What Hollie's mind looks like frozen

Into The Belly of Delhi

Before we arrived at Delhi I very wisely relinquished Damsel’s reins. Moonho very tentatively took them, and into the crazy cauldron of car strew we plunged.
The Delhi road system appears to be a sentient being. There exists no order of the likes we are used to, but there is something almost organic about the way it functions. Vehicles of all sizes and descriptions surge forward like blood corpuscles in a vein, tumbling alongside one another in the unified attempt to get somewhere other than here. Sooner or later, however, the blood thickens, the veins become congested, and the corpuscles become stuck. This time is generally used to honk horns frequently and loudly, preferably popping a few ear drums in the process.

Despite their rowdy behaviour, vehicles in Delhi are a rather affectionate bunch. They are constantly getting up close and personal, brushing against one another in the manner of cats. Maintaining your own space means having an inch gap on all sides. One mm clearance is considered ample if you want to get past another roaring piece of metal. Any less than that and, needless to say, you have again become a marooned corpuscle in the sluggish veins of a man who eats way too much ghee.

You can sense cars sucking in their tummies in order to squeeze through the crowd, and almost hear them expel a breath of relief after spilling into the intersection. Many intersections have traffic lights, but no one relies on them to indicate the safety of moving forward. The way to judge whether it is safe to move forward is to measure your determination against others’ determination. Who is more desperate to get onto the next road? After the dominant drivers have made themselves known, they will gush forward with the flow, gaining momentum until they hit another ebb. Meanwhile, those left behind wait a bit longer. Or a lot longer.

Moonho tackled all this with admirable resolution. He bumped along with the best of them, intuitively picking up the rules of this many-veined beast as we went along. On the roads of Delhi there is an understanding between all wheeled entities – an unspoken communication that determines the ultimate flow of events. Like sea creatures moving in synch with the tides, cars weave in and out, slip through spaces here and there and zoom forward at breakneck speeds where the flow allows.

Meanwhile, I was wrestling with the map. No – this is not because I’m a woman and can’t read maps. Rather, the rickshaw/map ratio was somewhat disproportionate. To open the map properly was to fill up the whole space of the cabin, rendering Moonho blind to the hectic goings-on outside. I tried to fold the map down to the appropriate section, but the map refused to cooperate and flapped like a bird in my face. As I slipped around in a little pool generated by my own pores I swore at it, threatened to rip it and pinned it to the dashboard.

Finally I pinpointed our location. We’d gone past our turnoff. Several times.

Another problem with the map was that representing Delhi in all its confusing glory on a neat page with straight lines and uniform little corners is horribly misleading. The map says we have to turn right… but does that gravelly patch up ahead constitute as a right turn? Or is it just a construction site? Piles of bricks and rubble regularly obscured our vision, resulting in several more wrong turns and leading us even deeper into the organs of the beast.

But after some extremely careful navigation and more wrestling with the map, we made it. Dirty, sweaty and tired, we made it.

Indians wondering what the hell a couple of foreigners are doing driving a rickshaw

Places we stayed in Delhi

Our plan was to stay in Delhi for three or four days. But Delhi had other ideas. The metropolitan beast swallowed us whole and refused to spit us back out for the next month. During this time we stayed in two Indian households, one hostel, one hotel and a lawyer’s office.

Yes, you read right. We stayed in a lawyer’s office. It was not a part of the planned schedule. We did not sign up for the Speical Delhi Tour and Lawyer’s Office Accommodation Package. But nevertheless, that is the package we got.

This residential tour began in the poshest part of town, where rich houses nestle comfortably among tall green trees that cleanse the air in defiance of the rest of the city. One of those houses belonged to Gautam, who we found via couch surfing (www.couchsurfing.com). We arrived at his place covered in over 120km worth of dirt and stinking like pigs, so it was rather magnanimous of Gautam to allow us into his polished, immaculate home. I was afraid to touch anything, expensive as every couch, cushion and ornament looked. Yes, as Gautam himself said, he was certainly one number of the ‘uncelebrated population of India.’ That is, one of the filthy rich ones.

Where Gautam smokes his hookah

Kamal, me and Gautam (from left to right)

So for our first couch surfing experience we slept on a king sized bed, in a big beautifully furnished room, with our own adjoining bathroom and, most importantly, water hot enough to make my skin go a delicious shade of red. During our stay Gautam shared with us his friends, his Nepali cook and his Chinese tea.
I’ve just made it sound like we all had an orgy over Chinese tea, didn’t I?

I should accurately report that nothing raunchy went on (apologies to those friends out there who I know enjoys nothing more than a good raunchy story). But we were able to lap up Delhi luxury for two days before Gautam went trotting off to Brazil, and after our dramatic entry into Delhi we bloody needed it.

The next stop was a hostel. This is where my toddler on wheels ceased to be legal. Our temporary registration, being temporary, had run out. Sigh…

We drove to our next couch surfing host’s house late at night when there were fewer police out to catch us in our newly illegal vehicle. Over the next few days our host very kindly went to some lengths to help us with The Damsel Dilemma. Some people, it seemed, were quite taken by the romance of our rickshaw trip. They didn’t want it to end any more than we.

