The Long Way to the Golden Temple, Amritsar, India (Aug 2008)

It's the nicest and most expensive hotel I've stayed at on this trip, as evidenced by it's 24-hour hot water (I don't even have to turn on the electric heater and wait 20 minutes), toilet paper provided sans the little waste-basket next to the toilet, meaning I can actually flush it, and built-in air conditioning. With all this to luxuriate in, and breakfast on the lovely terrace, the motivation to strike out into the city is wilting.

While at breakfast I meet a middle-aged Indian woman, or rather woman of Indian descent, she's actually British. She's meeting her daughter here and showing her around, they will take a rickshaw to the Temple and then perhaps move on to a little Hindu temple outside of town where one prays for fertility. She is a chatterbox, I know all about her, her daughter, her family, her career, and her home in England after a couple cups of coffee; she seems about to invite me to join her in her tours today but I quickly explain that I plan to walk to the Golden Temple.

She is taken aback, why would I do that, the rickshaw is not expensive. But, I have all day to see the Temple, and if I take the rickshaw there I'll be done by noon and then what will I do? I have the time, instead I will wander through the city on foot and try to get a feel for it. It's my favorite way to experience new places, rather than zooming directly from one attraction to the next. Sometimes it works out, and I find little gems that no one has yet listed in a guidebook, and sometimes I just get shit on my shoes but I won't know what Amritsar has until I walk its alleys.

We part ways. I consult the map in my guidebook and set out, right on Queens Road to Court Road and then across the rail tracks to the Old City gate. Dusty and hot already and it's only 10am. There's a traffic circle outside the Hall Gate, a statue of Someone Important on a rearing horse and brandishing a sword. I walk around and into the gate, map check one more time--this should be easy, I will walk up the Hall Bazaar, past City Hall and the Bank, until it dead ends and then turn right, the Temple will be right in front of me.

I had high hopes for the Hall Bazaar. I wanted to see little stalls with vendors hawking their wares, spices and trinkets and household goods and the mishmash of essential and useless items. Instead, there are metal shutters drawn down over storefronts, and the signs indicate that these businesses serve the needs of those who need their sewing machines repaired, things like that. There will be nothing for me to touch and admire even when the grates open. There are no women in the streets, I'm the only one, and the men are staring openly. It's not so much that they're leering, although there's a healthy dose of leer going on, seems more like shock, like seeing a purple giraffe ambling down the street at 10am pretending that there are always purple giraffes in the street at 10am, nothing to see here move along.

I come to a little square, I was not supposed to come to a little square this is not on my map. In the name of adventure I choose the branch that seems to lead in the right direction, maybe there will be something lovely to see down there, something surprising and worthwhile, a secret between me and the city.

There's not. The alley is narrow and choked with rubbish, mangy dogs slink up and down the street flinching from anticipated blows. Men on scooters and motorcycles roar up and down the alley in the narrow center gutter. My alley peters out, I turn again, following instinct which may not be such a good idea, turn right again just trying to keep going in a straight line. I know the Temple is on a hill, and it's Golden, presumably at some point I will be able to sight the High Shiny Thing and just head towards it.

I see a flutter of color down another side alley and jog sideways, maybe there is something there? There is, but I don't really know what it is. A large gnarled tree, thick branches clawing out from almost ground level, with tattered orange garlands webbed through its limbs. There's a picture of something nested within the cloth, and some incense burning, a shrine of some kind but I have no idea what for. It's also the only living vegetation I've seen so far. I contemplate it for a while, trying to ignore the staring men zooming by on their scooters. At some point I shrug and turn away, contemplating is just making me stand in one place long enough to get a good long whiff of the raw sewage piled up a couple of feet away and the strays are circling me cautiously, trying to decide if I might have food or kicks for them.

I come out into another small square, there are rickshaw drivers all about, it's like a cab stand of sorts. Earlier, when I was more confident of location, the drivers would follow me, standing on the pedals, trying to coax me into their carriages. I demurred, I knew where I was, I was exploring! Now, though, I am standing there trying to look like a customer and am being ignored. Getting to the part of the city where rickshaw drivers ignore tourists is a sign, but I'm not sure if it's good or bad. I keep standing there, just can't believe that not one single rickshaw dude is going to try and make a customer out of me.

Finally, I approach one of them, ask how much to the Golden Temple. He grins, showing me blackened holes in his gums, and quotes 100 rupees. 100 rupees! That's what an auto-rickshaw would cost from the airport ten kilometers away, I may be lost but I am not that lost, I am not ready to pay the Lost Tax yet. It should be 20 rupees at most, but he is not even interested in bargaining. Again, a sign, but not sure how to interpret it.

I plunge back into another stinking alley, turning and turning. I find a street that looks promising, there is one stall of tourist crap open and that means I must not be too far from the concentration of tourists, which is the Golden Temple. Another turn and the trail is cold, back to shuttered metal storefronts and bug-eyed men. A man walking by sees me and stops, asks what I am looking for.

I know I shouldn't trust strange Indian men, but now I'm ready to pay the Lost Tax. Unfortunately, there are no rickshaws around. I ask this man where I can get a rickshaw, he asks again what I'm looking for and I admit that I am seeking the same thing every tourist in the old quarter of Amritsar seeks, the Big Shiny Thing on the Hill that I can't seem to locate.

"Oh, it is not far! I am going that way, follow me."

