dismay, it seemed that all honeymooners in India, eventually, make their way to Udaipur and, it seemed, book themselves into my guesthouse, the Dream Heaven. Go figure.

It turned out to be an easy decision to not make the 800 km journey down to Mumbai from Udaipur (on the Yamaha anyway). The highway down to Mumbai runs through Gugurat (a state I had no particular interest in seeing) and I made up my mind to get to Mumbai ahead of schedule so I took the bus with the Yamaha, get this, tied to the roof (I have video footage for those who don’t believe me!). Anyway, while I watched the Bond movie, I must have eaten something disagreeable because the next day, on the bus, halfway to Mumbai, things inside my stomach went horribly wrong. To my horror (horror, horror!) I discovered that this particular bus did not have a bathroom. ‘No worries Madam, we will be stopping soon’ said the driver. Soon, I knew (in Indian terms), could mean hours! Perhaps I could sleep or meditate through the pain, I thought but spent the next hour viciously cursing Indian cooks, bus drivers, the Lonely Planet and James Bond until finally the bus stopped at a little roadside restaurant. The other passengers, also queuing to get off the bus, were moving so slowly that I actually considered climbing out of the window but composed myself enough to not scream at them.

‘All is well’. ‘All is well’ *

After an agonizing bathroom episode I went to the counter and asked for some mineral water but before I could even finish my sentence I threw up. It was completely unexpected and I just barely managed to not do so on the shop counter but next to it, into an empty box. A large crowd formed around me, offering no sympathy or comfort only cold, curious stares. When I eventually stopped vomiting enough to stand up I had to look at the 30 odd spectators with a pathetic mixture of embarrassment and self-pity. Back to the bathroom. And then back to the bus. Only 8 hours to go.

Needless to say, I was a little fragile when the Yamaha and I got dropped off in Mumbai the next morning. The bus driver demanded another 300 rupees for off-loading the Yamaha but quickly saw that I was in no mood for any of that and let it go. It took me 2 hours to find the Colaba-area in Mumbai, which is where I wanted to be and another hour to find a decent hotel. Then I slept for the rest of the day, clutching my bottle of electrolyte-infused water tightly. At around 21h00 there was a knock on my door and, to my surprise, I got up to answer it. A very slick-looking Indian man with a huge grin and a gold tooth gave me a quick up-and-down look and breaking into a million rupee smile said ‘hey hey, so you want to be in a Bollywood movie, yaar?’. I looked at him, taking a moment to register and said ‘are you kidding?’. ‘Absolutely!’

*‘All is well’ is a very cool and clever catch phrase in one of the best (Hindi) movies I’ve seen called ‘3 Idiots’.

the blue city

2010-10-20T21:12:00.000-07:00

Like I said, leaving Pushkar was hard. Thanks to my guide book I imagined Pushkar to be an exotic, lush oasis in the Indian desert but on my way there I started to think that the book had got it wrong. I spent the entire day riding around what felt like the middle of nowhere (the landscape was dry, vast and barren) and I was just about to give up hope of ever reaching Pushkar when I saw a sign that read ‘Pushkar Lake’. Lake?! The idea that there could be a lake in this dry place seemed impossible but I kept following the signs and sure enough, a lake. Like most mountains, rivers and lakes in India this lake was holy (and also severely polluted). It still amazes me that a country, that views everything as holy, could have so little respect for nature. Pollution and littering is a huge problem in India and I have much to say on the subject but, for now, let me say this. I cannot and will not, ever, get used to it. It drives me crazy.

Despite the pollution, India still manages to take my breath away. This is a beautiful country and Pushkar is definitely one of its gems. Before I left for the Blue City I felt I needed to say a proper goodbye with a walk around the holy lake and chai with my new friend. Then it was time to leave and like so many times before I promised to return, someday, as I waved goodbye. My plan was to meet up with the highway again and head to Jodhpur but Dinesh told me about a better (shorter) route that would shave 60 km off my day’s riding. Like an idiot/adventurer I opted for the shortcut and spent 6 hours on one of the worst roads I’ve ever seen (all the potholes in India live on this road). I’ll admit that halfway to Jodhpur I revoked my promise to return to Pushkar and see my good friend Dinesh again. Bastard.

Eventually though I did reach Jodhpur and started the tiring process of finding a good, clean and affordable place to stay. For those who think traveling is a break from day-to-day admin, think again. I spent an hour riding through the crowded alleys looking for a budget guesthouse called ‘Yogi’ (recommended by Dinesh) but people just looked at me like I was crazy. I think some of them thought I was actually looking for a guru (‘excuse me, do you know where I can find a guru?’ ..Seriously?). I was just about to give up hope when a guy on a bike stopped next to me and asked me if I needed a room. Usually I would ignore these tout-types but I was exhausted so I followed him. I followed him to, possibly, the most exquisite (and cheap!) little hotel in Jodhpur. The guy on the bike, Lucky, was no tout, he was the owner and he was on his way to get a shave when he saw me (a damsel) in distress. Lucky turned out to be a great host and I even saw him one morning with a bucket of water, washing the Yamaha. I soon discovered that almost everyone in Jodhpur was related to Lucky in some way. He had brothers, sisters, cousins and uncles everywhere. One night I went to a totally random restaurant and had dinner and discovered that it belonged to Lucky’s sister. Even the hotel I ended up staying at in Jaisalmer belonged to Lucky’s cousin.

Thanks to Lucky and the beautiful blue buildings, I loved Jodhpur. It’s hard to speak about this place without sounding like a tour guide but Jodhpur is gorgeous. Spices, sweets, sugar cane juice, incense, perfume and more famous saffron lassi (again there were 2 identical ‘famous’ lassi shops right next to each other) was a feast. Truly. There is also the Jodhpur Fort that looms over Jodhpur the same way Table Mountain does over Cape Town and it’s said that there is nothing quite like it elsewhere in the World. I can confirm. The fort is also the best point from which to view the city. Its only when you’re way up in the fort looking down that you can see the Blue City in all its glory. I took a photograph but the picture in my memory is much, much better. A sea of blue buildings almost as far as the eye can see.

In Jodhpur I also met some interesting people, a tout named Nando spoke to me every time I passed his shop, insisted that he was the most famous man in India and found it alarming that I’d never heard of him. Nando eventually managed to get me into his shop. It was a spice shop and turned out to not belong to Nando at all but to 7 sisters. It could have been the intoxicating tea spices in the air (cinnamon, cardamom, ginger..) or the stories the spice sisters had to tell but I stayed for more than an hour. It seemed like every spice had a story and I listened eagerly as I sipped the most amazingly spiced chai. Ushu and her 6 sisters had taken over the family spice business after their father ‘expired’ a few years before. Considering that almost all shop owners in India (especially in a conservative place like Rajashtan) were men, this all-female business caused a stir. ‘Mohanlal Vehomal’ (the name of their father and the family business) mixes the best spices in Rajashtan (even the Lonely Planet says so) and others know it. Their 4 shops (in and around Jodhpur) are constantly targeted by vandals, and touts for other spice shops lurk around the market trying to lure foreigners away. The sisters work 7 days a week to keep the business going and get as much money into the family coffers as possible. With 7 daughters to marry off and 7 hefty dowries to pay their mother never lets them forget what a heavy burden she is carrying (they are carrying). It’s a sad story and their mother is by no means unloving when she says her daughters are burdens and Ushu and her sisters understand it’s just the way things are. If you are a woman you are a burden to your family until they can find you a husband (yes, arranged marriages still happen). Don’t misunderstand, not all marriages in India are arranged but the custom is alive and well in some homes. I was so moved by Ushu and her sisters’ story that I promised to return and stay with them for a few days. After Jaisalmer (my next destination) I would have to return to Jodhpur to meet up with the road to Mount Abu and I couldn’t wait to ask my many, many questions and to get to know all of them better.

That night Lucky came up to me and declared his undying love ..for the Yamaha and asked if he could take it for a ride. Of course. I gave Lucky the keys, told him to be careful and went to my room for a nap. About an hour later I looked out my window and saw Lucky washing the Yamaha, again. The next morning at 5am I left for Jaisalmer and Lucky had woken up especially to say goodbye to the Yamaha, and to me. Next stop, Jaisalmer.

21 pictures

2010-10-16T02:29:00.000-07:00

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=229264&id=612126817#!/album.php?aid=229264&id=612126817

Pushkar

2010-10-15T08:04:00.000-07:00

In Pushkar I went for a bicycle ride, made a friend and got bitten by a dog, although not in that order. Along with missing fresh air, my family and ginger beer, I also missed riding my bicycle and Pushkar was the absolute perfect place to go for a ride so I set my mind to finding a bicycle to rent and then, as luck would have it, I met Dinesh.

Dinesh runs a kind of ‘all you need’ general store right outside my hotel and every morning he greeted me with the largest smile (even by Indian standards) I’ve ever seen. On top of his crazy smile, he had an absurd sense of humor (imagine Jim Carey, but he’s Indian) and it was inevitable that Dinesh and I would become friends. I asked him about renting a bicycle and he told me not to worry and less than 30 minutes later there was a knock on my door. ‘Hello my fren! Look, bicycle for you!’. I was delighted to the power of a billion but the bicycle looked a little worn, even by Indian standards. Still, I was grateful for this gifted horse and inspecting it would have been rude. After I thanked Dinesh I jumped on the black bicycle (old school, with a red saddle and a bell) and raced down the street. Ten meters later, going down a hill, surrounded by cars and motorbikes, I discovered that the brakes didn’t work. Indian traffic has taught me to expect the unexpected and I didn’t panic but I was heading straight for a truck just a few meters in front of me and I needed to stop fast. Instinctively I planted both my feet onto the ground and screech myself to a halt like they do in the cartoons. Within seconds Dinesh was there apologizing as if he’d just killed my dog. He took the bicycle (death-trap), mounted it, told me to ‘wait 2 minutes please, my fren’ and disappeared around the corner. True to his word, Dinesh was back within minutes with another bicycle. I could imagine him knocking the nearest kid off his bike, yelling ‘emergency!!!’ and bringing it to me.

This time I did a brief inspection. Only the back brake worked and when I kicked the tires they both buckled a little but it would have to do. And then, for the second time, I was off. Just like my first ride with the Yamaha, my first ride on this bicycle was terrifying at first but ultimately liberating and after a while I moved in harmony with the chaotic traffic and through the dark, narrow alleys with skill I did not know I had. I rode for hours (hours!) and had to stop only because it was already dark and I couldn’t see the road anymore.

I took the bicycle back to Dinesh and thanked him. What a great day. I missed riding my bicycle. It’s funny how little things in can give you so much joy. I started thinking about what else I was missing back home. I miss the African sky. I miss anything Afrikaans. I miss Table Mountain. I miss hugs. I miss grapes. I missed the World Cup. I missed my father’s 70^th birthday (I missed many birthdays but that one stung). I missed my brother falling in love.

Now, about the dog. Dogs in India, like the cows, are lame, placid creatures that locals tend to ignore but after my experience with the cow in Varanasi, I should have known better. One afternoon, I went for a walk through the streets when this specific sleeping dog woke from his slumber and growled softly at me. ‘What the heck was that?’ he must have thought. Nobody, including me, paid any attention to him, dogs are only dangerous at night, when they’re awake and moving in packs but when I passed him the second time he growled again. I ignored him again but the next thing I knew he snuck up behind me, bit my ankle and then ran as fast as he could in the opposite direction. It wasn’t really a bite, more like a pinch, it didn’t even break the skin and everybody who saw it, including me, was more amazed that the lame little mutt had the courage to do that. As for the dog, he was long gone.

Despite my near-death experience on the bicycle, my run-in with the dog and having caught a severe case of melancholy, it was hard for me to leave Pushkar. It was definitely the kind of place where you can get stuck and never want to leave but when you travel by bike the open road is always whispering in your ear that its time to move on. Next stop, Jodhpur, the Blue City.

I am aha

2010-10-08T00:54:00.000-07:00

Again, let me say this, I am not a biker but* as I left Delhi for the second time on the Yamaha with the sun rising behind me, I felt totally alive. I had a permanent grin, butterflies in my stomach and a funky rhythm in my spine. The ride from Delhi to Jaipur (my first stop) was incredible. You simply turn onto the Jaipur highway and watch the landscape change. I was a little disappointed that the desert didn’t start the moment I crossed over into Rajashtan, it happens (duh..) gradually and you’re eased into it. The first thing you see, in abundance, is camels (I stopped counting after 83 because it became too distracting). The roads were better than those in the North and after 2 chai stops and 3 bathroom breaks I arrived in Jaipur, the Pink City. I’d forgotten how exhausting riding was and after I booked into my guesthouse I slept like a dead person for a few hours before I went for a walk through the streets.

In my guide book I read something very interesting. The best lassi in Jaipur, it said, is at a place called ‘Lassiwalla’ and is served in tall terracotta pots that you smash on the sidewalk when you’re done ‘but’ it went on to say ‘beware of imitations’. Needless to say ‘Lassiwalla’ was my first stop when I left the next morning armed with a map and a long list of places I wanted to see. It was easy enough to find but there was a problem, there were 3 lassi shops right next to each other, all named ‘Lassiwalla’ and all claiming to be ‘the oldest lassi shop in Jaipur’ or ‘the original lassi shop’. There was only one thing to do, I would have to try them all and decide for myself which was best. It was a tough job but somebody had to do it. First prize went to the Lassiwalla on the left. Not too sweet, ice-cold, delicious. Before I left Delhi, Shallu told me that Rajashtani dhaba food was the best in India and I soon discovered that she was not kidding.

But not all my experiences in Jaipur were culinary nor were all of them pleasant. On my way to the Hawa Mahal (photo), I walked past 2 school boys (about 16 years old) when the one closest to me suddenly stretched out his hand and grabbed me between the legs, just for a second, and continued walking like nothing happened. Shocked, it took me a few seconds to react and turned around just in time to see him high five-ing his friend. For a moment I considered going after the little prick and breaking his arm but I knew that would cause a scene and scenes in India always attract a lot of attention and I shuddered at the thought of having to explain (or mime) what had happened so I exhaled and I let it go.

Later that day 4 different locals (all decent, sincere looking middle-aged men) stopped me on the street and warned me not to speak to any of the young guys who would approach me, saying that ‘they are part of the Mafia, Madame’. Naturally I had many (many many) questions about the Indian Mafia, not least of which was ‘what on earth could the Mafia want with me?’ but I heeded their warning, if with a pinch of salt, and spent the rest of the day avoiding as best I could anyone who looked like they belonged to the Mafia and any and all school boys.

Before leaving for Pushkar, my next stop, I needed to take the Yamaha for a check-up. In Delhi I noticed that the speedometer was broken and I wanted to get it fixed before going any further. Having a broken speedometer provided me with some of the best laughter of my life because the way Shallu pronounced ‘speedometer’ was absolutely hilarious (putting the emphasis on every syllable but the right one) and I almost burst out laughing when the bike walla I took my bike to did the same thing.

Bike wallas are by far my favorite Indians. At first I thought they were going to be a problem for me because I knew I was going to need them often and I am, after all, a foreigner, a woman, easy prey. But I found them to be anything but predatory. With rare exception they were kind, respectful, simple, honest folk and treated me more like a sister than a customer. It always amazed me that they’d send me on my way with a brilliantly serviced bike, wishing me a safe journey waving as I left with obvious affection. I owe a great deal to all the bike wallas out there. Shukriya.

Along with getting the speedometer fixed I also had the Yamaha washed. It was an old bike and very dirty but it looked like new after its bath. The Yamaha shined and as I ran my fingers over the white letters ‘Y-A-M-A-H-A’ I thought of the crazy journey we’ve been on together. Just like me the Yamaha had little scars and bruises testifying to our adventure. There were white paint spots from when I parked it next to a building that was getting painted and the dent from when I rode into a bus and fell over. The ‘Y’ on the side of the petrol tank got scraped off slightly during the landslide up North and now looked like an ‘I’. I AM AHA. Yes you are, I thought. Yes you are.