Our second couch surfing host and some lovely couch surfing Brits

Time was passing, however, and my poor blue baby was now making me blue too. As many authorities had assured me, I thought this registration obstacle would be one I could get around or at least climb over with a neat little bribe. But now the obstacle seemed to be growing larger and larger, and I could see no foot holes or handholds that would help me get over the bloody thing.

But then, just as all hope seemed lost, our host introduced us to a lawyer called Surender! Surender turned out to be another genie who seemed convinced that there would be ‘no worries’ as far as getting my girl registered was concerned.

Apparently there was a way to put Damsel in someone else’s name (cringe!) while we still retained the contractual rights to do with her as we wished. Well, at this point I was willing to try anything.

While arrangements were being made we moved to Paharganj, the cheap touristy area where we had first stayed upon our arrival in India. Skinny young men with muscles like boards were still working themselves into a frenzy, trying to make everything spick and span before the Commonwealth Games. Gladly, many of the gaping mouths in the roads had been snapped shut. But now bricks fell from the heavens.

Workers stood on the crumbling edges of buildings three and four stories up, throwing down the hard red missiles with only mild interest as to whether tourist heads lurked below like soft target boards. Flimsy pieces of string unsuccessfully blocking off sections of street served as the only warning that the air was thick with shrapnel. Perhaps they thought the flying bricks themselves were enough warning.

So getting in and out of our hotel required a daily game of dodge-the-brick. It just goes to show, India literally does offer fun and games around every corner!

No Worries Man

In fleeing this war zone of brick vs. man, we finally took up residence at the lawyer’s office. He had a nice wide desk to sleep on, and with laptops as pillows we couldn’t go wrong!

Actually, if I must be honest, there was a spare room with two beds in it so we never got to try out the desk. It would have made a good story though. Oh, the games Moonho and I could have played - me as the brazen secretary and him the wealthy boss!

Ah-hem. Off on a tangent again.

As I mentioned before, we first arrived at Surender’s office requesting help with Damsel’s registration. At his response my heart did a tap-n-beat of anticipation.

“No worries, no worries!”

As it turned out, this was his response to almost everything. “Do you mind if we make some tea in your kitchen?”
“No worries, don’t worry!”
“I’m just going to step out to the shop for a minute…”
“No worries, no worries!!”
“I think I’ll just read my book..”
“Don’t worry!!!”
There was no point telling him that you had never been particularly worried about reading your book in the first place. He still felt it necessary to make absolutely sure you were not worrying about it. For, as he said, he was a lawyer. It was his job to take away people’s worries.

I was nonetheless a little nonplussed when No Worries Man first invited us, in all seriousness, to stay in his office.
“But wouldn’t our presence disturb other people working in the office?” I asked (at least five other people work on the fourth floor of the building.)  But of course, his answer was the standard No Worries Man answer:
“No worries, no worries!”

Us in the west tend not to accept such generosity easily. We carry around guilt like a handbag; a commodity considered necessary to get through life. In India I have often found myself stuck between this cultural trait and the consequences of not accepting Indian hospitality. Indians will insist on giving something to you. They know what they have to give is good for you. You have to accept the hospitality and if you don’t they will assume a wounded expression impossible for all but the extremely strong willed to endure. I struggle not to crumble like a crushed Indian sweet before such an aggrieved countenance.

I really need not have worried this time though. The other lawyer in the office, Bhupender, was a concerned but caring bear. All the assistants and accountants were simply jolly, always smiling, waving and of course making tea and attempts at conversation in equal measure. If our domestic activities impeded on their office bizzings and buzzing at all, everyone certainly did a good job at hiding it.

And there we remained for three weeks, waiting and waiting and praying that Damsel could be registered. We spent a lot of time with No Worries Man, as he is a workaholic and therefore rather attached to his ergonomic office chair.

Like many Indians, Surender is not concerned with exactitude. Five minutes could mean one hour, a snack could mean a meal and a quick meeting with one friend could mean staying with that friend’s family for the night. But No Worries Man took it one step further. Nothing was specified, not even our names! Somewhere along the line he decided that his mispronunciation of our names was a great joke and refused to use our proper names thereafter.

And so I am known by a range of names in Delhi. Sometimes he would introduce me as Leena. The next day we’d meet other friends or family and I’d be Lisa. And then after awhile he decided that Lily suited me best. Likewise, Moonho Cho was called Moon chon chon, Moon chew chow and Moon chon cho. By the end of our stay Moonho’s name had evolved to become something like an onomatopoeic word for a Disney comic character chewing on nuts.

No Worries Man also liked to make up stories. We visited his nice big house and he mournfully explained how it was not good enough. “We are not even middle class, you see. We are lower middle class.” After having said this, he went on to describe the design of his even bigger new house and swimming pool presently under construction. Yes, he did enjoy tall tales, and every single time he delivered them with a barely concealed hint of cheek.

