I’m sitting in the dark right now because the power is out. Again. This is a daily battle in the year 2007 in a progressive city of 3 million+. Somehow I survived my Himalayan adventure and have made it back to Jaipur just in time for my finals, three days of last minute Christmas shopping and packing. It is hard to believe that I am leaving India already; the time went so fast in some ways. In other ways though, I feel like I have been here forever. I wasn’t entirely positive I was ready to leave India until I went to the Himalayas; I am more than sure now. While part of me is sad—I will miss Rajula’s cooking, a schedule-less existence, people-watching, and maybe even the entertainment of traveling anywhere by road—I am craving a real bed (no more hip-bruises from sleeping on a wood board!), a hot shower, shaved legs, raw vegetables, fireplaces, my doggie, anything and everything that is clean, and a population that is safe and organized. I will never miss the trash, the deception, the lack of punctuality, or the extreme narrow-mindedness. I think though, my time can’t be completely over in India. I need to come back someday, but it will be awhile. I need some time to reflect, lick my wounds, and prepare myself before I can do this again. I think next time it will be the Mediterranean, sipping wine or maybe Sweden to see all the pretty people. The third world has lost its appeal for the time being.
Himalayan Adventure: Two girls alone in the Indian Himalayas. 100 Rupees for lodging ($1.50) per night, 20 Rupees for meals ($0.50), 0 degrees C, no heating, raging rivers, 8,000 foot cliffs, demonic public bus drivers, power outages and 21,000 foot mountains.
Meg and I left for our adventure in Himachal Pradesh last Thursday via the Jaipur bus stand. We have a couple of guy friends that we have met here in India that, contrary to my stereo-type that all Indian men are innate genital-driven delinquents, are really quite wonderful and helpful. The boys offered to give us a ride to the bus station in the center of town. After lying to our host parents about the taxi that was waiting outside, we crawled into the boys super-chic Honda and sped off.
As upper caste Brahmans, the boys have spent very little time communing with the sector of Indian civilization that rides public buses in the middle of the night, like Meg and I. Thus, they were absolutely horrified by both the thought of traveling in such a manner and our audacity to stand alone in the dark at such a place. In retrospect, their horror might not have been completely unfounded—Jaipur’s late night bus stand does feel like something of a lewd entertainment house where we, unwillingly, were the performers. Out of concern, our Indian friends stayed with us, staring down anyone and everyone that dared look in our direction, and literally walked us up the bus steps, to ours seats, and then notified the bus driver of his delicate cargo before finally heading home at 12:20 am. We arrived in Delhi at 4:40 am, safe and tired, with great plans to take an autorickshaw across the city famous for its late-night and early morning dangers, described in one giudebook as the “city where a woman should never, ever be alone at night.” Gripping a can of mace each, we found a rickshaw driver who offered to take us to the New Delhi Train Station (see: top three most dangerous train stations in India) for 150 Rs. Knowing that the cost was no where near that, we were in no position t argue and hoped on, hoping to God that we would not end up with our organs cut out in the bowels of New Delhi. We did arrive safely and with plenty of time to figure out how and where to board our train. Asking no less that 5 people where to find the check-in desk (this is the only way to accomplish anything in India,) we were unanimously steered across the enormous, dark parking lot to a tiny shack-like building with the words “Foreign Tourist Information Bureau” above. Those words alone should have been a red flag. I should have looked, screamed, and ran until I found any other way to register for my train. But alas, we were alone at 4:45 am in Delhi and we have both been cursed with a female anatomy. So, we went across the parking lot, dodging sleezy rickshaw, chai, and god-knows-what-else wallas, until we finally made it to the sign and found a man who stood dousing his samosa stand in brown water before dumping the rest of the bucket over his own head. When he finished sputtering in the early morning cold he told us to “walk back” pointing towards a tiny alleyway littered with trash and lit with one small light, swarming with mosquitoes. I think it is interesting at this point to note that when things become scary/dangerous at a certain level in a foreign country, instead of becoming more scared or leery, one tends to give up, throw caution to the wind, and