This trip into Rajashtan was in many ways different from the one up North. It’s true that every Indian state is different from the next and of course landscapes and roads and people and cultures change but that’s not what I mean. It was me, I was different. I was just that little bit more experienced, wiser, focused and stronger. This time around I had more than just stubbornness and an adventurous spirit driving me on, I had a more than 4000 km portfolio of the incredible things I’ve done and seen. There was a quiet, calm confidence in me that was very different from my do-or-die determination at the beginning of this trip. It felt great. Next stop, Pushkar.

*Terran Williams (a pastor at my church in Cape Town/surfer) once said that the word ‘but’ is a powerful word because it neutralizes everything that’s gone before it and introduces a new, better reality.

doubt

2010-10-03T02:40:00.000-07:00

On my last day in Varanasi I went for a walk when a small boy came out of nowhere and took me by the hand. He smiled and said hello. I said hello back and we walked together, hand-in-hand, through the streets. I knew that he wanted something from me so I told him, plainly, ‘no paisa (money), no chocolate, ok?’ but he seemed a little hurt by my accusation and assured me he just wanted to walk with me and hold my hand. He seemed sincere and I felt embarrassed that I assumed he wanted something that. I didn’t notice that we had changed direction and were heading into the market. I’d gotten used to being hounded by street children demanding (not asking) money or chocolate. It’s sad but foreigners are really seen as giving-machines, walking talking ATM machines or Santa Clause. This boy seemed different so I let my defenses down and walked with him reprimanded myself for automatically thinking he wanted something. Just then we arrived at the place he was guiding me to. A German bakery. He pointed at something and said ‘give me!’.

Looking back now, perhaps I should have just bought him a cupcake but I felt that he had lied to me. ‘I’m sorry, no’ I said. His smile vanished immediately and he shoved my hand away in disgust. Bad Santa! He ran away without saying goodbye, probably to find another foreigner that would give him a treat and I was left alone in front of the bakery feeling rejected, unloved and used. I’m being a little dramatic sure, but it affected me. It hurt me.

Just a few hours after that incident I was on a train to Agra to see the Taj Mahal with my own eyes and finally tick it off the list of ‘things to do before you die’ but I felt raw about what happened in Varanasi. If my faith in the sincerity of people were fragile when I left Varanasi, Agra was the worst possible place I could go to. The guide books warn about the touting and harassment in Agra but it was much worse than I expected and after only 2 hours I wanted to leave. My train out of Agra was only leaving the next morning so I was stuck until then. But I came to see the Taj, not to hide in my hotel room so I told myself to snap out of it, go outside and face the mob.

On my way to the Taj a particularly persistent cycle-rickshaw rider pulled up and stayed beside me, offering his services, for almost 15 minutes. I must have said ‘no, thank you’ a million times but he refused to leave. After a while I simply ignored him. Then, somehow, he accidently rode over my foot with his rickshaw. It hurt like hell but it was the pained (crazed) look in my eyes, I suppose, that finally made him leave.

I limped all the way to the Taj ticket counter and paid 750 rupees (!) for a ticket. Locals pay only 20 rupees (it seemed even the Indian government thought I was Santa Clause). My foot was throbbing and hundreds of ‘guides’ harassed me while I queued to go inside. ‘Please leave me alone’ I told them over and over and then finally sat on the steps outside for a while trying to regain my excitement. After all, I was about to see the greatest building in the world (according to the guide book). I imagined the moment very differently and couldn’t shake the heaviness and negativity I felt. You can only say ‘no’ so many times before it starts affecting you negatively. And so I went inside, looked around, took a few photographs and left, spending the rest of my time in Agra counting the hours till I could leave. It was a sad day.

I arrived in Delhi the next day, sad to the bone, convinced that India was a horrible country that once had a place in my heart but had betrayed me. Again, I know that I was being a bit dramatic but I felt heartbroken. It took me a few days before I started to remember all the extraordinary kindnesses and generosity I had experienced in India. How could I forget that? You need to have faith in the goodness of people even when their appearance, behavior or your prejudice tells you different or you rob them of the opportunity to surprise you. Eventually I felt reconciled to India enough to start planning the next adventure.

The next part of my journey was into Rajashtan and I couldn’t wait. Soon I would be heading off into the Indian desert with my Yamaha. The Lone Rider, chapter 2. But then, to my surprise, the same people who were inspired by the first journey were suddenly trying to talk me out of this one. There were again those familiar voices telling me that I can’t do it or shouldn’t do it. The lack of faith made me sad and angry but I understood it all too well. It’s easy, and human, to forget the great things we’ve seen and to start thinking small again and before I knew it I also began doubting whether I could do it. I looked in the mirror and the person looking back didn’t look like me at all (Indian street food has been a lot easier on my wallet than it has been on my waistline but that is not what I mean). My faith was gone. Whatever the reason for it, I was suddenly doubting why I was on this trip at all. When I first decided to do it I had to convince many people that I wasn’t crazy, reckless, irresponsible or even selfish. A lot has happened and I’ve certainly come a long way since then and every word in this blog has been a witness to that. I reminded myself of all the incredible, if not miraculous, things that I’ve experienced on this trip and that I was terrified to ride up into the Himalayas too but that I did it and lived to tell about it. I also remembered something I wrote in the beginning of this trip. ‘You need to find one reason why you can do something and then do it’.

A text from my brother finally gave me the reason I needed. Going on an adventure, he said, means that you don’t know whether you’ll make it or not but you go anyway. I felt my faith seeping back and as I counted all my extraordinary blessings I suddenly felt like not only can I ride a motorbike through the Indian desert but perhaps I could even move a mountain. Rajashtan here I come.

day 112

2010-09-24T03:17:00.000-07:00

I left Calcutta with my heart brimming with gratitude for the experience but my mind was haunted by everything I’d seen and I knew that I would need some time to process it all and it was in this frame of mind that I arrived in Varanasi. Apart from a few fast facts about Varanasi I knew nothing about this place. I had my ‘Rough Guide to India’* and read the Varanasi-chapter once I was settled into my guesthouse overlooking the river Ganga. It was Friday and I decided to stay the weekend, at least. There was a definite holiday-feel to this ‘oldest living city in the World’ and as the sun set over the majestic river I felt the huge contrast between this place and Calcutta. In India you never fully escape the poor and the begging and Varanasi was no different but it was less intense here. It was there tough, just hidden better.

The sound of a sitar and singing far off and the dusk-light across the river made me feel calmer and melancholy. I loved Varanasi immediately but my mind struggled to change gears from Calcutta to Varanasi just like that and I would not have been able to embrace Varanasi fully if it had not been for my 3 new friends.

I met Matthew (from USA), Steev (also USA) and Michael/‘Mee-gal’ (from Israel) on the roof of my guesthouse. We had diverse personalities and very little in common but somehow got on like a house on fire. Thanks to them I eventually eased into the lazed Varanasi-mood.

Varanasi is known as ‘the city of lights’ and the river Ganga (3 times its normal size thanks to the Monsoon and cleaner than usual) flowed right past our guesthouse and great (great!) Indian music was forever playing somewhere. Matthew was taking Sitar lessons and knew all the spots to see live music. Steev knew all the best local places to eat and Michael, well, Michael was our Kramer. One night while we sat on the rooftop, Michael tried to convince us that he was actually from the planet ‘Hoba’ and continued to explain, in exaggerated detail, how things worked on ‘Hoba’, (it had an all-female government and there was no conflict in Hoba, only cornflakes). Michael told his Hoba-story with the thickest Hebrew accent I’ve ever heard which made it impossible to believe that he was from anywhere but Jerusalem. It was hilarious and we laughed like lunatics while Matthew tried to play his tiny little guitar like a sitar.

One night they knocked on my door and invited me to dinner. ‘We’re gonna have some Ganga fish, you wanna come?’ said Matthew. I looked at them thinking they had lost their minds and said ‘fish from the river Ganga, are you kidding? Absolutely!’

As much as I enjoyed Varanasi strange things happened (more than usual). Not everything is worth blogging about but I do feel that I need to mention that I saw a human body burn for 3 hours. At the burning ghat, also right next to my guesthouse, the burning of the dead takes place 24 hours a day. In Hinduism, Varanasi is believed to be the best possible place to die because anyone who dies here receives immediate illumination. Watching that body burn, right there in an open, public place with dogs barking and people talking would have freaked me out if there weren’t at least 6 other foreigners standing next to me seeing the same thing. According to the guidebooks, it’s a must-see. Truthfully, I could have gone without seeing it but ended up staying for the entire 3-hour ceremony (that’s how long it takes for a body to burn) and woke up the next morning with the worst case of sinus, I’ve ever had. For the first time on this trip I opened my medicine bag, took 2 sinutabs and then slept for 20 hours dreaming vividly about burning bodies and Ganga fish. It might have been my imagination but Varanasi had some kind of dark magic flowing through the narrow streets and it was as eerie a city as it was beautiful.

The next day an incident in one of those dark streets made me also now fear cows. Unlike the diseased and starving cows in other parts of India, the cows in Varanasi are well fed, huge and graze around at their leisure in the narrow labyrinth streets. Well fed cows make for large piles of dung that looked like they were left there by elephants rather than cows and I, of course, kept stepping in and slipping on it at every turn. I found cows in India to be placid and harmless so I foolishly thought Varanasi cows would be the same. One day I was walking unsuspectingly past one of them in a very narrow street when the large, moody, holy bull suddenly jerked his head round at me and rammed me into the wall. It frightened me more than it hurt me (just a small bruise above my right elbow) but afterwards my knees would grow a little weak whenever I saw a cow obstructing my path.

‘Holy cow!’

Michael, Matthew and Steev thought it was hilarious and even some locals chuckled when they’d see me, frozen, a few feet from a cow. What is the clinical term for an unholy fear of cows?

*In Calcutta I swopped my ‘Lonely Planet’ for the ‘Rough Guide’ to get a second opinion, so to speak.

Yamaha, tribute

2010-09-24T02:32:00.000-07:00

Kolkata Me Mata

2010-09-19T05:01:00.000-07:00

This morning I woke up feeling like I got hit by a bus. Every muscle in my body hurt and I had bruises all over. At Daya Dan, the day before, I had gone up to the roof to fetch some laundry and coming down, slipped and fell down the stairs. Now, it’s true that I do fall down often but even by my standards it was a big fall and it made everyone (volunteers, aunties and children) run to come see if I were ok. It was very embarrassing but it gave me a great opportunity to connect with Leema, the girl who called me a bad auntie on my first day, because after the fall, we were the only ones laughing our heads off.

My time at the Missionaries of Charity made me realize that people under-estimate how popular Mother Teresa was and still is (I certainly did) and I discovered that many of the volunteers had been planning for years to come to Calcutta, fulfilling a life-long dream, while others have such great admiration for her that they’ve been coming for years. My reason for coming, in comparison, was much less significant. I decided to do it, on a whim, after I read about it in a book.

I bought a t-shirt that read: ‘CALCUTTA ME MATA’. The Bengali man selling them said it meant ‘Calcutta my Mother’. As I’ve mentioned, Mother Teresa is greatly loved and admired, if not worshipped, by everyone in Calcutta and even Muslims and Hindus revere her as holy and affectionately call her ‘Mother’ (‘Mudda’). My t-shirt, I thought, was a clever reference to ‘Mother Teresa of Calcutta’ but the next day, having breakfast at Mother House, wearing my new t-shirt, I noticed several Spaniards eyeing me disapprovingly. One of them, Losia (a long-term volunteer) came over and told me that my t-shirt, in Spanish, meant ‘Calcutta kill me’. Shit. Feeling like a callous idiot, I smiled, apologetically, to the large Spanish crowd. How did I manage to put my foot in it so exquisitely and offend so many people? Of course this was a joke to me, I could hear them thinking, I’m not even Catholic. I apologized, pleading ignorance, but then I realized that Calcutta did kill me a little. Calcutta had broken my heart a little and because of it I would be bound to this cruel, crazy, beautiful city forever. But Losia seemed unconvinced, smiled a little strained and left. As she was telling the crowd about our conversation I considered slipping out the back and changing my t-shirt but it was too late. Some of the girls in the crowd were coming over. Crap. ‘Excuse me’ one of them said, ‘where did you buy your t-shirt?’

But there were, seriously, many things about this city that I was still trying to deal with. I’d seen poverty before but here I saw thousands living on the street, so underfed their bones were sticking out (an entire family, with newborn twins, lived on the sidewalk outside my hostel). At a home for the destitute and dying* I saw many old, sick people whose eyes, ears and noses had been chewed off by rats or worms because they were too weak to fight them off any longer. There was one lady that was hard of hearing and every time I said something she turned her head round to bring her other ear close to my mouth (the better to hear me with). It was completely eaten away but, ironically, it was her ‘good’ ear.

One of the things I really struggled with was Karma which, in Calcutta (like everywhere in India) was ever present. I saw it affecting people’s lives, actions and way of thinking in ways that were hard for me to accept. There is a serious lack of compassion for the poor, sick and suffering because Karma says you are suffering for something terrible they did in a past life. People live completely detached from the poverty and suffering on the streets because they believe suffering is deserved and must be endured. I even heard stories of mothers throwing their disabled newborn babies, obviously guilty of some unspeakable evil in a past life, into the river Hooghly to put them back into the Karma-wheel as soon as possible. That would be seen as the right and loving thing for a mother to do, ’karmically’ speaking. I thought of the many conversations about Karma I’d had with fellow travelers in this country and how the common perception is that Karma is a beautiful, endless cycle of life. I felt that my eyes were opened to a darker side of it.

Still, in my mind I was more prepared for the suffering but it touched me deeply that in this dark place there were people, Mother Teresa being one of the first, that were radically opposing this detached way of living by devoting their lives to loving and caring for those who suffer and I felt blessed that I got to help, if only a little. Every day was, for me, a lesson in compassion and gentleness that I was hugely grateful for. My best teacher in compassion turned out to be a Spanish woman named Rachel who worked with me at Daya Dan. Rachel’s a 40-something teenager and works as a laboratory assistant back in Spain for 10 months of the year and then volunteers 2 months, in Calcutta or Africa or wherever). I was blown away by the intimate way she cared for the children, caressing each one for however long she could, like it was her own, like that kid was the most precious person in the world to her. Rachel’s way with people touched many hearts, including mine and I found myself many times, looking at her and thinking ‘this is how you choose to spend your one holiday a year?’ How can you not be moved by that?

There were many things that I learnt here that I wanted to keep forever and never forget. I wanted it to transform my life and way of thinking but I knew that you can lose even a great revelation if you do not hold onto it and let it take root in your heart but I also knew that I was already changed, I was already different and my world back home suddenly seemed so far away and far removed from this life. Calcutta did kill me a little. The old me.

*There is a temple in Calcutta called the Kali Temple, devoted to the goddess of Death and Destruction, Kali. Many Hindus make their way to this temple to die because it’s a holy place. There are thousands of people on the streets, either dead or dying and it was here, right next to the temple despite much resistance from the government and the locals that brave little Mother Teresa set up a home. She wasn’t interested in the politics or religion of it she was only interested in giving the dying a bed, food, care and love them until they died. This is the kind of love that makes impossible things possible.

Daya Dan - day 4

2010-09-11T05:36:00.000-07:00

It took me a few days but I managed to get into the swing of things at Daya Dan. I was still a little terrified of the children but I’d relaxed just enough to not freak out anymore. One morning, while I was changing beds, Sanju (the blind boy) was waking up and I got asked to take him ‘potty’ so I carried him to the bathroom. I was not at all prepared for what I saw when I walked in. There was a long line of screaming children, waiting to be washed. The auntie in charge of bathing (a big Bengal woman) was really scary and when she saw me with Sanju she yelled at me to put him down and help her wash instead. Oh please, no, I thought, but before I knew it I was undressing one of the older girls and pouring water over her. The auntie was very impatient with me and I was apparently doing everything wrong because she kept yelling at me. It was horrible and strange and uncomfortable. This was not the detached washing the Japanese preferred, it was interaction with the kids on the most intimate level there was. It was all too much for me to handle and I felt my skin crawl from being uncomfortable but then, just like that, something miraculous happened. Somehow I stopped thinking about what I was doing and my hands and feet started moving by themselves. Following the angry auntie’s lead I fetched the next kid in line, quickly took off his clothes and started scrubbing. It was hard work as some kids were very un-cooperative and soon we were both sweating and out of breath.