I do, even though I know I shouldn't, I was led astray by this same tactic in Morocco a few months ago. My options are limited, though. We wind deeper into the old quarter, I am following him and he asks questions over his shoulder, the same questions every stranger asks me: Where are you from, is this your first time in India, where are you staying, what is your name, what is your work... Thing is, while this is a standard introductory interrogation here, these are also very aggressive questions; it's the same information a predator would use to size up prey. I am defensive when he pushes for details on what hotel I'm at, "Near the train station" I say vaguely, he asks which hotel exactly, "I don't even remember," I am starting to get hostile but still following him. "Are we close?" I ask, "Oh yes, very close," but we have been very close for the last ten minutes and just seem to be burrowing deeper into unfriendly territory.

My warning bells are going off, I only realize this when I give him a fake name. I am getting angry, and feeling threatened in an unspecified way, and I start being outright rude, nearly haranguing him, does he know where we are, why does he keep saying we are close, where is he taking me, and then we turn a corner and at last I can see the Shiny Thing, he was leading me correctly the whole time.

I feel bad, now, for being so mean. He insists that he can take me around to the entrance, it is not so far from where he is going, but I hurriedly assure him that I can find my way now thank you, I will just circle the compound wall until I come to the gate. I duck away and wave, thanking him again, and with my eyes always on the golden spire start inching around to the main gate.

I loiter outside the gate, studying the scene and smoking. I need to get all my smoking in before I go through, the Sikh religion stipulates no cigarettes on the grounds and I will of course respect their holy site. I am equipped with a head covering as well. This is actually the only place where I don't slightly resent the interdiction against uncovered heads, as the same requirement is made of men and women equally. In fact, this is a central tenet of the Sikh faith, that they do no discriminate by gender, race, religion, or creed. All are equal, and all are welcome.

I stub out my cigarette to the disapproving looks of the Punjabi men around me, but again their disapproval is not that I am a woman immodestly smoking, but that I am a human polluting the temple of my body. Again, it is a more evenly applied judgment and thus one I find somehow less offensive. I pull my bandana over my hair and cross to the gate.

There are Sikh warriors flanking the gate, in their dramatic turbans and flowing garments, intimidating spears upright. This is three of the five pieces of Sikhism, the five Ks: if I recall correctly from my reading, it is unshorn hair, a wooden comb, an iron bracelet, a spear, and long pants. It's a religion of style and accessories, I smirk irreverently to myself, and pass through the gate.

In the courtyard I am directed off to the side, where there is a shoe check, no shoes are permitted in the temple. I leave my socks tucked into my shoes, there is a foot-washing requirement prior to entering the main compound. It goes against instinct, going barefoot in India, but it is also I suppose the cleanest floor in India as everyone who enters has just washed their feet. There's no charge at the cloakroom, not even a tip jar, this is another refreshing change, part of the "all are welcome" aspect of Sikhism. It is always a bit strange visiting holy sites of faiths I don't ascribe to, I always feel as if there is some level of understandable resentment from the devout towards the tourist with the camera. But not here, they want me here, and not for my tourist dollars, they want me to come here and share their faith.

I approach the steps, pausing in the shallow trough of water to rinse my feet with everyone else. The water is running, not still, and runs clean; I'm sure I could still probably manage to contract river blindness if I tried but I feel somehow safe. The peace of this place is already washing away the earlier panic and confusion, it is working. I enter through the main gate, and now I understand why I had such trouble seeing the High Shiny Thing before. The famous Golden Temple, the familiar image, is inside a walled compound taller than it's spires, invisible from the outside. Stepping in, it is breathtaking.

It glows in the middle of the sacred reservoir, a slim bridge connecting it to the pure marble walkways surrounding the small lake. Beautiful and sublime from every angle, and I want to savor it, I am not entering the temple yet. I amble slowly around the circumference. As I walk, barefoot and bandana'd, a small group of Indians approaches me, two women in beautifully hued saris and a man. I would usually respond to advancing strangers with wariness, but I don't feel wary here with my clean feet, so I smile as they grow nearer.

One of the women asks me where I am from. "New York," I say. What is my name. "Kate," I say, no fake names for her. "You are welcome here," she says, I think this is the end of her English but it was important to her to approach me, a clear stranger here, and welcome me. All faiths, all genders, all races, all creeds. We bow slightly to each other, I thank her for her welcome, and we amble off slowly in opposite vectors on the marble paths.

I'm ready now for the temple, and I queue up on the causeway with the throngs of people patiently awaiting access. I can't take pictures in here so I tuck my camera away, inching down the bridge to the temple and past another pair of fiercely attired warriors. It's packed but there is no pushing, and I ride the current of worshipers around the temple staring as hard as I can all around me, trying to absorb the glowing and ornate decorations, the beautiful flowers scattered everywhere, and then am slowly advanced towards the back of the temple, where it opens onto the reservoir.

This is the holy water of the Sikhs. I know enough not to drink it, although the faithful do, it may be holy but that is no way means it's purified and I walked past mostly naked men bathing in this same water on the other side of the courtyard. There's an older woman with a pitcher stationed just at the water's edge, and as I come past her she proffers it. I have watched others before me and I nod, extending cupped hands over the water so that she can pour a bit over my fingers, giving me a blessing.

We herd ourselves on, there is no one guiding us out but there is a sense of fairness, we must allow the next people their chance for a blessing, all in due turn. Back down the causeway and craning my neck to look behind me, still savoring the rich beauty of this place. Back on the marble, I stop to sit for awhile on the ledge of the pool. After a few moments, one of the costumed guards approaches me, and gently gestures that I am not permitted to sit there. It is very kind, though, no fierce warning to disrespectful tourists.