just hope to God that infamous traveler’s gut kicks in somewhere before robbing and kidnap. Again in retrospect, all signs said “get as far away from the ‘Tourist Bureau’ as possible.” But, I was determined to make that train in 1 hour and not even fear was going to stop me. Inside, we met a slimy man with slicked back hair who told me that it was snowing in Shimla. Meg and I immediately became excited, smiling and yelling something about how that meant we could listen to Christmas music without feeling like the Anti-Christ. He then told us that, “seeing us happy filled his heart with light and joy” and that he would “do anything to make us happy.” Red flag? He proceeded with quite an act. First he dramatically dialed a number he deemed to be the “Train Reservation Line,” then he very effectively made faces to show his despair and regret, then hung up the phone to inform us that unfortunately, our particular train car was having work done on it and wouldn’t be going that day. All other classes were booked. Also, there was a cricket match on in Delhi and trains would be full for the next 10 days. This also meant there were no hotels. Furious, I made him call his little friend at the reservation desk back. I spoke to him, at first calmly, and then irate, until he said that he had no further information at this time and hung up on me. We were being scammed. So, we waited another hour while our sleazy friend made a scene of finding a taxi that would take us up to Kalka in Punjab to connect to our second train at 12 pm. As he worked, ever so slowly, Meg and I decided to try and find someone at the train station that could check us onto the train and prove that we were being lied to. So, we told our scamming helper that we were going to the bathroom but wanted to look at our ticket, he handed it to us, and we made our way back across Ursala’s Sleezy Walla Garden to the train station. Standing in a check-in line, our white-skinned glory drew attention. And of course, before we could get to the front of the line, another man moved in for the kill. I attemped to pull my ticket out to show him, and realized that our other con-artist friend had given me an empty envelope. Our train was leaving in 5 minutes. Beyond angry, Meg and I made it back to the Tourist Bureau where I yelled, asked for my ticket, waited, and finally got it in time to see that the ticket was useless, our train had left 5 minutes before. With no other way to begin our trip, we agreed to take the man’s advice and got in his friend’s very hyped-up taxi for an astounding price of $75 apiece. To give perspective, I would not spend this much money again until I had paid for food, lodging, travel across the most dangerous roads in India, and gifts for 7 days. When his taxi friend finally arrived, we were greeted by a man no taller than 4’10” with bug eyes and a car that was the size of a smart car and smelled like vomit and urine. We dubbed our driver “Yoda,” and climbed into his unmarked car at night, in Delhi, alone (with our girl parts,) and let him speed away into the pollutant haze. May I also add that he had no business card,taxi meter, and we never asked for any kind of driver’s license (my fault, I know.) At this point, I think I made my one and only intelligent move of the morning. I called my mom and told her, if anything happened, my mangled remains would be somewhere along the 350 km stretch of freeway between Delhi and Kalka, and that finding us would involve a 3-state search and virtually no information. She was surprisingly calm. She told me to call her when I arrived safely...? Sitting in the back of taxi was defiantly what I thought would be the closest I would come to dying ever, or at least on the trip. In our tiny tin can, we swerved in and out of lanes, speeding semi-trucks, cows, goats, humans, and avoided pot-holes. In Delhi and for around 150km outside, the smog is so thick that Indians call it “fog” and it makes visibility less than 200 feet in some places. When it is dark, as it was when we left, sometimes it is less, and driving 150 km/hour in such conditions is, well, unsafe. We had no choice though, and I closed my eyes, turned on a my NPR “This American Life” podcast and refused to open my eyes until the tires stopped and I couldn’t see a truck anywhere in my sight range. I gripped my mace for 5 ½ hours and when I opened my eyes, we were there, at the foot of the mighty Himalayas, in plenty of time to catch our train up to Shimla, for 8 days of alpine fun. The Kalka train station confirmed that we had been scammed: there, our tickets were fine and there was no need what-so-ever to register with the tourist bureau. After not sleeping the night before and the stress of Yoda’s taxi though, we didn’t even care, and just went straight to the train so that we could really begin our journey.