After what felt like hours I realized that the auntie had stopped screaming, I’d just finished washing the last boy, little Sanju, and was humming along to a Bengali song the angry auntie was singing while we washed the kids. I was exhausted but I was flying. Whatever happened in that wash room or in my heart during bath time that morning changed everything. After that, I looked at the kids with very different eyes, perhaps because I’d seen them all naked, but I suddenly felt a deep affection for each one of them and even when I wasn’t at Daya Dan, but out exploring Calcutta, I thought about them. Somehow my terrified heart had opened up just enough for 34 broken little kids to climb inside.

A few days later one of the nuns asked me to help carry some of the kids to the 3^rd floor which took much longer than I expected and I missed bath time. Afterwards, I went to the wash room and when angry auntie* saw me she threw her hands in the air as if to say, where the hell, were you? But there was way too much affection in her gesture and we both knew she wasn’t really mad at me she just missed having me be there. That simple gesture made me feel ridiculously happy and suppressing a smile, I picked Sanju up, who just finished dressing, and carried him to the therapy room. By now Sanju recognized my voice and smiled when I said his name. A few days before, I heard a volunteer say that she always ends up feeling that she’s getting more than she’s giving which just makes her want to give more. In that moment I understood what she meant. God truly is genius because love is the greatest thing ever, it never runs out, it just keeps growing. I knew that I came to Daya Dan to love these kids but I didn’t expect to be loved in return.

That night, again, I was unable to sleep but this time my heart was not heavy, it was soaring. Thank you, God.

Daya Dan

2010-09-10T04:13:00.000-07:00

I’d read about other Teresa of Calcutta in the City of Joy and the plan was to find Mother Teresa’s Missionaries of Charity and volunteer a few of my 183 days to a good cause. The guidebook said it was easy enough and the only thing you need to do is ‘show up’. Before knocking on the nuns’ door however you are advised to take a deep breath.

Volunteering at Mother Teresa’s, I discovered, was hugely popular among foreigners (especially the Spanish and the Japanese). I half expected to be the only when I showed up but thousands of Catholics ‘pilgrimage’ to Calcutta each year to live, work and sweat among the poor (inspired to do so by the holy Mother herself). On the first day there were around a hundred Spanish women (Catholics) and bus-loads of Japanese teenagers. After we signed up and waited for our names to be called I asked the Japanese guy next to me (indicating to the hordes of Japanese) whether volunteering was ‘big in Japan’ and then laughed like an idiot at my own joke.

Before you start volunteering you need to register and get interviewed by a nun, presumably to determine if you are of sound mind (after 3 months in India I was curious about that myself). The nun conducting the interview asks your name, nationality and where you want to work. There are many options and you can really find a charity that suites your needs, so to speak. There are homes for the destitute and dying (strangely, the most popular), for the elderly, for mentally disabled children and so forth. The idea of working with disabled children made me uncomfortable in a way I didn’t expect and I was shocked when I heard myself answer ‘Daya Dan’, a home for disabled children. I volunteered to stay 10 days but after I left, I noticed that the nun had accidently included an extra day on my work card and instead of 10 days, I got 11.

Volunteers have to arrange their own accommodation and meals and I found a dorm-style just around the corner from ‘Mother House’ (the charity headquarters) and shared a room with 2 Spaniards and an Italian, also named Teresa. I attended the 6am Mass at Mother House but I had forgotten what torture Catholic Mass can be and I decided not to go again. After Mass is breakfast, i.e. 2 slices of dry white bread, a tiny banana and a cup of chai. Then you head off to your chosen ‘home’ to volunteer your time and love to the poor and the needy. It all sounded very noble and romantic and I couldn’t wait to roll up my sleeves and help the helpless but I must have forgotten to take a deep breath because what I saw when I walked through the door of ‘Daya Dan’ made me come down to Earth, hard. These children were severely mentally and physically disabled and it was absolute chaos with most of them screaming and crying all at once. Ok, keep it together, I told myself. But it was a shock, all of it, and painfully overwhelming for me.

There was nobody to meet or greet us. You literally walk in the door and try to find something to do as quickly as possible. I saw a Spanish lady squatting down next to a boy and just stroking him. Monkey see monkey do, so I did the same. The girl I chose sat alone to one side and the moment I got close she grabbed both my hands and dug her nails deep into my palms. OUCH! I managed to free myself from her grip and then tried to restrain her clawing fingers. After a long struggle I gave up, clasped her hands together in mine and hugged her so tightly that she couldn’t move. This calmed her down but only for a minute. She freed herself, violently, and grabbed my hair. EINA! Then she was trying to bite me, hitting me in the face and scratching at any unprotected part of me. I looked up at the Spanish lady and saw that her kid was sleeping peacefully in her arms. I smiled at her, sheepishly, and said ‘do you want to trade?’ but immediately regretted my joke. Nothing about this was funny but I was in luck, she didn’t speak English. Phew.

I soon discovered that nobody except a few of the foreigners spoke English. The nuns and local volunteers spoke Bengali (my little bit of Hindi would be useless here), most of the Spanish spoke only Spanish or badly broken English and the Japanese, only Japanese (not to mention that they also keep to themselves). I was in fact the only ‘native English speaker’, as the nun who blessed me with an extra day, pointed out. This bizarre language-barrier made Daya Dan feel like some twisted Tower of Babel scenario where we were all trying to work together without being able to understand one another. At this point my kid relaxed a little but only because she had soiled herself. Thankfully, it was time for her bath and a nun took her away before I could start panicking.

I observed the other volunteers carefully; the Japanese preferred washing and cleaning while the Spaniards just naturally took to nurturing and caring for the children. I was caught somewhere in the middle but having nothing to do was almost as bad as having something unpleasant to do so I joined some Japanese girls, who were wiping the beds down and putting on clean sheets, grateful that I would be occupied for at least the next 10 minutes. Then I followed some other girls into the therapy-room where we’re supposed to give the children physiotherapy. Some of them are so severely deformed that you can’t make out where the body ends and the limbs begin. There was one girl, named Angel, who was still without a volunteer. Her body was so stiff that not even her fingers could bend. I was terrified that I would hurt her and sure enough, when I started to gently massage her tiny, deformed legs, she screamed. Angel couldn’t talk, she couldn’t move. She could only stare at the ceiling. Again there was nobody to give direction and we were terrified of hurting someone. I speak only for myself of course but I recognized the fear in everyone’s eyes and that’s when I started thinking that I may not be able to survive 11 days of this.

I stroked Angel’s arms and legs and tried to act natural but in truth I was ready to make a run for the door. Then suddenly things got worse, much worse. It was feeding time. A nun came in and started pointing at kids and then at volunteers, pairing them up. I would not be able to feed Angel, this both the nun and I knew so she took Angel away and pointed at a boy who was sitting in a chair. The boy, Sanju, had trouble keeping his head up so I had to hold it up with my left hand and feed him with my right (balancing the plate of yellow sludge on my knee). It took me a while to realize that on top of all his other disabilities, Sanju was also blind (each time I brought the spoon close to his mouth he got a fright). The poor Japanese girl next to me had a girl that kept choking, making an unearthly sound that made everyone look up in a panic every few minutes. I could see that she was on the verge of crying.

After lunch I strolled over to a group of girls sitting in a circle. Picking the smallest one up, I made a space for myself in the circle. There were about 6 of them and they eyed me suspiciously when I sat down. Then I made a mother of a mistake, I forgot to support the girl’s head and she fell forward slamming hard into the floor. The circle broke into a frenzied chorus telling me to go. ‘Auntie GO!’ ‘Auntie GO!’ I apologized profusely but it was no use. I had to walk away, in shame, to search for something else to do. I was hoping that by the end of the day they would have forgotten about the unfortunate incident and just before I left I said goodbye and waved. One of them, a particularly bad-tempered down-syndrome girl, named Leema, pointed at me and yelled ‘Auntie BAD!’. No such luck.

Later that night as I was trying to sleep, it felt like Leema had hit the nail on the head. I was a bad Auntie. It seemed ridiculous now but when I decided to volunteer, I was actually worried that I would start feeling really good about myself (like a saint or a martyr) and would miss the point of the experience entirely. But I didn’t feel good about myself, I felt wretched. Even when I started crying, it just made me feel worse. What on earth did I have to cry about? My mind and heart were being tortured by every kid in Daya Dan. I felt defeated and, crying, prayed softly ‘please God, help me to do better tomorrow’.

Calcutta

2010-09-05T05:24:00.000-07:00

A jeep ride in India is never uneventful and the one I took from Darjeeling to New Jalpaiguri Station was no different. Our driver had frequent fits of road rage and was severely impatient, not just with other drivers but also with us passengers and was constantly shouting at someone. As a result none of the passengers spoke during the 3 hour journey. As with taxis in South Africa, the drivers also think that there is always space for another passenger and soon we were 15 people crammed inside the jeep, plus one on the roof.

Then suddenly, out of nowhere, a cat leaped out and ran across the road. Everyone in the jeep gasped. The driver slammed on the brakes, quickly made the sign of a cross over the steering wheel and spat out the window. Bad omen neutralized. Everyone sighed and then we were off again.

The train to Calcutta was nothing like the Radjhani Express (that I took from Delhi to Darjeeling) and I knew immediately what Shallu was trying to shield me from by insisting that I take a 2nd class ticket. This lowest-class coach felt more like a cage than a sleeping cabin and we were 8 people sharing. It was impossible to stretch without touching someone else. This was more what I expected the first time I got on a train in India and I heard a little voice saying ‘be careful what you wish for’. But I wasn’t complaining, it was a very cheap ticket and that was all that mattered. Travelling on this train would also be another window into the India I still wanted to see. So many times, on the Yamaha, I’d seen trains with hundreds of people hanging out of doors and windows smiling and waving and I knew that I wanted to ride that train too, so to speak.

On the train, opposite me, was a Bengali man who started wagging his head at me the moment the train started moving and kept offering me his only bottle of water (a precious commodity on such a long journey). I declined but he was determined to give me something, anything so he insisted that I share his meal with him. Refusing would be pointless. I’d been in situations like this before and I knew that we would not be ‘sharing’ anything. I would be eating while he would refuse to eat and would offer me ‘one more’, ‘one more’ until I had finished his entire meal. But he would be insulted if I refused.

It was very awkward bite I pleaded with him to start eating too but he shook his head while beaming at me. Single servings in India are more than enough for 2 people and soon I was stuffed and couldn’t take another bite. I thanked him and firmly said ‘enough’. He looked like disappointed searched in his small bag for something. He gave me his small bottle of milk and insisted I drink it there and then. It was not milk but spiced buttermilk (imagine a salty lassi with some masala mixed into it). I did not like it but managed to smile and he was delighted that I had eaten almost all of his food and drank his buttermilk. Then he tried again to offer me his bottle of water and wanted to go and buy some chai for me. ’No no no no, thank you, stop!’ I almost yelled but he was still looking around for something more to give me when a woman dressed in a blue sari came up to us asking for money. Then she spoke and I realized that she was a man. My host’s eyes suddenly sparkled. He took out two 10 rupee notes and gave it to the guy in the blue sari who took the money and then put his hand on my host’s head. A blessing. Then he put his hand on my head and then I understood. Luckily I had read ‘the City of Joy’ by Dominique LaPierre* in Darjeeling and knew that this man in the blue sari was not a transvestite but a Eunuch. How to explain.. If Caster Semenya were born in India she would have been a Eunuch.

Eunuchs are believed to be able to take away your sins and transfer it onto themselves (in an attempt to improve their own rotten Karma) and my host was overjoyed that he was able to bless me one last time, with a blessing.

The night on the train was hot and uncomfortable but as the sun was rising, before everyone woke; I got up, hung out the side of the train and saw Calcutta come alive. This city already existed, vividly, in my imagination and I my heart was beating wildly as the train pulled into the station. I knew that Calcutta was a dog-eat-dog kind of place and the moment I got onto the platform I would be bombarded by beggars, porters and taxi-drivers. I always expect to be ripped-off in a new place (it’s like paying an entry-fee) before I get wise in the ways of that particular place.

On the platform, I noticed two other foreigners looking around aimlessly but instinctively decided not to join them. Making peace with getting ripped-off on the first day is one thing but if you look like you don’t even know where you are the sharks will come for you. Walking with as much intent as I could, I put my bag down outside the station and within seconds a taxi driver asked me where I was going. I told him the name of the street. He smiled and said ‘come’. A taxi was my only options as that time of the morning there are no rickshaws on the roads. Taxi drivers capitalize on this shamelessly. If I had to pay for a taxi I would bloody well enjoy every expensive kilometer of the ride. Moments later I was on the backseat of a white Ambassador making myself comfortable. I’d seen thousands of these statuesque cars and now I was riding in one through the streets of Calcutta. The city was just waking up and I settled into the expectation of a proper ride through these notorious streets.

Less than two minutes later the driver of the Ambassador stopped, said we had arrived at the given address and demanded payment of 280 rupees. We had literally just gone around the block. It was a total rip-off but I didn’t argue, I expected to be taken for a ride, I just thought it would be a longer ride. Hello Calcutta

*I don’t mean to sound like Oprah but read it, read it, READ IT!

Gorkhaland continued.

2010-09-05T05:13:00.000-07:00

William Chase, the English tourist in my hotel, had formed a fraternity-type friendship with the owner, who for reasons unknown didn’t seem to like me anymore. The two of them spent hours, till late into the night, telling each other stupid jokes in William’s room, right opposite mine. William had a lovely room with wooden floors, a great view and beautiful Indian linen. Mine smelled funny, the light bulb worked only when it felt like it and for warmth I had only one scratchy blanket and ‘hello kitty’ sheets.

During the strike, in my hour of need, my room was a haven that I was grateful for but now in the lucid light of day it was clear that I had the crappiest room in Darjeeling. On top of that, William Chase was beginning to work on my nerves. He had a very heavy British accent (one that would indeed have made the Queen proud) and he wore a stupid Nepali hat and hundreds of prayer beads around his tiny little neck. He was supremely irritating and one afternoon he told me that a police man patrolling the streets had taken him by the arm and told him that it was best that he left Darjeeling as soon as possible. William smelled conspiracy but I knew better. No doubt he had in some way annoyed the members of the police or some merchant who had complained about him because those same police officers always greeted me with a smile and never failed to wish me a happy day. I knew that my feelings towards William stemmed directly from the fact that he didn’t share his biscuits with me during my 3 days of hunger and I decided that I needed to forgive him and move on. Easier said than done.

I had long since my arrival in Darjeeling given up hope of finding a room to rent in the tea plantations (the strike had changed everything) and decided that the moment William checked out I would ask the owner if I could move into his room. Early the next morning I heard William leaving and went straight to the owner but a quiet little Korean girl, who had moved in the day before, had beaten me to it. I sat in my crappy room and felt very sorry for myself. Darjeeling was turning out to be nothing like I expected. I grabbed my MP3 player and was heading out the door for a long, soothing walk when I bumped into Deo.

Deo was a very pretty Japanese boy (he didn’t look older than 16) and he was just checking in. He radiated goodness and was so genuinely friendly that my bad mood lifted instantly and I went for my walk feeling much better, my faith in people momentarily restored. That night Deo wanted to know where he could go for dinner. I suggested a few places and would have joined him if I hadn’t finished off 2 plates of Momos just an hour before. I also gave him my headlamp, warned him that the streets were safe at night but very dark and that he needed to be careful not to fall into a ditch (like I did, many times). Deo had a beautiful way about him and looked like a little Calvin Klein model and I could have eaten him up, he was that sweet. The next day I was coming back from one of my walks when I ran into him again. He was carrying his backpack and told me that he had just checked out and found a wonderful new place and invited me to come check it out. The guesthouse he found was in a quiet part of Darjeeling and from the 3^rd floor the rooms had incredible views. The room I checked out had a 180 degree view of the misty hills and a lovely bed with soft, clean linen and it was almost half the price of my crappy room. I switched hotels immediately.