I wander through the compound a bit more, and turning find the canteen. Yes, I read about this, I meant to go here! This is the communal eating hall, and part of a pilgrimmage to the Temple must be a meal here. The Sikh religion says that they offer food and shelter to all who ask, that all are equal and may eat equally. I join the line, I am the only non-Indian here. There were other tourists like me in the main courtyard but they have not ventured this far. I am given a plate and follow the stairs up to an airy chamber open on three sides with fluted balustrades giving windows on the hazy hot sky. There are long mats rolled down the length of the hall, and I follow the people in front of me as they sit down in lines. Once we sit, with our plates and an cup that was also given to us, men come down the line with food, ladling a spicy black bean concoction onto our plates, some rice I think, and water into our cups. Another man follows him dispensing chapati, Indian flatbread. I am looking all around me, trying to follow what others are doing, and I reach up with one hand to accept the bread, the plate in my other hand. The man handing out bread corrects me with gestures, I must accept the bread with two hands to show respect.

I hurriedly correct my bread acceptance, and he nods smiling and moves on. We begin to eat, and the people on either side of me are stealing sideways looks and grinning with delight to have me in their midst. They ask me where I am from, what my name is in halting English, "You are welcome," "you are welcome." I don't think I've ever felt such unreserved acceptance in my life.

"Thank you, thank you," I smile back, and then the meal is over and it is someone else's turn to eat here, so I turn my plate back into the volunteers waiting to accept them and tuck 100 rupees into the donation box.

There is No Train Today, Maybe, Kangra, India (Aug 2008)

I am trying one last time to snap a photo of the monkeys playing on the roof, to no avail; they are uncooperative in the extreme, coming within five feet of me and staring until I fumble for the camera and then merrily scampering over the roofline. I have a lot of pictures of the roof, or a monkey tail vanishing over the edge, but no monkey pictures and I am leaving McLeod Ganj in an hour so I suppose the monkeys will just remain undocumented, lost to posterity. I’ve been in this town for less than 24 hours and have been waiting to leave for half of that, the monsoon rains are the most intense I’ve seen and the Dalai Lama is out on tour, the rock star of religion, and there is not much to see or do here other than fail to take pictures of monkeys.

The up side of leaving earlier than planned is that I will have time to ride the Kangra Valley toy train. The famous one is in Darjeeling, but that is on the other side of the Himalayas and not on my itinerary. The Kangra train is the little known, poor cousin version, but it is nearby and Darjeeling is not. Information on the train is scant, as its not a tourism highlight, but I have assiduously scoured the Rail System website and determined that if I can get there by 10am I can catch one that will get to Pathankot in time to connect to the main rail system and head on to Amritsar by the end of the day. Getting to Kangra by 10am on public transportation was going to be a hell of a trip, it’s not that far from McLeod Ganj but it is not really the distance that determines the difficulty, it was going to be a 5am bus down to Dharamsala and then waiting for another bus to Kangra and then a rickshaw out to the train station, I wussed out and went the non-shoestring route and booked a cab to take me directly to the train. I am losing shoestring backpacker points, but I will also probably get there on time and not get stuck in Kangra.

I pack up the last few items in my room and lock the door behind me, I am going to the café to wait for my cab to arrive. While I am sipping coffee on the veranda, overlooking the mist obscuring the mountains and keeping an eye out for a glimpse of monkey tail, a monk joins me. This is not uncommon in McLeod Ganj, seat of the Tibetan government in exile, and as we talk he tells me he is actually from Delhi. I comment that I haven’t gone there yet, but will be there in a week or two, and in the liltingly accented English that is common here he says, “Oh but Delhi is terrible, terrible! It is full of murder and rape and death, all the time people being murdered and robbed. Terrible, terrible, not even safe for tourists, nowhere is safe, there is rape and killing and murder…” This is not comforting.

The man at reception waves at me, my taxi has arrived. I bid farewell to the monk who is convinced that within a week my body will be found in a dumpster somewhere in Delhi and duck outside in the rain, not worth popping my umbrella for the two seconds it will take me to climb in, I haven’t bothered snugging the rain cover over my pack either. We careen down twisty rutted paths in the pouring rain and I am grateful that I have eschewed the bus, I have had enough of lumbering vehicles wheezing around curves on glorified goat paths, I am looking forward to trains, trains, trains. A monkey! But he is gone too fast or I am, and I have a picture of a blurry roadside.

We don’t talk very much, my driver and I, and I prefer it that way. We get to Kangra and wend our way through town and out of it, over a bridge and then he pulls over. There’s no train station here. He explains that there is no road to the train station, I will need to follow a cobbled footpath through this little hamlet, then over a bridge, and up the hill. I am not sure I trust him, my guidebook said nothing about this, and why the hell have a rail station that is inaccessible? This is India, I have given up expecting things to make sense, so I shoulder my pack and pull the hood of my sweatshirt over my head. Not worth popping my umbrella, not in this crowded alley, and it can’t be that far anyway.

I am the only farang in sight. I orient one more time from the taxi, confirming that I am headed up the correct alley, and feel a little abandoned as I watch my driver turn around and drive off. He was supposed to make sure this went smoothly, that was the point. I walk up the path, it’s steep and the rude steps are slick with streams of water running off from the monsoon rains. I’m a little hungry and there are a couple of street meat stalls, but there is supposedly food available on the train and I will trust that a little more than this. I’m wearing sandals, and they slip off my feet once or twice, I almost want to kick them off and go barefoot.

A few minutes and I have emerged by a riverbank, the same one we crossed earlier. Sure enough there is a bridge, for foot traffic only. I walk out from under the close eaves of the shacks that have been shielding me from the rain onto the bridge, and stop to take a couple of pictures. There are life size statues of Shiva or maybe Vishnu, on the riverbank, or I suppose human size since they don’t exist in life really. I have been mostly up in the high mountains, where there is some Hinduism but mostly Buddhism, so this is a change and I am still having trouble really getting the idea that the people here make sacrifices to these statues by the river, and worship here.

Over the bridge and another twisty pathway leading up into the thickly wooded forest and there had better be a train here after all but the path must go somewhere and I am going wherever this path is going. I pass a group of Indian businessmen cowering from the rain, they are headed the same direction in their damp, ill-fitting suits, yes the train must be this way.

It is 9:15am when I turn the corner and arrive at the station, dank and dirty as it is. There are some people waiting here already, this is a good sign. The ticket window is closed, there is a sign explaining that it will be open 15 minutes prior to the train’s scheduled arrival so I sit down to wait, trying to be unobtrusive.

I am failing spectacularly at being unobtrusive. The women are staring at me with eyes shielded by saris, and the children are not even trying to shield their curious eyes. A man eating something fried out of a paper envelope walks up to me and offers to share, I shake my head and smile and try to pull myself in, I am waiting on the station agent and scribbling in my travel journal, notes about the monkeys and the annoying Belgian who was stalking me in McLeod. A younger man, actually quite handsome, walks over to me and says, “There is no train today, you must not wait here,” but I don’t trust him. He says, “Where do you want to go, I will help you, come with me,” but he is too smooth, his English is too good and there are people here waiting for a train and I will wait with them. He writes his phone number on a scrap of paper and presses it into my hand, says “Call me if you need help,” and leaves. I didn’t think he would actually leave, if this is a bluff it’s not too shabby but I will wait, the station agent hasn’t arrived yet and these people must be waiting for something.

One of the little girls has been slowly sidling closer to me, sneaking up on the tall pale stranger. She tugs on one of the straps of my back and smiles at me, says hello in Hindi, “Namaste,” and I smile and say hello back. Then she asks me if she can have my pen. This is pretty common here, for some reason the kids always ask for pens, and I say no, it’s the only one I have. She pouts. If I thought kids were cute I might think this were cute, but even then I wouldn’t give her my pen and I don’t think kids are cute anyway. I am trying not to growl, though, I am foreign enough without violating the social precept that anyone with a womb must love children, so I smile as I wave her off.

She does not wave off. Oh, a few feet but then she sidles back and starts tugging on the straps again. Her mother is watching her, and by the time I am seriously considering nudging this child with my foot in a way that is probably going to be more like a kick mom calls her back over, giving me a complicit smile over the child’s head. Oh, aren’t they so cute. Not really, but the brat is gone so I can smile about that and I do.

At last, the station agent has arrived, a figure of authority. The other group of Indian businessmen has left as well, they too approached me to say that there were no trains today and offered to take me where I needed to go, but I didn’t trust them either, and these families are still waiting so I will wait with them. I hover as the middle-aged man in a smart suit opens up the office, but he doesn’t open the ticket window. I stand outside the door that says “No Entrance” and peer through the screen, knocking at last. Can I buy a ticket for the train to Pathankot?

“No, there is no train today, the tracks are washed out.” But I saw a train go in the other direction! “Yes that is a different train on a different track.” Now I know that can’t be right, there’s barely one track out here much less two, there’s not even a road to this station for Chrissake. Was there a train yesterday? “Yes, there were trains yesterday, but not today,” and he gestures at the rain pouring down all around us. What about tomorrow, will there be a train tomorrow? “Yes, there will be a train tomorrow,” really? For sure? “Yes, they will fix the tracks today,” well does that mean there might be trains later today?

Right about then a train pulls up, heading in the direction I want to go. I start to scramble for it, the families are all packing up their things and squeezing aboard, but my oily, unctuous station manager smiles beatifically and says, “That is not your train.” I almost get on board anyway, it is at least going in the right direction but I hesitate, I am kind of stranded here in Kangra but at least it is listed in my guidebook and I have some resources here, if this train in fact does not proceed on the only track out here to my destination I may well end up stranded somewhere in between.

I watch the train pull out of the station, mouth slightly open in disbelief. Obviously the track is not completely washed out, and I ask him again if there will be a train later today, even if there is not one at 10am. “Yes, it is possible,” Really? I am questioning him closely, because if there is going to be a train I can wait here, it will mean a later train at Pathankot and getting Amritsar later at night but I will still get there and I will have gotten my toy train ride so it is worth considering, the other options are pretty grim, he reverses, “No there will be no trains today. …Maybe.”

I want to strangle him. At this point I know I can’t believe anything he says, he is now just casting about for the right platitude to make this tall blonde farang with the light eyes stop glaring at him. He wants to tell me what I want to hear, whether or not it is true. I sit down again to wait for a little while. Another family comes into the station, and there is a reprise of the Small Child Being Fucking Annoying act, and then another train! I get up, look around for the station manager, that oily smile again as the families climb on board, if he is not actually waggling a forefinger at me he is thinking about it so hard that he might as well be, “That is not your train.” Will my train come later? “Yes, it will come later.” Really?! “…Maybe.”