It nothing else I felt that I had survived something in this place and accomplished staying in Darjeeling longer than most passing-by travelers bumping my status from ‘visitor’ up to ‘regular’. Apart from starting to recognize and be recognized by the locals I also found a few spots that I kept going back to. My favorite place to eat was right at the top of the city hill and was run by a local woman about my age. Her name was Daneeka and she made the best momos in Darjeeling. She also sold alcohol, under the table, which made her little dhaba very popular. I went there, sometimes twice a day, because her momos were not only the best, they were the cheapest. For 20 rupees you got a plate of momos (10 per plate) and a bowl of soup. That’s about R4 for a great meal. After a few visits and some shy conversation with Daneeka, I noticed that instead of 10 momos, I was getting 11.

Becoming a regular also means that you get insight into why the locals act the way they do (I can’t speak for the Gorkhas, who knows what they’re thinking). I often saw locals harassing the poor street dogs while I roamed the markets, poking them with their umbrellas or scaring them while they’re sleeping. I felt sorry for the poor dogs but after a few days, I understood. These street dogs, always sleeping during day, are wide awake, barking loudly and viciously during the night and keeps everyone up. After a few sleepless nights I was joining the locals in abruptly waking up every sleeping dog I could find, determined to disturb their sleep as much as I could. It was not cruelty to animals, it was justice.

Nothing it seemed however could lift me out off my Darjeeling depression. Rumors started surfacing that another strike was happening soon. The locals never fully recovered their kindness after my first visit and I experienced a lack of communication, not because the locals didn’t speak English but a lack caused by the local’s unwillingness to tell me what the heck was going on. I felt like finding a loudspeaker and proclaiming to the inhabitants of Darjeeling/Gorkhaland/Whatever that all I ever wanted to do was spend time with them in their beautiful city and get to know them but their silence seemed to say ‘you did get to know us, you just didn’t like what you found’. And so Darjeeling and I broke up. The next morning I took a jeep to the station and hopped on a train. Next stop, Calcutta.

welcome to Gorkhaland

2010-08-25T04:51:00.000-07:00

The strike hit Darjeeling like a bad storm, shutting everything down and I had made it just in time. I knew that if I had arrived a few hours later I would not have found a room to rent. My landlord, though he allowed me to book in, obviously wanted me to either hide out in my room or leave. All the doors in Darjeeling, even the residential ones, were bolted shut. There was no way to get any food, water, internet or transport out of Darjeeling. I couldn’t even make a call. The day before I arrived in Darjeeling I had spent the last of my Delhi-airtime to phone my father on his 70^th birthday (we got cut off just as we were both getting a little teary) and I decided that I would phone him again once I got to Darjeeling. I had given some money to Shallu and she topped me up whenever I needed airtime but now I couldn’t get a message to her and I realized that I was completely cut off. The worst was that during this strike Shallu’s birthday had come and gone and it broke my heart to know she was thinking that I had forgotten.

This strike was very different to the strikes I had witnessed in South Africa. There was no singing or dancing in the streets with the protestors noisily making their demands known. This was a passive but powerful rebellion. Luckily I did, on my first visit to Darjeeling, ask loads of questions and learnt enough about the political situation or I would have been thoroughly confused.

This is the story of the Gorkhas:

The Gorkhas were soldiers recruited from Nepal to join the English army. They were known as the ‘Gorkha Division’ and were recruited because they were exceptionally skilled soldiers. Their families also left Nepal and settled in Darjeeling which forms part of the West Bengal state and as I understand it, the Gorkhas feel that the West Bengal government have been oppressing them for 200 years and that they want to be an independent state and rename Darjeeling, Gorkhaland. I remember thinking at the time that I was all for their cause but that ‘Gorkhaland’ was a horrible name for such a beautiful place. Obviously the West Bengal government doesn’t want to lose Darjeeling because the tea industry is extremely profitable. But the Gorkhas were, clearly, not giving up and with our first visit, when the jeep dropped us in Darjeeling, we were at first lost because on every door was painted ‘Gorkhaland’ and on every available surface ‘welcome to Gorkhaland’. I even considered demanding that our driver take us all the way to Darjeeling and not just drop us in Gorkhaland.

But it was a different Darjeeling now and the atmosphere on the street was heavy and I could literally feel the tension. I managed to find a hotel owner who was willing to give me a bed without demanding that I stay indoors. He was not afraid of getting into trouble with the Gorkhas and answered all my strike-related questions. Whatever sympathy I felt for the Gorkhas and their cause disappeared. This was no democracy and if you didn’t close your door for the strike you would be forced or intimidated into doing so.

I was grateful to my brave landlord but was still hoping to find some food and spent hours stealthily skulking around the market hoping to find a shopkeeper who was brave enough to sell me something to eat but I was out of luck. This involuntary fast lasted for 3 days and I wasn’t exactly starving but I was very, very hungry. On day 2 of the strike the police opened up a ‘help-line’ to help whoever wanted to leave, get out of Darjeeling but I stubbornly refused to leave with such a bad memory of this place so I declined the line and stayed. Besides, I hadn’t bought Darjeeling tea for all my loved ones and I still hadn’t seen Mount Everest (they say on a clear day you can actually see it) and I wanted to leave still loving Darjeeling, so I stayed. The only other person in my hotel, besides the landlord and his wife, was William Chase.

William was a young fine arts student from London but his passion was politics and the environment. He was convinced that raising awareness about climate change was not the solution anymore and that we needed to start putting bullets into the people making all the bad decisions. I smiled a frozen smile but decided that, in his defense, he was probably also just hungry and was saying things he didn’t mean. The next morning though, he told me that he had finished off the last of his supply of biscuits and chocolates the night before and was complaining of having a ‘junk food hangover’. Another frozen smile spread across my face, I had no sympathy for him. But that morning I discovered that the strike was over and the shops open.

I forced myself to walk (I wanted to run) down to the market and forced myself to send messages to my family first before I got something to eat. There was an e-mail from Erez. He had heard about the strike (apparently the Gorkha leader was killed in Silliguri, just 50km from Darjeeling) and he wanted to know if I were ok. I’m fine, I told him, just hungry but secretly I was very relieved that it was over and I didn’t starve.

After I sent a couple of e-mails I had breakfast, glorious breakfast. Darjeeling had turned into a candy store and I was a kid with a pocket full of rupees to spend. Just as I was about to take my first bite I remembered that scene in ‘Gone with the Wind’ where Vivian Leigh, says: ‘as God is my witness, I shall never go hungry again!’. Amen, sister. Amen.

day 82

2010-08-25T04:45:00.000-07:00

For ten days, Erez, the brave photographer from Judea, was my constant companion. My limit for wanting companionship was about 4 days. After that I needed some time on my own. What can I say, I was a lone-rider long before I rode a motorbike solo through India. Erez seemed to sense this and always disappeared for a few hours just before I was getting a little smothered. He did this, I suspect, for my benefit only and I was grateful.

We spent the first few days, of our 10 days together, in Darjeeling and went for walks, talking, taking pictures and stopping occasionally for a chai or a plate of momos (filled dumplings, delicious). It rained constantly (typical for Darjeeling, Monsoon or not) which limited our explorations but I loved Darjeeling. Erez and I were both planning to travel to Sikkim, a tiny little state just North of Darjeeling and decided to stick together.

Sikkim is a small state, part of India but independent from her and we needed a permit to enter. From here we would be surrounded by 3 borders, all just a few kilometers away, Nepal, China and Butan. This we could see in the people (most were either Nepali or Tibetan) and Erez and I indulged in all the Chinese food that was suddenly available on every menu.

Sikkim’s beautiful little place, almost tropical and was very different to the India I’d gotten to know. There was something strange about Sikkim though and for the first few days I couldn’t put my finger on why but then it was obvious and we noticed it everywhere. In Sikkim the people are tiny and everything oddly proportioned. Erez and I were giants compared to the Sikkimese folk and we kept having to squeeze ourselves into the kiddie-sized chairs and had to stoop every time we entered a room. We both bumped our heads enough times that it started to not be funny anymore. The capital of Sikkim, Gangtok, was especially strange. Taxi drivers looked like children and even the taxis themselves looked smaller than normal, almost like toy cars. Another thing I noticed in Gangtok was that all (well, most) of the shops were meat shops, liquor stores, sweet shops or pharmacies (I’m no genius but I can connect a few dots). Having said that, Sikkimese rum is organic, cheap and tastes like honey and we drank lots of it.

After 3 days of exploring Sikkim, without a proper map, Erez and I started bumping heads against each other (not just doorways) and we were frustrated, irritated and suffocated by one another. We enjoyed travelling together and obviously had a good vibe (Erez calls this vibe ‘the Mooza’) but we were now walking and talking on egg-shells around each other. The Mooza, it seemed, had run dry. We made a decision, Erez would continue exploring Sikkim and I would return to my beloved Darjeeling and should we decide to meet up again later, we would. Though we both agreed that it was a good idea, we didn’t want to part on uneasy terms and that’s when we decided to make a movie of our 10 days together before splitting.

Suddenly we were on that same page again, the Mooza (and the rum) flowing. We discovered that we had some incredible photos and reminisced and marveled at each one as we chose which to use. Then we watched our movie over and over again, falling in love with it a little more each time we saw it. The next day Erez left for Rabong and I caught a shared jeep back to Darjeeling.

The plan was to spend some time in Darjeeling, maybe 2 weeks. I wanted to enjoy the tranquility and beauty for as long as I could and the idea was to find a room to rent somewhere among the tea plantations that would hopefully have a little kitchen I could use. It had been almost 3 months since I’d cooked anything and I was beginning to miss it terribly. Also, I wanted to eat some fresh and healthy meals (taking it easy on the momos for a while) and finally put my orange Reeboks to use. I craved fresh fruit and going for a run and Darjeeling was the perfect place to indulge in both.

The jeep-ride to Darjeeling was 5 hours long and terrifying. Once we were on the road I noticed the driver staring at me in his rear-view. I smiled but realized instantly that that was a mistake. Suddenly the driver couldn’t take his eyes off me. Now, I don’t mind being stared at anymore but this guy was driving a vehicle while staring. The jeep started swaying on the road and I gave him a serious frown and pointed to the road, hoping the message would be clear. It was not and the driver was delighted that I was trying to communicate with him. The road was getting winding and the situation was getting critical, life-threatening even. I wanted to shout at him ‘keep your eyes on the road before you drive off a cliff and kill us all!’ but I had a feeling it would make things worse so I forced myself to stare out the window instead. After a while the jeep stabilized and for the next 5 hours I avoided eye-contact with the driver at all costs. I arrived safely in Darjeeling late that night and booked into a cheap little hotel right at the top of the hill. It felt good to be back and I couldn’t wait to start my 2 weeks of Darjeeling-bliss but things would turn out very differently to what I had in mind. The next morning I woke up and discovered that Darjeeling had turned into a ghost town. It was a strike.

play me

2010-08-20T23:22:00.000-07:00

the Rajdhani Express

2010-08-16T22:55:00.000-07:00

In Delhi, after catching up with everyone, happy and healthy, I started planning my next adventure. A definite advantage of travelling alone is that you can change your mind as often as you like without annoying anyone. I considered Rajasthan (in the desert) or Varanasi but it was still summer in India and even though the country was cooling down a bit those parts were still scorching. I wanted to spend some more time in the cooler hill stations, surrounded by mountains so I decided to go to Darjeeling next. I got my train ticket and then went through the hell-ish process of trying to get my bike booked onto the Rajdhani Express as well. I discovered that I would have to pay 3 different amounts to 3 different people but only one amount was ‘official’. Full scale corruption finally reared its ugly head. No-one wanted to give us a straight answer and after an hour of useless negotiation a good Samaritan, who had been watching us, came over and told us that the train to Darjeeling only stops for 5 minutes and it would be impossible for my bike to be off-loaded because there was simply not enough time and there would be nobody to off-load it. I felt like hitting someone. Don’t they know that I’m a near-broke traveler and they’re sabotaging my journey. These people knew that what I wanted was impossible but they were willing to charge me 3 times the normal price without sharing this important information with me. The injustice of it made me furious. There had to be a way, I told myself. There had to be! My mind was frantic as I was working through every option and obstacle trying to find a solution but then I had a moment of clarity and realized that I was stubbornly refusing to give up, a habit I adopted during my travels up North. There my attitude was to never give up, to endure and persevere and I knew that if I didn’t have that mind-set then, I would never have made it but it was suddenly clear that I would have to stop fighting and submit.

The Yamaha would have to stay behind for this adventure. At that the trip to Darjeeling took on a whole new dimension and I knew that extraordinary things would happen but I had to relax and let it happen.

A few days later it was time to leave and I made it to the train station in New Delhi just in time. On the platform I was looking around frantically for my coach knowing that the train only stops for 5 minutes. Through the sea of faces I saw the only other foreigner and before I could even signal to him he was already running over to me. We had less than 5 minutes to find our coaches and get on board and the platform was packed.

We ran along the train, quickly exchanged our names and nationality and peered into the different coaches until I finally found mine and got on. My companion still had to find his coach and had less than a minute to do so. We quickly promised to meet up later and officially introduce ourselves. I sat down and from my window I saw him running past me, like a headless chicken, still searching for his coach and then the train was moving and we were leaving Delhi.

I was still catching my breath and wondering if he had made it when my fellow foreigner was suddenly standing next to me and asked if he could sit down. Sure. His name was Erez and he was from Israel. We chuckled as we shook hands, both still out of breath. My coach was one class higher than his (Shallu had insisted) which just meant that I was sharing a compartment with 5 people instead of 7.

Erez and I spent the next 8 hours of the 21-hour trip having our meals together and some of the greatest conversations ever. He’d travelled in India before, 6 years ago, after his mandatory military service and was now studying engineering back in Israel.

I was very curious about the Israeli army and Erez was very kind in patiently answering all my ridiculous questions. It was clear that his military service had added significantly to the depth of his character and I loved listening to his perspective on things that I had always taken for granted or never even thought about. It was easy for me to make fun of our president and his 5 wives and 23 children, without really getting involved but for Erez politics were a part of his life whether he liked it or not. He was not a typical soldier but living in the Middle East meant that you had no choice; even Israeli girls had to do 2 years of military service when they turn 18.

Erez had been a tank operator in the army so naturally I had many tank-related questions and again he answered them all. We talked about the conflict in the Middle East, Indian food, travelling by train, electricity, Nepal and the Theory of Relativity. Later that night Erez was looking at a map of India when suddenly he looked at me and said ‘I have a crazy idea’. In that moment I knew we were going to be great friends.

a brand new Delhi

2010-08-16T22:52:00.000-07:00

Delhi had cooled down, since I left, thanks to the Monsoon and it was a different city. For the first few days though I felt strangely out of place (more than usual). I felt like Leonardo Decaprio’s character in the movie The Beach when he goes back unto the mainland, full of tourists, and cringes at being back in civilization. I was also convinced that I was being stared at more than usual but then I took a long hard look at myself in the mirror and understood why people were staring. Six weeks on a motorbike, Indian food, zero exercise, the harsh Himalayan sun, mild dehydration and severe helmet-hair had taken a heavy toll and I looked haggard.

Later that day Shallu and I were having Kangpow Chicken at a Chinese restaurant when I caught another painful glance at myself in a mirror and I asked her if I looked bad, hoping that she might lie and say something nice but she hesitated (only for a second) and said ‘..Not really’ and we both knew the truth. I looked like crap and Shallu had been nice (and brave) enough to tell me the truth. In that moment, though I felt like crying, I realized that in Shallu, I had found a true friend.

Shallu was one of my reasons for loving this city and when I first got back to Delhi and was feeling a little lost she was a great friend to me. One of my favorite things to do in Delhi is weave through the city traffic with Shallu riding shotgun. She navigates and I ride. I turn left when she says left and right when she says right. We also have the best conversations while we’re riding or at least I think we do because the helmet muffles my hearing and Delhi is a noisy city.