I retreat to my bench, light a cigarette, and flop open my guidebook again to study options. He approaches me, “You would not see anything today anyway, bad weather,” he’s trying to mollify me. I ask again if the train will come later, he firmly says, “No.” Are you sure? No words, just that smile again. Ok. This isn’t working. I can wait here for a train that probably won’t come. I can retreat to Kangra, spend the night there and then try again tomorrow, or I can backtrack all the way to McLeod Ganj and take the direct bus from there to Amritsar the following morning and chalk up the past two days to a waste of travel time. But I want trains, trains, trains, I am so sick of buses I want a train.

My guide says that there are local buses from Kangra to Pathankot. If I leave now, I can probably get there in time for the train to Amritsar, but it going to mean admitting defeat here. The Indian trains have defeated many a lesser mortal, and they seem to have conquered me as well, so after two hours sitting in the dank station I sigh and stand up, buckling my pack back around my waist, and head out into the rain towards Kangra proper. Back down the trail, across the river and I’m not bothering to take pictures now, through the cobbled path and down the wet stairs and back out to where the taxi dropped me off hours ago. I have a new problem, I don’t know where the main town is. I know I need to get there to reach the central bus station, but should I go back the way the taxi came down from McLeod, or further on down the main road? There are bus stops on both sides of the road, I just need to figure out which one I need.

I approach a group of women standing on the near side of the road, I am trying to talk to women rather than men because I have been so thoroughly warned about devious rapacious men in this country. Unfortunately, the women are far less likely to be educated, they don’t speak English at all, just shyly shake their heads and avert their eyes. In frustration I turn to a man standing alone, ask him if he speaks English. “A little,” he says cautiously. Where is the bus to Kangra? “Yes, yes.” Kangra. The town, where is it? “Yes, yes.” Kangra! Which way? I point one way and then the other, hoping he will give an affirmative to one and not the other, but again “Yes, yes.” These people do not know how to say no. The bus? To Kangra?

We have been doing this little “who’s on first” routine for a few minutes when a crowded bus pulls up on the other side of the street. I point at the bus and say, “Kangra??” and he says, “Yes, yes.” I wish he’d said no to at least one thing so I could feel confident that he differentiates between yes and no. I cross the street and squeeze onto the bus. I ask the driver, “Kangra?” and he nods. Off we go, shuddering and shaking and we are crossing the bridge again and turning into a town, we reach what seems to be a central stop and the bus driver gestures to me, this is where I want to get off. How can he know that? But I guess where else would I be going but out of this place. I step off the bus onto the corner and look around. I ask someone where the bus station is, they tell me I will need a rickshaw. How far? Too far, you must take a rickshaw. Really, if it’s less than a mile I’d rather walk, if I get lost on my own two feet at least I know how I got there but nobody will give me directions they just say “rickshaw” and “yes, yes.”

There is a rickshaw waiting on the corner, I run over and say “Bus station” and he nods, I squeeze in with a couple of others. Off we go, wheezing and rattling up the road, and a few minutes later I get out at the bus station, it was less than a mile away. This place is actually pretty big, a columned hall with many windows and a couple of snack bars. I grab a couple of bags of potato chips and some crackers and wander around until I find the inquiry window. Where is the bus to Pathankot? He tells me it is in berth 37, and it leaves in 20 minutes. I can buy my ticket on the bus. I walk outside and look up, there are numbers on all of the columns, I just need to find 37.

I circle the building twice, the numbers stop at 35.

I go back in to the inquiry window--where is 37? He points. I shake my head. He points again. I shake my head again, and if this dude starts saying “yes, yes” I probably am going to try to kill him. He rolls his eyes and steps outside the booth, walks me over to the door and points to the next building. Ah. There’s a 37 painted on a small stand there with a bus in front of it, empty. I walk across and find the driver standing beside the bus, I ask him, “Pathankot?” He nods and I climb on board. I’m the first one on the bus and I sit up front, squeezing my bag above me into the luggage rack I am glad I got here early, otherwise there might not be room. I lean into the window and open my book, waiting for our departure as the bus fills up.

Ten minutes later everyone starts to move, I look up in confusion. We are all getting off the bus, it seems, a man stops to tap my shoulder and point at another bus, it seems that is the bus to Pathankot after all not this one. I pull down my bag and scurry over, but now I am the last one on the bus instead of the first and end up teetering precariously on the edge of a seat in the middle with my bag finally crammed in overhead. Shortly after we rumble off.

I have no idea where we are, this road, whatever it is, isn’t marked on my map. I am trying to stay alert, wary about all the strange Indian men around me, ready to fend off lewd advances on a crowded bus if necessary. We stop frequently, people get on and off and the Punjabi conductor, or whatever the appropriate term is, squeezes up and down the aisle and over bags to collect fares at irregular intervals. There are no lewd advances, but man I wish I could feel confident that everyone had showered within the last week but it certainly doesn’t smell like it. I zone out, a little, not even reading just hunching into myself on this sweaty, humid bus.

A beautiful young girl boards the bus in a fuschia sari. She’s with her mother, and they crowd onto the edge of whatever seat they can find. She’s gorgeous, and fully decorated with henna in her hair and a bindi on her forehead and intricate patterns dyed onto her hands and feet. She is also apparently carsick. Every ten minutes or so she rushes to the door of the bus and vomits on the side of the road. The bus doesn’t stop moving. I am alert now, because this gal is actually pretty close to me and of the many ways that this day could probably get worse, being covered in vomit is one of them and I am preparing to fling myself out of the way if called upon to do so.

That doesn’t happen. What happens instead is that the bus stops. There’s a incomprehensible negotiation between the bus driver and the conductor, and suddenly everyone is getting off the bus again, but this is clearly not Pathankot. I follow, what else am I going to do? As we disembark the problem becomes clear. The road has washed out here, the bus can’t get over the bridge its too unstable. There’s a bus on the other side in the same predicament, so we are applying a typical Indian solution: we are switching buses. My busload of people trudges over the bridge, the opposing busload of people pass over to our bus, and all aboard… again.

This time there’s no room overhead for my bag, so I have it crammed onto my lap. We are degenerating slowly here, taxi to train to bus to bus to bus and I am not sure where the bottom is but I’m pretty sure I’ll find out by the end of the day. At least the vomiting girl is further away from me now. We continue on, and on, some interminable time of rain-streaked windows, and then we stop. I look up, peer out the window, this doesn’t look promising, but everyone is getting off the bus. Again.

We all get off, and half of the crowd disperses, we are in some kind of town but I have no idea where. I turn around a couple of times, I am about to ask my eternal question, “Pathankot?” and wait for the inevitable “yes, yes,” when a skinny middle-aged man takes pity on me in my evident confusion, touches my arm gently and points me to yet another bus. How does he know where I’m going? Where else would I be going, I am not waiting for Godot per se but it is pretty similar.

Another bus and we are coming out of the mountains now, the rain is clearing up so it is less humid but still hot, hot, hot. We turn onto a smooth, paved highway. There are road signs here, they say “Pathankot 22 km.” I am counting down kilometers, and we are still on the outskirts of the city and I’m not sure that this bus goes all the way to the train station, we stop and everybody is getting off again, this must be Pathankot, I turn a quizzical look to my helper from earlier in the day and he nods, this is Pathankot.

Now I have to find the train.

Paragliding in Manali, India (Aug 2008)

Finally, a clear morning.

I’ve been stalking the adventure sports outfits in Manali for two days, waiting for a morning without monsoon rains so that I can jump off a mountain with a sheet tied around my neck. I’ve never been paragliding before, and I’m not sure it would have ever occurred to me as a thing to do until I read in my guidebook that Manali was a major center for paragliding. My guidebook wasn’t entirely sure that it still would be, as the operation was shut down for a few years after a few tourists jumped off mountains with sheets tied around their necks and failed to fly, instead dropping into the valley below in a distinctly non-superhero fashion. My luck is in, though, or out depending on your perspective, and the industry for dumbass tourists to leap to their probable deaths is back up and running. Of course, it’s pouring buckets of rain all day every day, and on the only clear morning we’ve had so far the jump shops were all closed for some reason. I’m leaving today, already booked my bus ticket on to McLeod Ganj for this evening, and I was afraid I’d wake up to rain again, no reason to expect otherwise. But fortune has smiled—or frowned, again depends on your perspective—and I am hovering outside the jump shop up the street from my hostel in Old Manali for an hour before someone finally shows up.

While I’m waiting, hunched on a slight stoop and trying to keep my feet out of the way of the motorcycle traffic occasionally roaring up this narrow alley, I am joined by others, waiting for who knows what, this is a country where people wait, especially tourists who can’t let go of that idea that things will actually happen when they are supposed to. We don’t talk, at least not to each other although the Israeli kids who came up here to party for the full moon are exuberant as they tease each other about being afraid of the snake guy. Said snake guy has pulled up a section of dirty stoop right next to me and spread out his baskets and bags of reptiles, and take a break from caressing his cobra to offer it to the Israelis, look ma I played with deadly snakes in India. He’s offered it to me as well, I didn’t jump away, I’m not scared of snakes and I know this one doesn’t have venom anymore but I have no interest in holding a cobra while someone takes the obligatory picture. The snake guy is impressed by my nonchalance, and when the larger snake slithers off his arm for a moment to explore the gal sitting next to him he is even more impressed when I absently stroke it’s satiny scales and then hand it back. He asks for a cigarette and I give it to him, then turn away slightly, I’m really not in the mood to gesture through a conversation right now I just want the dude running the jump shop to show the fuck up.

Only half an hour later he shows up, that ain’t too bad for India. I follow him in eagerly as he raises the metal curtain over the windows, “I want to jump today.” He looks around at the clearing skies and offers me a few price options, the cheapest jump isn’t going to end up so cheap for me since I’m going alone and I’d need to take a cab to the jump site, if it’s a few people going the company springs for it but not for just one. We talk about the high jump, it’s a little more expensive but he says he’ll include transportation for that one so it works out and I am going to jump from high over the valley, flight time should be around 20 minutes.

He has to call the pilot, and I have to check out of my hotel since I won’t be back before checkout, at least not reliably as we’ve learned nothing is reliable here. I throw my pack together and leave it in the hostel office pending my return, I’ll need to change clothes when I get back before my night bus ride. Back to the office and my pilot is waiting, he’s a little shorter than me and very fit, we don’t talk much as he leads me away from the office to our ride in a nearby parking lot, and by parking lot I mean abandoned corner of concrete somehow wedged into the alley.

It’s a motorcycle, the ubiquitous Enfield Bullet, and I am grinning on the inside while maintaining a solemn demeanor, I wish Gina and Maarten hadn’t left this morning so I could share the joke with them. These old British bikes are the transit of choice for machismo’d out locals and tourists alike, and the day before we’d seen a flyer advertising a Bullet for sale, touting amongst it’s many virtues the bike’s capacity as a “Babe Magnet.” This in turn led to a spirited discussion of how the magnet might function, if the babes were only magnetized when they were on the bike and thus the owner would be required to remain on the bike at all times, rendering some difficulties in reaping the benefits of said magnetic effects. Was the bike calibrated to a specific kind of babe, and if not would such calibration be possible or would the owner be saddled with magnetic babes of all stripes despite his personal babe inclinations?