Apart from enjoying my friendship with Shallu I also took another pained look at myself and decided I needed to give myself some real care and set operation ‘extreme make-over’ into action. I gave myself a haircut (Shallu almost begged me to go to a professional), gave my skin a high dose of vitamin E, drastically upped my water intake, ate loads of mangoes (they are in season in India and makes me very happy), forced myself to sleep at least 8 hours a day and dug out the two bottles of vitamins my mother had made sure I packed. The next morning I woke up and was devastated that I wasn’t already looking healthy and restored and wasn’t glowing. After a few days though I did start looking and feeling better and made a promise to take better care. I may be riding a bike but that’s no excuse to look like a biker.

sanctuary, please

2010-08-16T22:46:00.000-07:00

By now I had had enough solitude and was already having imaginary reunions with the people I met in Delhi) and I wanted to get back soon to surprise Shallu. I was determined to ride hard and not linger at each place as I did before. I studied my map and devised a route that, looking back now, was a little ambitious, if not impossible. I hit the road early the next day and rode until the sun was setting and then realized that I was at least another 40km away from the nearest town and that meant that I was nowhere near a hotel either. One of my non-negotiable rules, one that I hadn’t yet broken, was to never ride at night. Breaking, even bending, this rule was too dangerous and irresponsible but I had no idea where I was and stopping would also be risky. I thought about it for a second and it was clear that I had no choice but to get off the road. At least I had a tent.

It was dark and I couldn’t see anything but I could hear the river Yamuna somewhere and followed the sound to a large gate with a sign that read ‘bird sanctuary’. It was open, if only a little, so I went inside to investigate. Whatever this place was it would have to be my sanctuary else well for the night.

There were about 10 chalets along the river to the right and a big clubhouse to the left. The chalets were all empty but a light was burning inside the clubhouse. Judged by my new Indian-standards, this was classy joint and my spirits lifted a little. It could have been much worse, I told myself. It could have been a cemetery.

Looking back now, I should have gone to the clubhouse and asked permission to pitch my tent somewhere but I couldn’t face being turned away because there was, at this point, nowhere else I could go so I set up my tent next to the chalet furthest from the clubhouse just a few meters from the river. It was now already 21h00 and I was exhausted. My plan was to leave the next morning at 5h00 before anyone woke up. All I wanted now was a shower and something to eat but there were no showers or restaurants (not for a poor, trespassing traveler) so I went for a moonlit swim in the river and had ‘hide and seek’ chocolate-chip cookies (the best biscuits in India) for supper.

It was as the hottest night I spent in India and that’s saying a lot. It was a bird sanctuary so naturally the birds screeched so loudly that I started fantasizing about making a slingshot and killing them off and as I was perched 5 meters from a massive river, monstrous mosquitoes tormented me all night long. I only managed to fall asleep around 3h00 and I woke up at 6h50 and only because I heard voices outside.

Shit.

Ok, don’t panic I told myself as I unzipped the front door, peered outside and saw 2 young Punjabi boys staring at me and my green tent. I smiled, asked their names and even tried to joke about the killer mosquitoes but they didn’t speak. They didn’t even blink. And then they did the one thing I wanted them not to. They fetched the manager.

By the time the manager showed up I was packed up and ready to make a bee-line for the exit. He looked like he couldn’t decide whether I was a criminal or an alien.

Be cool. I greeted him and gave a quick explanation of why I was here: It was dark, it was late, there was nobody at the gate, I should have asked permission, I apologize, I’ll just be on my way, thank you, goodbye. He still had no idea what to do but obviously felt he needed to do something so he asked for my passport. I showed it to him but told him he could only have a quick look because I needed to be on my way. He handed me back my passport and left. Great, I thought, I was off the hook but just as I kicked the Yamaha to life the manager was back, with 2 official-looking persons. The one was in charge of ticket sales and the other was the guard at the gate.

The guard was being reprimanded, in front of me, and was in trouble because clearly he did not do his job. They were speaking Hindi but I understood their body language fluently. They were not happy. At one point the manager pointed at me and then all 6 eyes moved up and down as they looked at my shabby appearance. I realized that I looked rather worn-out. My jeans were torn and muddy and my t-shirt was no longer white and it smelled. Yes, I thought, look at me, I’m a poor traveler. I meant no harm, have mercy please. But they were having a debate and ignored me.

Suddenly the manager abruptly stopped the argument, looked at me and said ‘500 rupees’. I couldn’t believe it. For 500 rupees I could have slept in a hotel bed, had a hot shower, a cooked meal (plus dessert), watched some TV, checked my email and even bought breakfast. This had been one of my worst nights and I felt I was being wronged but had no basis for arguing because, strictly speaking, I wasn’t allowed to even be there, let alone squat there. In the back of mind I knew that I should shut up, pay up and go but I started an argument instead.

Knowing that he had already noticed, I motioned to my appearance and told him that I was a poor traveler caught in a bad situation and that I could definitely not afford to pay 500 rupees, I couldn’t even afford 50 rupees. At this point the financial manager joined in again and was clearly still unhappy about something. They talked some more while the guard looked at me accusingly. Finally the manager gave a grunt and said ‘Ok, 60 rupees’. The financial manager had won the debate and his argument was this: since they only saw me this morning and not the day before they could only charge me for today and since I was leaving they could only charge me the entry fee to the bird sanctuary, 60 rupees. The lawyer in me knew that his argument was definitely debatable but he had managed to convince everyone that it was a fair solution and I was grateful that it had worked.

I took out my wallet and had a moment of panic when I saw that the only note I had was a 1000 rupee note and it would have been painfully embarrassing to have to produce this large note after pleading poverty just a few minutes before. My luck was in and I had exactly Rs 60 change in coins and thought to myself as I counted out all those coins, that it suited my ‘poor traveler’ persona perfectly.

Once safely outside the bird sanctuary gate I gave a deep sigh, relieved that the situation was resolved and that Mussoorie was only a few hours away. Six weeks ago I made a promise to return to Mussoorie and I was happy that I would be making good on it. After the night I had I first needed a bath and a proper sleep before presenting myself to anyone so I booked into the Youth Hostel just outside of Mussoorie.

At the hostel I had a few hours of glorious sleep and then had a long, warm, bucket-of-water bath. This was my first ‘real’ bath since I went to Spiti and I examined every inch of myself, finally taking the time to figure out which parts were bruised and which were merely dirty.

The youth hostel had lots of empty rooms but I took a dorm-style for only 120 rupees. My bed was in a large hall with 9 other beds and it turned out that I was the only foreigner who had chosen a dorm bed so I had the entire hall to myself.

After my bath I put on the only clean t-shirt I had and set off to see my friends. Most of them worked at the learning centre at the church office so I had only one stop to make. Again I was deeply touched by how sincerely and warmly they welcomed me back and immediately wanted to know how long I was staying and booked me for dinner. We talked for a while, hugging every few minutes and then I went to have chai at Shallu’s favourite place, Chardukan, for old time’s sake. I felt happy and safe and loved and welcomed and knew that in the bird sanctuary last night I had found refuge but Mussoorie was a true sanctuary.

in my solitude

2010-08-16T22:37:00.000-07:00

Ten days past in the solitude of Spiti Valley. The most isolated place imaginable. There was still no sign of Murray and Anna and I started thinking that they were creations of my imagination (of course I had made them Capetonians). When this kind of silence and isolation envelopes you, you think about anything and everything and mostly in slow motion. I realized that it was the conversation with Murray and Anna (imaginary or not) that had finally given me the confidence to come to this exquisite place on a motorbike. I also realized that it was, initially, the fact that I would have the companionship of two experienced riders that convinced me to do it but that I was grateful that I had this experience all to myself. By now I was used to the bad roads, the icy rivers and the loneliness and I settled into my lone-rider persona with a sense of satisfaction.

This valley was turning out to be nothing like I expected and more than I could ever have hoped for and even though everything in me resisted the extreme solitude at first, after a few days the days seemed endless and my thoughts infinite. I started seeing clearly how, in the city, my mind was so distracted and I remembered feeling the same way when I went to Namibia a few years ago. In my solitude I saw myself appreciating the little unnoticed things and I knew that I wanted to take that with me when I leave this Valley. I also knew that solitude as a lifestyle was insane but in small installments it can be life-changing.

Like I said, everything in me resisted the solitude and silence at first. Without noticing I was always looking for something to entertain or occupy my mind and it wasn’t until I had nothing more to read (I’d finished Anna Karenina while on my sickbed in Manali and had lost interest in my Lonely Planet though the title had new meaning) and the batteries of my MP3 player were dead that I really started thinking. Don’t let anyone tell you different, it’s not easy to still your mind but eventually I managed to. I soaked up the silence and let my mind wander. Mostly I felt acutely aware of how well I am loved back home and my mind kept going back to random events from when I was younger. One such event was when I was about 10 years old. My brother was in high school and a bully demanded his maths homework to copy. My brother refused but said that, if the bully wanted, they could meet after school and he would explain it to him. Of course the bully refused my brother’s offer and beat him up instead. I realized then why that story visited me again, because it is such a perfect picture of my brother’s heart. I had lost track of time and days and places and was just riding and thinking when I noticed that I was passing more and more people and I had to accept that I was leaving this beautiful, silent valley and would soon be back in the chaos.

The first person I ended up speaking to again, after almost 10 days of solitude, was Babaji. Babaji is a title not a name, as he explained. Babaji has no name, no family, no wealth or possession (besides his dagga pipe) and no social standing. He has renounced all of it to live an isolated life of solitude and service. This old man, who lives in a two by two meter mud hut along the slope of a mountain pass, has a long grey beard and dreadlocks, wears white loin cloth and flip-flops. He spends his days smoking dagga, chanting and blessing the few passers-by with a short prayer and a handful of sweets (dried fruit, nuts and sugar crystals). Babaji must have heard the Yamaha coming up the pass and was waiting for me when I reached his hut. It was getting late and I still had an hour, at least, to ride before I made it to my next stop, Sangla Valley but I agreed to have coffee with him. Note, not chai but coffee; coffee is for special occasions, he said and this was a special occasion. Babaji’s English was very good and despite that he was living in isolation he seemed to know a lot about what was happening in the world. As we sipped our coffee Babaji looked at me and announced that I was a very powerful woman; ‘just like Shakira’ he said and then added a ‘waka waka!’ and a smile.

I told Babaji that I had to move but I would be coming back his way in a few days and would stop by for coffee again and a longer chat. A few days later I stopped at Babaji’s little hut again where he was again waiting for me. We sat in his humble hut, sipped coffee and talk about anything that came up. That day I started early because I knew I would spend a few hours with Babaji and so there was no rush.

For breakfast Babaji presented me with 4 of the most amazing mangoes I’ve ever seen and showed me how to eat them Hindi-style. After a while Babaji lit his pipe and started smoking. This made him talk a lot more and also made him switch over to Hindi. I tried to follow but had to tell him after a while that I didn’t understand. Everything he was saying sounded uber cool and significant and since I was writing a blog, I decided to write some of what he was saying down. Again, I couldn’t find my diary so I wrote on my hand. Babaji saw me writing and came over to inspect my hand. He didn’t understand the English words but said ‘oh, sister, you are already writing in your diary?’ I thought that hilarious; so I wrote it down, on my other hand.

I wanted to take a photograph of Babaji before I left but my camera was in my luggage and it was quite a procedure getting it out. As I untied my bag Babaji observed me and then let out a ‘ooh, wonderful sister’. No doubt he was commenting on the unique way I tied my luggage to my bike; creative yet functional. Before I left I took a photograph of Babaji and he took one of me and then he gave me a big bag of sweets for the road. He placed both his hands on my head and blessed me. I wish I could have stayed longer. Tomorrow I start making my way back to Delhi.

Tabo, the vandal and the Dalai Lama

2010-08-04T10:11:00.000-07:00

I left Kaza still laughing, permit in hand, around lunch-time and made it to the small town of Tabo by 16h00. The first thing I did was book into the monastery guesthouse. The facilities were as basic as humanly possible. A small, dark room with a single bed, a small window and a candle. I sighed, I was hoping to charge my camera batteries and MP3 player and then I realized that I was missing the point entirely. Just a few days back I had said that my life was too comfortable and now when I had, basically, everything I needed I was unsatisfied. I adjusted my attitude and went to the (shared) bathroom to take a shower. My new attitude evaporated, instead of a shower I got a bucket of water.

Afterwards I strolled around the monastery and found a library with all sorts of sacred writings, Tibetan books and teachings of the Dalai Lama. I also found a copy of the Lonely Planet, India (probably left behind by another nameless, faceless traveller) and decided to give in and buy it. Up until now I’d not used a guidebook and felt that it kind of steers you away from the real experiences but I was curious. I curled up on my plank-like monastery bed with my new book and flipped to ‘Tabo’. I learnt some interesting facts about the tiny town of Tabo like it’s the place the current Dalai Lama intends to retire. Later that day, in a chai shop, I asked my waiter if that was true. He gave me a stern, doubtful stare and asked me where I got my information from. I smiled, meekly, and said ‘the Lonely Planet?’. His face lit up and he started clapping his hands ‘oh, it’s true then!’

After my second cup of chai I went in search of the best place from which I expected I would be seeing the most amazing sunset of my life. The sky was incredible, a deep blue with a sea of great white clouds spread across it. I found a spot but it was still hours before the sun would set so I had another cup of chai and read my guide book. There was a brochure inside it, for Spiti Valley that read: ‘let your soul take flight and your senses delight in the Valley of the Spiti. Don’t wait for your second life.’ In India, I realized, believing in Karma, is like believing in gravity. You just do.

Unlike Manali, there were only a handful of foreigners in Tabo, walking around, taking photographs, basking in the silence and drinking chai. I met a beautiful Spanish couple inside the monastery but they were both so gorgeous that I was too intimidated to even speak to them. They were perfect, typical body beautiful Ibiza-types and I doubted we would have anything in common. They were probably off to some Tibetan rave, I decided. That night I ran into them again at a dhaba and I tried to shake off my shyness and finally managed to say ‘congratulations on winning the World Cup’. They were not football fans. Of course not. We sat, in silence at different tables and I knew my shyness was the main cause but I couldn’t shake it.

The next morning I stepped out of the Monastery and was greeted by a monk. He was also the receptionist. He pointed to my bike and I saw that one of the indicator lights was snapped off. He said that early that morning he had found the Yamaha lying on its side and after an exhausting struggle he had managed to put it the right way up. What happened? Who would do this? But the meek little monk had no answers, only apologies. If in Kaza I was the victim of a practical joker then in Tabo I was the victim of a sinister vandal. I thanked the monk for helping and smiled but secretly I considered that it would be very possible for me to interrogate the entire village in only a few hours but decided against it and went for breakfast instead.

Again the Spaniards were there. ‘Hello again’ the Spanish goddess said and before I could say anything they invited me to join them. The conversation was a little strained as I tried not to look at them too much. They were so beautiful that it was hard to not stare. I asked the woman (more or less my age) what she did back in Spain and totally expected her to say ‘model’ or ‘editor of Elle, Spain’ but she was a social worker. Only then, for the first time did I notice, not her perfect features, but her kind eyes and gentle manner. She had studied Law for a semester before switching and we both laughed like school girls when I told her I had done exactly the same but in reverse. After that the conversation flowed naturally and easy and I felt convicted, yet again, that I was still judging people by their appearances.

We ordered breakfast and ended up talking for another hour. They thought I was very brave (and cool) for riding a motorbike, solo, through this isolated valley but was modesty personified when they told me they were, get this, hitch-hiking through Spiti Valley. There is isolated and then there is might-as-well-be-on-the-moon isolated and Spiti Valley fell into the latter category. These Spaniards were hard-core and I felt another twinge of envy not just for their beauty but their originality. We ordered some more chai and then I said goodbye to my beautiful hitch-hiking friends, grateful for another incredible, random encounter.

what happened in Kaza

2010-08-04T06:56:00.000-07:00

The road got a little better after Batal but every nerve in my body was still raw from the day before. I was ready to face more rivers but the way to Kaza was easier than I thought. Don’t misunderstand, it was still bad, but better. I relaxed a little into the new day enough to take a proper look at the changing landscape. On all sides were the majestic Himalayas and I was now entering the drier parts where no threat of rain hung over me. Everywhere Tibetan prayer-flags colored the sky and the mountains were pale, without any green, very unlike lush Manali.

I reached Kaza by late afternoon and immediately had to apply for an inner-line permit (foreigners need a permit to travel through this part of the valley). The power was out in the town of Kaza and so the permit office couldn’t issue my permit until the next morning when they opened, at 10h00. If the power’s back on that is.