I climb astride the Babe Magnet, and I must admit I do feel a little magnetized. We’re now part of that roaring motorcycle traffic and tourists leap out of the way to preserve their toes for another day, heading down the steep slope from Old Manali to the new town. Naturally there are no helmets, these roads are shit and my driver along with all the others drives like a madman, I’d hate to crack my skull open on the road, I’d like to save my skull-cracking for the mountain.

Through the old town and then turn up the road to the pass, I have no idea where we’re going but it’s a beautiful day and the wind is in my hair and I’m gawking around at the glorious beauty of this Himalayan valley with the sun on my face and a huge grin stretching my cheeks, what my dad would call a bug-catcher grin. We roar along passing the occasional TATA truck, and WOW what was that I give a brief shout of delight, off to our right in a roadside ditch a young boy is rinsing off a weary-looking elephant with a hose, it’s my first elephant sighting in India I wish I had my camera out but we are already going past, I am craning my neck backwards but its gone already, my pilot is aware that I am reacting to something and he smiles a little when he realizes what, silly tourist but I don’t care I finally saw an elephant. This ride is worth it already, I’d much rather be going up the mountain to my probable death riding pillion on a Babe Magnet and nearly falling off when I see an elephant than crammed into the back of a cab with three other people.

We pull over at turnout, we are waiting for something but I don’t know what. My pilot points to a knob of rock far above us, that is where we will jump from. We hover in the sunlight, I’m smoking nervously and then another car pulls up and disgorges four other guys, I guess this is what we’ve been waiting for, the parachute. There is some discussion amongst them and then he gestures me back to the bike, they will follow us or meet us there or I’m not sure exactly what the plan is but apparently there is a plan. Back we go up the twisty road, climbing back up towards the Rohtang Pass. I came over that pass three days ago in blinding rain, the name of the pass literally translates to “Piles of Dead Bodies,” which was naturally immensely comforting, especially when we stopped because a bulldozer had to squeeze alongside us on the narrow road to make repairs before we went over it. Today is clear so far, but the clouds are moving back in and it will probably rain before the day is out and I would like to not be on this road on a motorcycle when that happens, I tested my luck quite enough when I survived it the first time.

This, of course, from a woman who is heading up for the specific purpose of jumping off the mountain.

Up, and onwards, up the switchbacks and then we pull over at a roadside chai stand, we are waiting again, we beat the guys with the parachutes. My pilot buys me a chai, we make a little small talk but I’m not really in the mood and he’s not either. There are a few other people up here for the same reason and I have a chance to watch them jump, they fly over my head and into the valley with whoops of delight. Soon that will be me, and I am comforted by seeing them not-die, not-plummet-like-a-rock-to-their-inevitable-and-painful-death.

The other group has cleared the jump site now, and our chute has shown up, it’s my turn. We cross the road and climb up a steep hill for a few minutes, the track is muddy and slick. I’m carrying my day bag, containing everything I wasn’t comfortable leaving in the hostel office, like my passport, money, guidebook, and it looks like I threw a spare sweater in there too. Said day bag wasn’t designed for this purpose, it’s actually a handbag I picked up at a street fair in Brooklyn earlier this summer, and it slides off my shoulder, unsettling my precarious balance. I stumble and slide sideways in the mud, this is awesome. My only task was to walk ten meters up the hill, most people who come out here do multi-day treks and I am falling down already. My pilot comes back and picks me up, takes my bag in addition to the giant parachute-containing backpack he is also carrying. I am glad I am not with a group, there is noone to witness this particular iteration of clumsy incompetence except the pilot and his friend and I am sure they expected it anyway.

They spread out the chute on the mountainside, it’s blue. My guy takes my bag and shoves it into the back of the harness, suits me up with a helmet. He explains that after he gets in the harness I will strap on in front of him, when he says “go” we will run in tandem down the mountain for a minute or two and then jump as the parachute lifts into the thermals. He takes my camera and attaches the lanyard to the harness, and we buckle in.

I’m nervous, and scared, and excited—I don’t have a fear of heights but I do have a fear of falling, with good reason as I manage to fall down on a regular basis, and now I am going to fall on purpose. He gives me the signal and here we go, run run run and slip on the mud and I fall down sure enough, but its too soon to fall down he is urging me back up we still need to run so up and run run run and

Im flying over the chai stand and the highway and woosh to my left a huge bird wingspan must be three feet at least and we are sharing the same air the same thermal he cruising along just as we are and its so quiet up here no sounds just the softest of ssssh sounds from the wind and Im looking down between my boots at the valley below us carved by the silver ribbon of the river and tilt we are angling over to the cliff face and whoosh back over the valley on the other side and the wind is still making that ssssh sound and I am making little sounds of ecstasy Im flying now flying look up at the blue canopy darker than the blue of the sky beyond the bird is gone flew off somewhere else from where we are flying I am flying dropping gently through the air swaying slightly from side to side as we ride the winds down around the shoulders of the hills I am reaching out to try and touch the clouds the way a baby clumsily grasps for a bright toy I want to feel the clouds we are flying and down gently down slowly down and whoosh and rocking side to side as my pilot zeros in on our landing zone I want to stay up here forever and down the rocky expanse hes chosen for us getting ever closer hes explained that he will just set up gently down butts on the ground and we will slide to a stop I don’t want this to stop ever ground getting closer and close and bumping down on the ground sliding gently to a stop and I am still making those little noises but they are sad now because its over.