Spiti Valley is known as the Buddhist circuit of Northern India so I used the time to visit the impressive monasteries and temples. I met another lovely Swiss couple who where lecturers in Tibetan religion/culture. We soon started talking and I invited them to have lunch with me at the only dhaba in Kaza. The conversation, in truth, was not that interesting (their tone of voice made my eye-lids droop in the way only boring teachers when talking too much can) and I was much more mesmerized by the Thukpa (Chinese noodle soup) I had for lunch.

For the first time I noticed the differences between this valley and the India I’ve seen so far. I've seen a lot of the Hindu culture and now it was Buddhist. Lemon and chili (used for good luck) and tied to every door in Delhi was replaced by Tibetan prayer-flags. Pictures of Shiva, Ganesh and Krishna were replaced by pictures of Buddha (or the Dalai Lama). Food was more Tibetan than Indian as were the faces and manner of the people. And then there was the silence. It was so quiet here and I knew it had as much to do with the fact that there were infinitely less people here as it was their way of life. Unlike the loud and expressive Indian Hindus these Buddhist folks were quiet and meditative. The silence in this valley was like the noise in Delhi. It was everywhere and you lived side by side with it.

I was determined to pitch my tent somewhere breathtaking and found a flat but hard patch just outside the town, next to the river. When I applied for my permit I asked the local policeman where I could pitch my tent and he smiled and said 'anywhere, Madame'. There were still a few hours of sunlight and I decided to use it to learn a little Hindi. I love this peculiar language and it was exciting to learn a new language that you get to use every day. Every new word or phrase opened another part of India and the people up to me and I loved it. Pronouncing these new words also required that I twisted my tongue in new and unfamiliar ways and I loved that too.

My bike was parked about 500m away from the tent in a random parking lot next to the field I was camping in. I felt uneasy for the Yamaha to be so far away but I didn’t want to ruin any of the plants that I would have destroyed if I rode over them with a motorbike. I could just make out the black handle bars when I peeked out of the tent and did so every hour or so but then I fell asleep and I woke up the next morning to the breathtaking sunrise I was hoping for. Casually I looked over to where the bike was parked but it wasn’t there. I went numb and started praying before I was out of the tent ‘no no no, please, no’ but the closer I got to the parking lot the more real it got. My bike was gone. Ok, I thought, it’s not the end of the world, you can always catch a bus out of here (who knows when though) but the bike-adventure was over. I sat down on the spot where I’d left my travel companion and waited for the tears to come. How could someone do this to an innocent traveler like me? I could imagine my brother laughing, sympathetically, when I told him. Just another freak accident, sister. And then I looked up and saw those familiar handle bars sticking out of a bush just 10m away. What the..?.

Someone had picked up the Yamaha and with obvious effort concealed it with leaves and sticks. It wasn’t hidden very well and looked kind of silly sticking out of a bush like that. My mind couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing as relief flooded into my body. Then the penny dropped, I’d been the victim of a practical joke.

Ha!

Someone in Kaza had played a trick on me. There was no doubt in my mind that is exactly what happened. I looked around frantically (it’s no fun if you can’t see how your trick plays out, the practical joker in me knew) but I couldn’t see anyone. I walked back to the tent and thought I heard laughing somewhere far off but it could have been my own laughter echoing off the mountains. All the tension of the past few days melted away and I wish I knew how to say ‘Good one!’ in Hindi.

the road much less travelled

2010-08-02T23:18:00.000-07:00

Indians are laid back but Capetonians are laid back on another level, at least Indians are practical. It wasn’t until after I’d purchased my tent that I realized that Murray and Anna and I never made solid plans to meet at a certain time or place. None of us had a mobile phone (that worked anyway) and I had no idea where they were staying. During our delirious meeting we’d neglected to get some practical information and, I don’t know, thought we’d just magically meet again. We exchanged e-mail addresses but that wasn’t helping much because internet connections had been down for days. In my mind’s eye I could see Murray laughing through his thick beard and Anna shaking her head. The best thing I could do, I decided, was to leave on the day we discussed and hopefully meet them along the way. My heart, by this time, was fully set on this route, no matter what. I had no idea what to expect but, whatever it was, it made people raise their eyebrows when I told them.

Murray had said that the first day was tough, a few river crossings and bad roads but that’s all I knew. I braced myself and set off. For the first few hours I manoeuvred, carefully, along the Rohtang Pass. This pass was always being closed, sometimes for days, because the rains make it too dangerous. Murray and Anna’s planning was perfect (well, almost) and the pass was open. It was a beautiful pass but busy, and muddy and scary. By 11h00 I turned off the pass and took the road much less travelled and headed for Spiti. The road disappeared almost immediately and was replaced by large loose rocks and more mud. Also, I was the only person on this road. 3 hours passed and I wasn’t going faster than 20km/h and still no sight of another human being. I realized that I was not going to make it to Kaza (another 120km away) and felt the first tiny stabs of fear on the back of my neck. If something goes wrong here, I’m screwed.

Just then I came to my first river crossing. My heart stopped beating and all the blood drained from my face. Then my heart started beating again, in my throat, and fast. I stopped, switched off the bike and investigated the depth and breadth of the icy river. These rivers are formed by melting glaciers so to the right of the river was a huge glacier and to the left, a cliff. I thought of the time I was heading towards a busy intersection in Delhi with 2 passengers and how terrified I was then but this was different, this was raw fear. Undiluted.

The river was knee deep (deep enough to scare the heebeegeebees out of me). I kicked the bike to life, took a deep breath and jumped, so to speak. The bike got stuck lots because at the bottom of the river there were large loose rocks but because I couln’t see them I was not directing the front wheel over them. My heart was screaming loudly in my ears and I knew that if the engine seized now I would not be able to push the bike through to the other side. Even though the bike was completely wet, the engine never died and when I finally got to the other side I felt high and was shaking, partly because the water was freezing but mostly because I was terrified.

There were 7 more river crossings, 5 of them hectic. Once the engine died when the bike fell over and I had to summon my superhuman strength to get the bike back up, finally standing next to it with the freezing water coming up to the middle of my thigh. The bike was almost completely submerged. I mounted the bike, kicked, and it started. I couldn’t believe it. Suddenly I felt like I could do anything and the next crossings, though they were terrifying, went smoother. I felt sorry for the Yamaha but I started thinking of it as my never-say-die travel companion. I felt like it was just this machine and I surrounded by the Himalayas. Nothing else existed. I even howled a few times when we made it safely through a river. I was losing my mind a little and it felt incredible.

By 18h00 I was nowhere near Kaza but I came to a small one-room hut/shop in Batal (another 80km from Kaza). I decided to pitch my tent and asked the owner of the hut where a good spot would be. He indicated to a hill and I strolled over to investigate. Behind the hill were 5 other tents and about 40 horses running around noisily. Each horse had a bell tied around his neck. I fetched the bike and before I could even untie my luggage there were 2 Indian guys standing next to me. They introduced themselves, pitched my tent (refusing to let me help) and invited me to dinner in their tent. I accepted and told them that I would come over as soon as I got clean, dry and warm. In Manali I wanted to buy these thick, hand-made, woollen socks but forgot and now I wish I had remembered. My feet were frozen and I knew it would be a long night if I couldn’t warm them up. I walked back to the hut and hooray the guy was selling them. Random. I bought a pair but back in my tent they suddenly looked more like gloves than socks (actually more like oven mitts). I needed them to be socks so I put them on my feet and to my delight they fit, like a glove.

When I stepped outside my tent a young Indian guy, Pangarg, was waiting to escort me to the dinner tent. Pangarg and his team of trekkers were taking a group a Scottish tourist on a 2 week trek through the valley and the horses were transporting all the food, tents and gear. He carefully steered me past the tent with the foreigners and led me to a large square tent. The moment I stepped inside I realized that I was the guest of honour. My seat was right next to an older Tibetan man; he was the guide (and elder) and knew the mountains and the valley better than anyone. He gave me a warm smile when I sat down. He didn’t speak any English and grinned when I greeted him in Hindi.

After I sat down I was handed a thick woollen blanket to wrap myself up in and a cup of soup. The conversation between the men started up again once I was settled in and soon they were joking, talking and smoking easily. I asked questions and got asked questions in return, with Pangarg translating. Suddenly everyone stopped talking and listened to something outside. It was the horses; they had calmed down and were now lazily grazing among the tents. I closed my eyes to listen to the bells and realized that all the bells were different sizes (or tones) and what I was listening to was a symphony of bells, amplified by the surrounding mountains. I opened my eyes and all 6 men were beaming at me with joy and pride as they saw I realized what it was that I was listening to. Extraordinary. These people, I thought, were creative in ways I might never even dream of because my life was simply too comfortable. We listened for a while and then dinner was served. It was a simple meal, rice and dahl, but it was wonderful and hot. They graciously offered me a spoon but I graciously declined and tucked in like everyone else with my hands. This got me an approving nod from the Elder.

He was wearing a traditional kullu cap (a roundish cap with green, red and orange patches) and I suddenly thought of my father (who, incidentally, is very fond of wearing hats) and wondered if he would wear such an eccentric hat. He might, I decided, if I gave it to him. Like all daughters, I am adored by my father and I felt a sudden urge to speak to him and tell him I love him and that I’m bringing him a new hat.

After dinner we talked some more and I asked about the weather. ‘Is it always this cold this time of year?’, ‘when does the snow come?’ The guide said that the last couple of years have been different and it keeps changing. Nobody really knows what to expect anymore. Seasons are longer or shorter than usual. ‘Global warming’ I said and suddenly the guide looked at me with a hard, sad face. No doubt he’d heard those words from some passing traveller but he didn’t know about climate change because he’d seen ‘an inconvenient truth’ or because MTV was telling him to ‘think green’. He knew about it because everything in his world, the sky, the seasons, the landscape was telling him that something is wrong.

We sat in silence for a while and then they asked if I would like a glass of rice bine. I heard rice wine but they insisted it was ‘bine’ and it turned out to be a lot like sake (rice wine) only much (much much) stronger and with my first sip I got another approving nod. After the rice bine and several more cups of chai I thanked them for their hospitality and Pangarg escorted me back to my tent. I couldn’t fall asleep and I remembered a conversation I’d had with a lovely Swiss couple back in Manali. Because I was heading toward much higher altitudes they warned me against AAS (acute altitude sickness) and told me to avoid drinking any tea, coffee or alcohol. I lay in my sleeping bag, giggling. Too late.

The next morning I stepped outside and Pangarg was waiting to escort me to breakfast. Had he been out there the whole night? I could imagine the guide telling him to stand watch outside my tent in case some crazed foreigner tried to harm me. To thank them I let them take turns riding the bike around the field (hilarious) and then we had a mini photo-shoot. I posed with everyone, even the horses. We said our goodbyes, they were heading to Chandertal and I was heading to Kaza, in the opposite direction.

Again I left feeling grateful for the kindness of these men and for having survived the day before. I rode past them and waved. Day 2 and still no sign of Murray and Anna and I had no idea what to expect next.

day 51

2010-07-26T23:30:00.001-07:00

For 5 days in Manali nothing happened and then, everything happened at once. This is what happened. As promised I went back to Amigo's and after I shook off my stage fright I played a song on Vikram's guitar. By the time I was finished there was a small crowd that insisted I play another song (encore! encore!) so I decided on a song I couldn't possibly mess up. To my delight, Vikram and his band knew it and joined in beautifully, as if we had rehearsed it a thousand times. It was a surreal and magical experience and I couldn't (though I tried very hard) stop smiling afterwards.

I was still smiling like a lunatic when a really cool couple approached me and asked if I were South African. They were from Cape Town (like me!) and they were going to Spiti Valley the next days, riding their bikes and camping all the way. I hung on their lips and agreed when they said that Leh (I decided to head up to Leh because Spiti Valley had become ‘impossible’) had more tourists than Manali and they wanted to avoid crowds and just be in the Himalayas. Murray and Anna and I liked each other immediately and they invited me to join them. They were planning to spend one more day in Manali and then leave for Spiti, giving me just enough time to get a tent and some camping supplies. By the time we said goodbye we were as giddy as children and I left feeling grateful to these Capetonian angels that I was going to get to ride through Spiti Valley after all.

Strolling back to my guesthouse, playing over in my mind everything that happened, I passed a bike mechanic. He was speaking to an Italian guy who wanted to rent a bike and wanted to know whether a Yamaha was good or whether he should rather rent an Enfield. I felt obliged to offer an input. Soon the charming Italian (is there any other kind?) and I were talking and, by now totally ignoring the mechanic, decided to have dinner together at Shiva's Place, right next door. After weeks of speaking only elementary English, broken Hindi and sometimes miming to get the point across, having a real conversation with this Italian man was bliss.

We talked for hours about life, love, travelling, India and Italy until our waiter, not so kindly, asked us to please leave. We didn't realize how late it was and when we stepped outside it was clear that the whole of Manali was already sleeping. We were reluctant to say goodnight but it was very late and so the Italian walked me to my guesthouse and kissed me goodnight.
'Ciao, Bella'.
'Ciao'.

The next morning I woke up feeling on top of the world and couldn't tell whether it was due to my brilliant musical debut, my impending Spiti-Valley adventure or the dose of Italian charm I experienced the night before. The Italian and I deliberately did not make plans to see each other again and both felt that if it were meant to be then we would meet again. Later that day I ran into him again but that, is another story.

made in India

2010-07-26T23:07:00.000-07:00

Last week my good friend Elke asked me if after 2 months in India I wasn't getting sick of it yet. Truthfully? No. Soon enough I'll be back in South Africa among everything familiar but for now I'm soaking up everything that's strange and new. The one thing I do miss, is chocolate. I never expected Indian chocolate to be great (leave it to the Swiss and the Belgians, I say) but here the chocolate, even the Cadbury's, tastes like butter. Cheap butter.

I understand why India doesn't care much for chocolate, Indian sweets (Bengal sweets) are mind-alteringly delicious and made from insanely sweet condensed milk and nuts (pistachio, almond, cashew) and flavored with spices like cardamom, ginger and saffron and there are hundreds of different kinds.

But to get back to the chocolate, I was standing in a shop in Shimla waiting to pay for a bottle of water and was considering buying a Cadbury's but knowing I would only be disappointed I put it down and shook my head in dismay. An older Indian man was standing behind me and asked why I wasn't buying it. 'Because it tastes like butter' I said. He agreed and asked me whether I knew why it tasted like that, even the Cadbury's. Totally expecting him to say 'because it's made in India', I said 'because it's made in India?' but that was not what he was planning to say and I could see he felt insulted by what I had said. I apologized but he refused to speak to me any further, not even to tell me why the chocolate in India tastes like butter.

Later in my journey I did discover why Indian chocolate tastes like butter but don’t want to share it here. It’s pretty disgusting.

come rain come shine

2010-07-17T06:11:00.000-07:00

The sun was shining and my illness but a memory when I set off for Sarchu (the gateway to the North) at 7h00 but after only 5km it started raining and I was forced to take shelter. One hour passed and the road merchants were starting to stir (I didn't quite make it out of town). I wanted to avoid any contact on my way out of Manali and was now (cowering under a rain-sheet) being harassed by everyone passing by. It was clear that the rain would persist and I would have to turn back and re-claim my beautiful room before some eager hippie occupied it and turn it into a hot-box. Manali turned out to be a hospital of sorts for me and I felt frustrated that I had to return when I was feeling healthy and restored. My plan was to ride 220km to Sarchu instead of Keylong only 115km away and so gaining a day but the plan changed again and there was no guarantee that the sun would shine tomorrow. This thought plunged me into a gloomy mood that matched the dark skies perfectly. How is it, I thought, that 5 days of glorious sunshine could be forgotten in an instant? Surely, the sun would shine again.

With nothing to do but read and think I considered all that had happened and realized that the reason I was staying longer in a place than I planned was not because I wanted to see more of a place and the people. I was afraid of what lay ahead. I was terrified of that unknown and the road ahead would be the toughest yet. Realizing this was like hesitating before jumping off a great height, it just gets harder once you've hesitated and I resented that I hesitated at all. Up to this point I’d already drove in rain, hail, through thick sand, mud and survived a landslide. A sudden need to jump and not be afraid gripped me as I came to my senses, so to speak. Each little difficulty presented an opportunity to overcome and so silence all those voices telling me I can't do it. Sadly, I was trapped in Manali and all that passion would have to remain bottled for a not-so-rainy day.

Strolling down to the market, oozing determination, I had lunch at 'Amigo's Cafe and German bakery'. Manali caters for a wide range of tourist, can you tell? It wasn’t at all what I expected and inside were 3 Indian guys playing their guitars and singing the most soulful Indian folks music. As I listened to the music (and the rain outside) I remembered that this trip was about more than doing something 'impossible', it was also about having these random and exotic little delights and I was grateful for another perfect moment in India. I stayed for 2 hours and promised to return later that night and play a song on the guitar. Yikes.

the dhaba on the left

2010-07-15T03:27:00.000-07:00

Again I was faced with a change in my plans but I was delighted to discover that by now I was taking every disappointment and delay in my stride. Spiti Valley (at this point) was too dangerous and even riding in a group would still be risky. Listen up people! I'm adventurous, not reckless. I would retreat back to Shimla and formulate a new plan. Fahad and the boys would accompany me back to Shimla from where they would head back to Delhi. When we got to Shimla and were saying our goodbyes they were absolutely beaming at me and Himanshu was wagging his head so vigorously that I thought it might fall off but the feeling was entirely mutual. I'd grown very fond of these boys in a very short time and we promised each other a reunion when I got back to Delhi.

Back in Shimla, booked into a cheap (dodgy) hotel it started to rain and didn't stop for 2 days. Shimla is the kind of place where you could easily sink into glorious boredom but I was anxious to get going as soon as possible. Refusing to acknowledge the television in my room and armed with a pink umbrella, I went for endless walks everyday in the rain, had gallons of chai while learning new Hindi phrases and made a serious dent in Anna Karenina but the hours dragged on.

When, eventually, the sun showed up I wasted no time, packed up and gunned it to Manali, North Shimla. I needed to get to the dry parts up North and riding straight up to Manali, skipping Spiti Valley seemed like the wise choice.

To get to Manali you need only follow the mighty river Beas for half a day and then arrive in a beautiful little village that sits snugly in a thick forest of giant Deodar trees and apple orchards. The guesthouse I booked into was a lovely old farmhouse surrounded by apple trees and my room had wooden floors and two large windows that overlooked the orchards but no television. Perfect. After I had a long, hot shower (a necessity after a day on the road, believe me) I, ironically, went in search of a television. It was the World Cup Final and I was determined not to miss it. As it happened I watched the game with the owner of my guesthouse, Mano, on his tiny little black and white television but as the game only started at 12am, Mano faded just before half-time, leaving me all alone. At 3am I woke up and Spain had won the World Cup. I'd fallen asleep and missed the whole thing.

The next morning I woke up feeling like death had come to visit and had all the dreaded symptoms of an upset stomach. Crap, so to speak. I spent the next two days in bed on a diet of fresh apples, mineral water and vitamins until I felt up to venturing outside and explore Manali. Down at the market I discovered that Manali, apart from its exquisite natural beauty was overpopulated by a colony of hippies complete with dreadlocks, psychedelic lukin t-shirts and all stoned out of their minds. Not wanting to spend the day in Hippie Village I rode to the next town, Naggar, to visit the world famous Roerich art gallery. Nicolas Roerich was a Russian artist, mystic, philosopher and photographer who lived in Naggar and claime to draw his inspiration from the Himalayas. It was a nice ride through the orchards and the gallery certainly was impressive and I slowly started to feel like myself again.

When I got back to Manali I was starving and looked for a safe-looking dhaba to have dinner at. It’s amazing how paranoid a stomach bug can make you. I found 2 close to my guesthouse, one on the left side of the road and the other on the right. I picked the one on the right and had an egg roll and a cup of chai. Later that night, twisting in agony, I asked myself over and over again, why oh why didn't I pick the dhaba on the left?

tradegy or comedy

2010-07-09T06:19:00.000-07:00

I allowed myself very little luxury on this trip. Contrary to what you may have heard, travelling by motorcycle is neither glamorous nor comfortable. The only indulgence I allowed myself was that I decided to bring my Macbook along. Not to Facebook or email but to write and edit photos and because the idea of being separated from it for 6 months was unbearable.

With my Macbook stuffed safely into my sleeping bag (it was genius, I thought, perfectly buffered and waterproofed) I arrived in Sarahan, 175 km North of Shimla. It started raining heavily just as I rode into the little town and didn’t stop for several days. I was hoping to make it into the dry parts up North before it started raining like this but I was in no rush. I’d just have to wait out the rain.

After I found a place to sleep I walked down to the market have dinner, on my own. On my way to the market I went to look at the 2000 year old temple. On my way out of the temple, with my stomach growling by now I met Nazeem, Himanshu and Fahad, 3 Indian guys on a week-long bike trip, on their Bullets. They were heading in the same direction as me and we started talking. Nazeem didn’t believe that I was riding solo and on a Yamaha nogal and insisted that I had to accompany them for the next few days. All things considered, it was a great opportunity to do a tricky section of the route with 3 willing, able and beautifully good-natured guys and I accepted their invitation breaking my no riding when it’s raining rule.

The next morning it was still raining, but as agreed, we set off into the uneasy-looking horizon. Riding in the rain was a scary experience and I decided that after the boys go their separate way I would reaffirm my rule of not riding in the rain.

After only 35km we stopped to help a biker who was stranded in the rain with a flat tire. We parked our bikes and offered our assistance. While we were standing there talking to the rider we heard a deep rumbling sound and before we could register what was happening had to jump out of the way of 6 massive rocks falling right onto my bike.

It was a landslide. I’d heard rumors about landslides this time of year but thought again, as I was heading to the drier parts, that I would miss it. We ran, shaking, to a safe spot where no unexpected rock falls could crush us until we were brave enough to return to the scene and assess the damage. It was bad.

1. Engine cover - broken
2. Front brake - broken
3. Back brake - bent
4. Right foot rest - bent
5. Both rear indicators - broken
6. Mud shield - broken
7. Front wheel rim - bent
8. Petrol tank - loose

It was bad, really bad and the situation got worse when a group of 40 riders, passing by from the direction we were heading in, told us that the road ahead was closed due to severe landslides.

Eventually we managed to get the bike back to a little town we past just before the disaster and had to stay the night. I thought the bike was finished but the mechanic laughed and said, matter-of-factly, that everything can be fixed in India and the repairs would be done by the next day. Good news, I thought and (thinking in Rands) the damage to my wallet wasn't bad at all.

We booked into the Satluj Hotel, on the banks of the river Satluj (raging by now because of the rain) and decided to get clean, warm and go out for dinner, determined to end this bad day on a good note. Beer and food. My spirits lifted a little but as I opened my bag to get a dry set of cloths I remembered my Macbook. I took it out of m sleeping bag, opened it up and..

Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

It was smashed. All at once the tragedy of the day hit me. My bike was broken, my Mac was broken and now my heart was also thoroughly broken.

Heartbreak or not, a girl's gotta eat and by the time we got to the restaurant we were starving. In the bar were the 40 riders we met earlier and they started whispering amongst themselves when they saw us, 'is that her?' I heard them say, 'she survived a landslide'. A couple of them came over and asked what exactly happened and how I was feeling. I said I felt very lucky (hiding my heartbreak as best I could). We ordered beer and I let my companions order food. We had a feast and laughed and talked until late. Every now and then one of the other riders would glance over to our table and lift a glass. I was famous. Macless, but famous.

On the way back to our hotel Nazeem took me to one side and asked me to forget about going through Spiti Valley, in the light of what happened. I told him that I would forget about it but only until tomorrow.

conversations

2010-07-03T11:33:00.000-07:00

It was easy to break my 4-day rule in Shimla but I didn’t want to rush. I want to savour Shimla. Like Mussoorie, Shimla was also a hill station and the climate wonderful. This morning it rained for the first time and then it dawned on me. Monsoon has started. My imagination told me that Monsoon rain is a 3 month, non-stop, torrential rain that swept villages away but in reality it was different, if only slightly. As I was heading up North, where Monsoon’s impact is not that extreme I never really considered that I would be too affected by it and eased into beautiful Shimla and rested out for adventure further North.

The complimentary breakfast at the YMCA is only served until 9h00. At 8h20 I raced downstairs to eat and go back to bed with a good book (Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina) since it’s raining but an American guy, Robert, asked to join my table. Three hours later we were still talking about religion and the spiritual realm. He was a spiritual ‘seeker’ (aren’t we all?) and confessed that, as a rule, he never talks to Christians about anything spiritual because, he says, the conversation inevitably ends up going in the same direction, mostly ending with the exhausted and frustrated Christian telling him that he would pray for him. What he said was true. I’ve encountered countless Christians (even missionaries) that are hell bent on getting you converted, even if it kills them and I realized how that approach would actually repel somebody from the love of God.

We had a good talk, long and hard but good. I decided to keep it simple and just tell him what I believed. I would witness to what God has done in my life and how I’m changing everyday and that I believe it is faith in who Jesus is that makes the change possible at all. I told him that it took me years of searching and reading before I had a clear understanding but that the act of that head-knowledge sinking down into my heart had nothing to do with my intellect or anything I did but that, by grace, I received it because I asked to receive Jesus. I told him that my journey with God was a daily journey of stumbling and growing process and that my heart was being changed little by little. He seemed touched and conceded that, even though, he was middle-aged and felt spiritually very mature, he could not claim to be as joyful or centred in truth. As with most conversations about spirituality, I should have known better.

His attitude changed and he launched into an in-depth discussion about mysticism, spiritual encounters, yoga, gurus, chakras, the four dimensions of consciousness, angelical beings, demonic possession, universal energy, out of body experiences and so forth. What he said sounded very disorganized and even his speech seemed cluttered by a lot of random things that he claimed were all connected. He started to set out his ideas and theories and after a while he was doing all of the talking while I encouraged him to keep talking, hell bent on showing him the loving side of Christianity. So I kept listening.

After another 2 hours the conversation was getting pretty weird I knew that there’s simply no way of wrapping up a conversation about spirituality, it can go on for days. Around lunchtime I excused myself, explaining that I was exhausted and needed to sleep. We shook hands and said goodbye.

The next morning at breakfast Robert was not there but the waiter brought me a note. Robert had left early that morning and left a letter for me. It was a beautifully sincere letter saying that he was delighted to have met me and was very touched by everything that was said the day before. Attached to his letter was a thick bundle of literature, downloaded from the internet, about mysticism and spiritual seeking. I realized then that Robert had a huge amount of spiritual knowledge but it was still stuck in his head. Intellectually we would probably never find a common ground but I spoke to him from my heart and all I could hope for was that he heard with his.

Shimla is like a little heaven on earth and I’ve already broken my new rule. I’ve been here 5 days. But I don’t want to rush through Shimla. I want to savor it. Woke up this morning at 6h00 and it was raining (monsoon has started). I opened the windows and let the fresh mountain air into my bedroom and fell asleep again. Then I woke up at 8h20 and rushed downstairs to have breakfast. The complimentary breakfast at the YMCA is only served until 9h00. The plan was to just eat and go back to bed with a good book since it’s raining (reading Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina) but then an American guy, Robert, asked to join my table. Three hours later we were still talking about religion and the spiritual realm. He was a spiritual ‘seeker’ (aren’t we all?) and confessed that, as a rule, he never talks to Christians about anything spiritual because, he says, the conversation, inevitably, ends up going in the same direction. Mostly ending with the exhausted and frustrated Christian telling him that he would pray for him. What he said was true. I’ve encountered countless Christians (even missionaries) that are hell bent on getting you converted, even if it kills them and I realized how that approach would actually repel somebody from the love of God.

We had a very good talk, long, hard, intellectual and challenging but I decided that I would keep it simple and just tell him what I believed. I would witness to what God has done in my life and that I believe it is faith in who Jesus is that makes the change possible at all. I told him that it took me years of searching and reading before I had a clear understanding of it all but that the act of that head-knowledge sinking down into my heart had nothing to do with my intellect or anything I did but that , by grace, I received it because I asked to receive Jesus. I told him that my journey with God was a daily journey of stumbling, getting up and a growing process and that my heart was being changed little by little. He seemed blown away and conceded that, even though, he was middle-aged and felt spiritually very mature, he could not claim to be as joyful or centered in truth.

But then he launched into an in-depth discussion about mysticism, spiritual encounters, yoga, gurus, chakras, the four dimensions of consciousness, angelical beings, demonic possession, universal energy, out of body experiences and so forth. It was a very disorganized talk and his mind seemed cluttered by a lot of random things that he claimed was all connected. He seemed so lost in all these ideas and theories and after a while he was doing all of the talking but I encouraged him to keep talking, hell bent on showing him the loving side of Christianity. So I kept listening but it got very hard after a while because he was getting pretty weird and there’s simply no way of wrapping up a conversation about spirituality, it can go on for days. So around lunchtime I told him that I was exhausted and needed to sleep. We shook hands and said goodbye. I saw him again later that day and said a quick hello, in passing.

The next morning I was kind of hoping that I wouldn’t see him at breakfast but I also felt that I had planted a seed with him and felt stirred to fertilize the soil a bit. He wasn’t there but the waiter brought me a note. Robert had left early that morning and left a letter for me. It was a beautifully sincere letter saying that he was delighted to have met me and was very touched by everything that was said the day before. I realized then that intellectually we would probably never find a common ground but yesterday I spoke to him from my heart and his heart listened and responded.

Photo (The quality is bad, the light was gone) - Christ Church, Shimla

the dream of the World

2010-07-02T09:46:00.000-07:00

In the YMCA in Shimla I met a fellow traveller, a short, peculiar little Australian man who carries his 1kg Lonely Planet Guide Book to India with him everywhere. He’s been travelling for the past 10 years and looks close to 40 (or an unhealthy 30) and spoke only about the dangers of travelling and the bad experiences he’s had. He has a permanent superior and condescending smile on his face, but I decided that, if people were books, than likewise I would not judge this one by its cover. When he heard my planned route up North and mode of transport he tried very hard to persuade me off my plan and told me I was insane to even attempt anything of the sort. I listened to him patiently, I decided at the start of my journey that I would listen to anyone who had advice to give. He went on and on and basically listed all the reasons why I shouldn’t or couldn’t do this ‘it’s the second highest road in the World!’ he kept saying. I told him that there would always be a thousand reasons why you shouldn’t do something, and that you needed to find one reason why you can and then just do it. He smiled a sly smile (a huge gap between his two front teeth) that seemed to say ‘well good luck to you!’. I couldn’t blame him for not being able to get his mind around it, I couldn’t even get my mind around it and decided my approach would have to be to take one day at a time.

But the talk with the Australian left me a little raw. Was I completely out of my mind? I’d only ever ridden a Vespa and now I was doing the World’s second highest road up into the Himalayas on a motorcycle, all on my own! Then I went out for lunch and met Bilal.

Bilal is a Himachal Pradesch guide, and works in Shimla planning outings for tourists. When he introduced himself he looked at me and said ‘Oh wow, you ARE adventurous!’. I had yet to tell him my plan but I agreed with his assessment. After I told him what I was planning, he was oozing excitement and admiration and asked if I knew that doing this route was often referred to as ‘the dream of the World?’. I didn’t.

We had chai and he mapped out my route for me. It was basically what I had planned but with more detail and with contact numbers for cheap accommodation in that area. When we said goodbye he told me again that what I was doing was incredible and wished me a safe journey. I strutted back to the YMCA, my confidence restored, feeling on top of the World and was stopped by a local who asked for a photograph with me. These random photo-shoots happen every day about a hundred times and while usually I’d be a bit shy today I felt worthy of a photo and posed my prettiest pose. Today humility and modesty takes a backseat. Today I am a rock star.

day 31

2010-06-30T03:05:00.001-07:00

On the road from Chandigarh to Shimla there is one stretch, about 5 km long, where the traffic simply doesn’t move. In situations like these it’s great to be on a motorbike because you can weave in between the cars, trucks and busses and be on your way. In Delhi I learnt how to weave like a pro but I realized that I might have become a little ambitious in my weaving when, on this particular stretch of road, I lightly bumped into the backside of a bus. This bus was standing still and I was hardly moving but the bike fell over, with me on top of it. I managed to get up with my dignity/ego not too damaged and in the process stepping in some holy cow dung (the smell accompanied me all the way to Shimla). The fall also claimed my clutch handle. It just snapped off. Luckily, in India you can’t swing a cat without hitting a bike wallah and I was soon on my way with a new handle.