Night Train to Jaipur, India (Aug 2008)

The train station is filthy, but I’m used to that by now. I’m an hour early, even though there’s no need for it and particularly in this country, but I’ve been hanging around Agra all day just waiting for this train. I’m nervous because I’ll arrive in Jaipur at midnight; despite my best efforts, I’ve arrived or departed almost every place I’ve been in India in the dead of night or the pre-dawn dark, flouting all the advice against a woman alone walking through town with a backpack in the dark. Sometimes it just has to be done, and this was the only train to Jaipur with seats available and so it is that I’m sitting in a train station on my backpack at 7pm with a flimsy paper cup full of warm chai tea.

I’m not sitting for long, though; almost as soon as I sit down a teenage boy comes over to me, gesturing to his now-vacant place on a bench. There are a couple of other boys that seem to be with him, and I accept his offer warily, having been unpleasantly harassed by a pack of teenage boys on a train platform in Pathankot last week. Nothing too terrible, they just swarmed around me gawping while I smoked a cigarette, asking a few broken questions about whether or not I drink or am married, which is really all code for “how much of a whore are you.” Not too terrible, but still nothing I’d care to repeat. So I’m a little wary accepting this kid’s offer, but he is beaming a beautiful open smile and being extremely courteous, so I relax a little.

He’s quiet for a few moments, mostly just stealing glances at me, and then the questions begin. Where am I from, where have I been in India, is it my first time in India, am I traveling alone, do I have any brothers or sisters, what is my profession. I have had this exact conversation countless times in the past few weeks; it would appear that English is taught primarily as an interrogation technique. Again, though, this kid is nice, and his questions aren’t aggressive, and he stops to tell me about himself as well. His English is pretty good, and he’s traveling alone too, headed home to some tiny town that I can’t pronounce and never heard of. He’s a student, and he shows me his textbooks, asking my thoughts on his biology homework (which is in English). The other boys get into the conversation as well, a spirited debate in Hindi that I don’t understand as they are asking him to ask me more questions.

He tells me that he has a sister, too, and that they’ve just celebrated Rikhi. Wait, I’ve heard of this, I just read about it in that huge Vikram Seth novel I just finished. It’s a holiday for siblings, which is the most important familial bond in Indian society; a day when brothers give their sisters ceremonial bracelets as gifts, pledging each year to care for their sisters throughout their lives, and the sisters give bracelets back, conveying a blessing on their brothers’ heads. It sounds like a lovely tradition, and he tells me a little more about it, and then ends by tying a simple bracelet around my wrist. I’m his sister too, now, and he’s given his pledge that he’ll look after me.

His train is coming soon, but before it does he asks to write something for me in my travel journal. I hand it over and loan him a pen, and he writes in both Hindi and English:

“My name is Pradeep.

I am live in Gwalior.

I wish for your golden future my dear stranger.”

And then my brother leaves to board his train back to Gwalior. The other boys have lost interest or melted away, and my train is delayed yet again so I’m still waiting here. I wander over and join a group of farangs sitting on their backpacks, and start chatting with an Australian guy who is also traveling by himself—he recognized me from earlier that day at the Agra Fort, when he saw me sitting in the midst of Moghul ruins under the only tree in the courtyard, writing in my journal. He’s going the opposite direction, as are the rest of the group around him, to Varanasi. He comments on how “brave” I am to be traveling alone. This is another conversation I’ve had over and over, and by now my stock reply is, “Well, it’s brave if I survive, and stupid if I die. We’ll see how it turns out.” As we talk, I realize he’s been scammed three times already and he’s only been in India for three days, and he has no idea what class of train ticket he has or which car to get into, or which track his train will be arriving on. I may have been ripped off by a rickshaw driver or two but I’m way more seasoned than this kid, and that comforts me.

My train arrives, and there’s a scramble to find my sleeper reservation. I’m comparing notes with some Czech tourists that are also headed my way, and we board the train quickly, our backpacks brushing against other passengers as they’re too wide for the aisle. I reserved a lower berth, and once I find my place I lean my pack against the corner and secure it with my cable lock, a move that is likely entirely unnecessary, but will at least keep it in place. In my compartment, the berth directly across from me is occupied by a smiling young man. I smile back but only a little, he starts to ask me his questions in English and I just shake my head. He’s nice enough but I’m tired of talking now, I’m tired of being what these people want me to be. I lean against my pack and stretch out on the grubby pad wrapped in light blue vinyl. Most of the families that are traveling on this train have brought sheets with them, or at least a lungi, but I’m filthy anyway from my day tooling around Agra in the heat and I just don’t care enough to dig out my sarong and spread it out.

The train is dark, all the compartment lights are off and the ones in the aisle, too. I’m a little concerned as to how I’ll know when we arrive; there are no announcements, and the station signs are primarily in Hindi. If it were a daytime train I’d know that someone would tell me, but most of these people are sleeping all the way to Jaisalmer. I read a little bit with my flashlight, but only a few pages, it was mostly to convince the guy across from me that I’m not up for conversation. He’s turned over on his berth and is dozing now. The train is flying across the countryside, full moon bright on the plains and occasional trees as we move into a more arid climate, the gateway to the Great Thar Desert. I’m lying down, looking up through the bars across the glassless windows and feeling the cool night breeze sweeping by. Watching that big, beautiful, bright moon, which is watching me back through the bars on the train window, a lone farang stretched out and at peace moving across India.