The road to Shimla, especially on a bike makes it feel like you are ascending into Heaven. The further North I get the cooler the air and forests, meadows and mountain ranges complete the divine-ness. After the heat in Delhi it was pure bliss to feel the ice-infused wind on my face. Soon I’ll be seeing the Himalayas covered in snow.

By late afternoon I made it to Shimla but getting booked into my hostel was a mission of another kind. No vehicles are allowed in the city itself and you need to park right at the bottom and walk up to where you want to be. Most hotels and restaurants are right at the top (as was mine) and I soon understood why I had so many porters offer their service to me when I first arrived. I’d declined all the porter-offers and was now carrying my back-pack up a steep winding hill 3km long. Suddenly there were no porters in sight. The walk up to my hostel was the most exhausting thing I had ever done and I nearly collapsed when I finally made it to the steps of the YMCA.

The next morning I woke up sore and filled with great respect for these porters, who carry extreme loads up and down, all day long, for only a few rupees.

Like I said, Shimla was Shangrila and I decided to spend a long as I wanted and everyone knows; it’s fun to stay at the YMCA.

the open hand diary

2010-06-28T10:28:00.001-07:00

lost and found

2010-06-28T10:12:00.000-07:00

Today I woke up in Chandigarh and had a list of things to get done before I could set off for Shimla. I had to pack up, check out of the hotel, find the right road to take and replace a spark plug. The bike had been acting weird and kept stalling whenever I stopped at a robot and I was convinced it was the spark plug that needed replacement. So I replaced it. Yes, I, replaced it. And then the bike wouldn’t start.

Turns out, there was dirt in my carburator (?) and that was making the bike act up. I mentioned about the spark plug but the mechanic said the plug was fine. The old plug was also fine. The process of cleaning out my carburator set me back an hour but I had a bigger problem, my diary was gone. There are a lot of things that I could do without on this trip but my diary was not one of them. In it was every contact I’ve made on this trip. Important phone numbers, e-mail addresses and almost every person I’ve met have written in it. It was precious to me and it was missing. Then I remembered where I saw it last, by the open hand monument. My heart sank. I left it on the lawn underneath the monument and it was probably gone by now. What were the chances that it was still there? I’d already lost a few hours of precious early morning riding time but I had to try. I raced to the monument and spent 30 minutes explaining to the guard what had happened and asked if anybody had picked up a book. He didn’t speak English and thought, when I made the sign for book (2 open hands next to each other) that I wanted written permission to see the open hand monument. Eventually I think he got the point but said that there was no book. Feeling very raw about the loss of my diary I decided to walk over to the monument, just in case. It wasn’t there but I saw something in the grass that I recognized. It was a business card from Tritalia in Cape Town and it had been in my diary. Frantically I looked around and found another piece of paper, a contact for someone I could stay with in Nepal. But where was my diary? And then, about 100 meters from where I’d left it, on the grass, was my diary. It was not in the condition I left it but it was there.

My diary had spent the night underneath the open hand of Chandigarh getting some character chewed into it by a stray dog. It was badly bruised but still in-tact and I floated back to my bike clutching my diary tight to my chest.

read my mind

2010-06-27T10:16:00.000-07:00

This morning, before setting off for Shimla, I had breakfast at a Dahba just a short walk away from my hotel. I was still a little sleepy and didn’t notice, immediately, that I was sitting in the middle of the restaurant, with about 40 Indians, also having their breakfasts. There’s nothing strange about that, only, every single person in the restaurant was staring at me. I smiled, acknowledging the room and turned my eyes down to stare at my plate. Whenever I looked up, I looked straight into someone gaping at me, seeming to be trying to read me or figure me out and after a while I felt brave enough to attempt a joke.

Sipping my chai, I made eye contact with a young Indian guy sitting to my right. Holding his gaze, I narrowed my eyes, touched my forehead lightly with my fingertips and pretended that I could read his mind. He reacted almost violently and I didn’t have any trouble reading his thoughts, anyone could see, he was terrified and suddenly the whole restaurant wanted to know what happened. This sparked more staring and some pointing and I promptly paid my bill, saluted to the room and left.

The open road.

2010-06-26T07:50:00.000-07:00

Ok look, I’m not a biker but ever since I was a little girl I dreamt about having a Vespa. Then I grew up and got a Vespa and I loved it but after two weeks on a BIKE-bike I’m thinking that if Vespa was my first love, then this must be my true love. I love I love I love riding this bike and today I had another 7 hours with just the open road and my thoughts. The road snakes through this beautiful country and I went up passes, through forests, past lakes, plantations and little villages where people stared at me with their mouths open. And all the time, I’m dreaming of what Chandigarh is going to be like. This was one of my top locations that I wanted to see and my next stop.

The city is famous for being designed (the layout and most important buildings) by Swiss-French architect, Le Corbusier. The city is very un-Indian (more like a cosmopolitan city) and I spent two days in architecture heaven.

The open hand is Chandigarh’s outlook on everything: an open hand to give and an open hand to receive and I took everything Chandigarh had to offer with my hands, arms and heart wide open.

I could not, however, for the life of me, find an affordable hotel but after another hard day on the road I was dead tired, in no condition to bargain, and wanted a bed badly. The good news is that my room, apart from having the most comfortable bed on the planet, also has a TV and I quickly turned to the football.

Before I left my country men were still undecided whether to be excited about the coming FIFA World Cup or annoyed by the endless frustrations caused by road works and a done-to-death ad campaign. Somewhere, as I was flying over the Indian Ocean their attitude changed and by the time I got to India my fellow South African had gone football bezerk. I sank into a deep FOMO (fear of missing out) and knew I was missing out on something extraordinary. The World Cup had never been hosted by an African Country before. India doesn’t much care for football.

I decided to make the world cup part of my schedule. While I had a TV I would watch Uruguay vs South Korea and then gun it to Shimla the next day to catch the England vs Germany game. I assumed that our own team, Bafana, didn’t make the cut, haibo.

Day 27

2010-06-26T07:48:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I left Mussoorie and set off to Chandigarh. I left just as the sun was rising and I remembered a promise I made to myself back in SA: that I would see as many sunrises as I could. Actually it was more of a new year’s resolution. If you think about how often you are awake to see the sun rise it’s really quite sad. And they are spectacular. During our stay here I met wonderful and sincere people but my wanting to stay was outweighed by my desire to move on. The day before I left, each one of them, in turn, stopped by to say farewell and that they would miss me. I believed them, I would miss them too.

So, I made a new rule, I would not stay in one place for more than 4 days. It’s too hard to leave but I also made a new promise: Mussoorie will see me again.

Things that get lost in translation.

2010-06-22T04:36:00.000-07:00

Today Shallu and I were having chai at our favorite spot when I saw three Korean kids eating waffles at the table next to us. ‘Oh look, waffles!’ I said. She looked over and said ‘no, they are Koreans’.

97% of India still doesn’t know or trust the Apple Mac and it took me four days to find someone who was willing to ‘try’ to connect Internet to my Mac Book. It’s so foreign to them and I actually heard a story of an Indian guy who stole a Mac Book from a store and sold it for Rs200 (R35) because he thought it was a big calculator.

But, by far, the most bizarre communication blunder has been with my cell phone Network, Aircel. I bought a phone and sim card in Delhi and realized, only after I got to Mussoorie (a two day journey from Delhi) that I could only top up on airtime in Delhi, because, get this, it was a ‘Delhi phone’. And then, to top it all, I started getting messages from Aircel but sent from my own number. At the end of the message they even tell me how much it cost me to receive it. Now, you try explaining, to Aircel, in Hindi, why this is unacceptable.

My Mussoorie

2010-06-22T04:31:00.000-07:00

Early this morning, Shallu and I left for Mussoorie where we would be staying for a few days before Shallu returns to Delhi and I continue further up North. This time of the year, everyone in Delhi flees up into the mountains to escape the heat of the city and Mussoorie is the most popular spot. To get there you drive about 300km North of Delhi and then up, up, up 6000ft along a narrow, winding road until you are above the clouds and the air is cool and fresh. It’s a place that you simply have to see with your own eyes as no photograph will ever do justice, though I keep trying.

Shallu and I are staying in a little apartment with a breathtaking view of the whole town. It was a hard day of riding and I had energy only for soaking up the coolness and sipping a cup of cardamom chai.

Up North we go forth

2010-06-22T04:09:00.000-07:00

Now that I had a bike and conquered my fear of the traffic I could finally start planning my trip. After speaking to some of the locals I decided to make my way up North, up into the Himalayas for the first leg of my journey. I ended up staying 2 weeks in Delhi and was very ready to trade the crazy hotness for the open road.

Though I was ready to clock some kilometers I was still waiting for a few final details to come together. My insurance for the bike hadn’t been issued yet and I soon discovered that everything in India takes “just a little more time, Madam” and I reset my bio-clock to India time.

I also picked up a passenger for the first few days of my journey. Shallu, a tiny, shy Indian girl, who works at the learning centre, asked if she could join me for the first few days. She was the only one that was authentically excited about my plans and somehow worked up the nerve to ask this pale stranger if she could go with. Shallu only wanted to as far as Mussoorie (a hill station just North of Delhi and a two day journey by bike). I loved that she was excited, spontaneous and, most importantly, weighed almost nothing. But, though I was willing to risk my own life for the sake of adventurous exploration, I was not comfortable with risking hers.

In the end I yielded and told her to get a helmet for the trip (non negotiable) and started packing. I suddenly had something I didn’t expect, a witness to the madness.

In Delhi the days are short but the nights are endless. Like everything else, the heat is to blame for this. It’s too hot to sleep at night so most people stay awake until the early morning. This means that the city only wakes up at around 11h00. I discovered this when I rocked up at Delhi’s famous Sora Jinni market at 9h00 but only after 2 hours did I see any sign of life. Like the rest of Delhi I didn’t sleep well the night before and had a cat-nap under one of the trees outside the market (somebody’s husband perhaps).

When the market finally did open I was treated to a chaotic, beautiful.. Everything is so much cheaper and I had to resist buying everything I laid my eyes on reminding myself that I had to travel light. Of course, I’m only human and didn’t make it out without buying anything and trying my hand at bargaining. All in all I did fairly well despite still being charged my usual skin-tax.

As much as I love the city, I also love leaving the city. I’m referring of course to my city, Cape Town. Whenever I drive out of the city I feel like I’m taking the first deep breath in a long time but, without fail, whenever I drive back into the city again I feel like I’ve come home. I have never, though, wanted to leave a city as badly before as I want to leave Delhi. Not that I don’t like this crazy city, I do, I do, I do, but the cool crisp mountain air and the open road is beckoning.

Despite the insurance delay it seemed that Murphy and his law was determined to make everything go wrong. Just as I was having an intense, internal moment of doubt and was about to call the whole trip off, my clutch cable snapped. It should have been the camel’s back snapping but it put things into perspective for me. Surely I didn’t expect things to be easy. After that I relaxed into my, albeit much delayed, adventure knowing that it only really starts when something has gone wrong.

I need a drink

2010-06-22T04:08:00.000-07:00

A few weeks before leaving for India I asked my friends Sven and Elke for a verse to take with me, a piece of scripture that would be on my mind, so to speak, while I was away. Sven responded a few days later with John 7:37. I read it and, arrogantly, replied by saying ‘nope, that’s not it, keep looking’.

After a week in India my monster thirst had only grown in stature and determination. You know when you’re so thirsty it feels like you’ve eaten sand and you’re so dehydrated you start seeing black spots? I felt like that all the time. At first I thought I was just getting used to the hot climate and needed to up my water intake but later I started thinking there was something supernatural about my thirst. I drank close to 6 liters of water a day (not counting all the nimbu pani and chai I was drinking) but I was still thirsty. Of course it doesn’t help waking up in the morning feeling like you’ve slept in a sauna but this morning, despite being hot and thirsty, I woke up and flipped my Bible open, I had been reading the gospels and I opened to where I stopped reading back in SA. My eye caught a word that had a completely new meaning for me these days.

“Thirsty”.

“If anyone is thirsty, let him come to Me and drink. Whoever believes in Me as it is said in the scriptures, streams of living water will flow from within him”.

Never has any piece of scripture (or literature) been so literally relevant to me personally. It was John 7:37.

Amen, brother Sven.

Delhi traffic and a series of very-near-death-experiences

2010-06-22T03:43:00.000-07:00

Joshua John, easily the coolest Indian guy I’ve ever met and pastor of Capital City Church, was the right person to speak to about riding a bike in India. He rode a Bullet from Delhi right down to the very south of India (about 7000km) with 2 of his friends once and made a documentary about it called ‘Highway Head Rush’. The first time I spoke to him about riding a bike but being terrified of Delhi traffic he told me that most foreigners he knew took a long time before they worked up the nerve to drive, sometimes, he added, only after a few years! I didn’t have a few years, I had a few days. In my mind I gave up on the idea and started researching train schedules and ticket prices. Then I met Jafar (photo) and his son Joseph.

Jafar and his beautiful Iranian family became my bike-and–everything-related godsends and helped me on my bike sourcing expedition. Within 2 days I found and fell in love with a beautiful Yamaha RX 135 and bought it (after Jafar bargained the price down a little).

Purchasing a motorbike was the easy part, I still needed to learn how to ride it and from the mad traffic I’d seen in Delhi, the idea made me go uncomfortably numb.

Jafar had a gentle nature but was merciless as he instructed me, later that day, on how to ride it. It wasn’t how to ride the bike that made me sweat (I’m not a biker but it can’t be that hard) it was the crazy sea of traffic that I would have to maneuver through that had me panicking. It was just after 17h00 (peak hour traffic) when Jafar told me to follow him through the traffic for a test drive and then promptly told his son Joseph and his daughter Mary * to get on the back with me. Panic turned into fear as I tried to kick start, balance the bike and my 2 passengers while trying not to lose sight of Jafar as he raced off on their family scooter. I had no helmet. In the delirium of becoming the owner of a motorcycle I had neglected to buy one. Helmets are compulsory only for men though but even then, most locals ride like rabied bats out of Hell without one.

So there I was, in the middle of the busiest intersection I’d ever seen, on a bike with two Iranian teenagers on the back trying to keep my mind and my hands steady. After 20 minutes of uneasy riding and the occasional stalling I managed to catch up with Jafar and asked if perhaps it would be better if I attempted this madness on my own first. He disagreed.

‘You need to learn control, sister’ he said. ‘If you got control, you take 4 people, 5 people, no problem!’

In that moment I cursed myself for choosing this madman to show me the ropes and as if on cue my heart started beating from a wild and unfamiliar place. Somehow, lost in the madness of a thousand hooting rickshaws, bikes and cars something took over and I steadied myself (albeit out of sheer terror). I saw an order slowly forming in the madness and I learnt an important traffic lesson, don’t be afraid to use your hooter. In South Africa, hooting at someone is an expression of severe disapproval at someone’s driving; here it is simply saying ‘I’m here’. ‘In India’ I would later here a local say ‘you have to make a lot of noise so people know you’re coming’

Jafar’s merciless method turned out to be the best baptism into India that I could have hoped for and I continued onward, a little less terrified, steady and with a helmet, of course.

Travelling by bike, I soon discovered, was not as easy as one-two-three-go and every day my list of things to organize became longer and more complicated. I had to travel light and in my backpack I had one pair of jeans, a few t-shirts, clean underwear, a travel towel, toothbrush, a sweater, riding jacket, a pair of sneakers and my Havaianas. In a smaller bag that I carried with me at all times I had my passport, money, camera, MP3 player and a pair of nylon riding gloves.

In an empty 10kg basmati rice-bag I had the following:

A few extra tubes, spark plugs, clutch and brake cables, spanners, screwdrivers and a bag of candles. The tool bag added another 7kg to my luggage and I soon discovered that I would rarely find the opportunity to use any of it (except for unnecessarily changing the occasional spark plug). India is far more bike-aware than South Africa and I could always find a bike mechanic without too much trouble.