It wasn’t only us he told stories to, either. In fact, he became the regular actor whenever we went out. It was like being a part of some impromptu theatre group. Naturally, if he was out with us, other people were curious as to our relationship. So he would take on all sorts of roles. At the Taj Mahal we even became some sort of celebrities or millionaires after his acclamation to all those bugging us for business that both he and his friend were our bodyguards. In my old hoody and ripped trousers I hardly lived up to my part as a lady of high social standing, yet they believed him without question! Well, I suppose lawyers do have to know how to put on a convincing act.

Lucky he grew up as a farmer and values honesty. If he didn’t value honesty, this man could be one dangerous lawyer.

Arranged Marriage

I have been asked countless times in India: “Do you have an arranged marriage or love marriage?”
“Arranged marriages don’t exist in Australia,” I say. “My parents met Moonho for the first time only a week before the wedding.”
“Weren’t they angry?”
“No, no… they trust my judgment well enough. They’ve always let me make my own decisions, and my own mistakes… although my marriage is not one of those!”
“Oh.”

For some of them this concept is as alien as the idea of arranged marriage for me. By now Moonho and I have been lucky enough to dine at a whole range of houses in India, and I would be bold enough to make one observation. Families that result from love marriages generally seem much more close-knit.

But the biggest tell-tale sign is the wife. Women of love marriages seem to have a higher status within a household. Such women will still prepare chai and dinner for you tirelessly, but they also smile and chat and try to interact with their guests. There tends to be a less stiff interaction been husband and wife, too – a gentle touch here, a soft whisper there… you know, normal things.

Women of arranged marriages… well, they are hard to observe because they are hardly ever around. When we went into their house they seemed to spend most of their time in the kitchen. I felt like a spoilt, ungrateful guest, allowing them to serve us endlessly without any reciprocal kindness or expression of thanks. But attempts at communication only seemed to result in discomfort. They tended to become stiff and careful as if on show in front of their husband’s guests.

We talked on this subject with No Worries Man, and he was open enough to tell us the story of how he had given up his one true love to marry the woman of his parent’s choice. When he gave her up he also gave up social drinking, frivolous spending of money, holiday-making (he spends every public holiday in the office)… anything except for work, in fact.

I found all this desperately sad, but Surender just shrugged with that fatalistic, wry grin of his. “I would never blame my parents,” he said. “Never. I just follow their desires. I am an obedient son.”

I’d met Surender’s mother, father and even grandmother (93 years old and still as fit as a fiddle or any other stringed instrument!) Theirs were among the most beautiful smiles I’d ever seen. They certainly didn’t look like unreasonable people. Had they always been of such an agreeable disposition, or was it a result of Surender’s choice of familial peace over his beloved lady? Could familial peace have been eventually achieved even if he had married the woman of his choice? I don’t know. I guess Surender didn’t think so (Surender – please feel free to leave comments on this blog!)

Me with Surender and his 93-year-old granny!

How easy the taste of love is allowed to trickle away, in India. Many will insist that love trickles away after marriage anyway; an outlook I’ve found common in Asia generally. For a crowd obsessed with love songs and movies, they can be a cynical bunch! It is clear, however, that Surender still covets the memory of his love like a cup of water in a dry wasteland. You’d think that one would hold onto the love itself rather than the memory. But Surender says that his memories are enough.

And now he wants to choose a wife for his nephew.

Most cultural traits I can come to understand, but the shape of this particular cultural idiosyncrasy is too different to the shape of the blocks that make up Leah. My Aussie accent may have petered out into something flatter and unidentifiable, and some Aussie characteristics might have faded under the international sun, but the fierce independence of the Australian woman can no more be scraped away from me than the patterns in an opal. As much as I love my parents, I wouldn’t put my life into their hands, nor would they want me to. After all, in what detail can another person, even if they are as genetically close as one gets, really see what you need? Some parents may know what makes their child’s heart tick… but are they looking at the big or little hand?

Well, there are no rules when it comes to human nature. But there are rules when it comes to society. Therefore, the applied rules are not always going to work.

I respect all other cultures – anyone who knows me will confirm this. But it is at times like this I am truly glad to be an Australian woman.

For more Delhi stories wait for the next instalment…!

Damsel Has a Scuffle, Damsel Flirts and Damsel gets us to Delhi

Damsel makes friends

Back along cliff-top roads fit for James Bond, back to hilly Shimla and back to the Regional Transport Office. We explained to the RTO fellows that, contrary to what they had previously told us, a big wig from the Ministry of Transport said it would be possible to get Damsel registered in Shimla.

That gave them pause for thought. They stood around for some time, foreheads furrowed and scratching their thinking beards. Then they threw that kind of Hindi at each other that makes you feel like you’re in the middle of a heated auction. Then they went back to the furrowed brows and scratching of bits that get itchy when you have to think.

But at the end of all that they still decided that “It can’t be done.”

The big wig had told us if it didn’t work out in Shimla to come to Delhi. Going to the biggest of big smokes in the middle of summer was not exactly on our ‘to do’ list. It may have even been near the top of our ‘not to do’ list. Unfortunately such lists didn’t figure in this decision-making process.

So we piled everything into Damsel’s hump and set out. At some point, as if finally bursting out of a complicated maze, we broke free from the writhing, unevenly scaled snakes that are Himachal Pradesh roads. We had arrived on the hot, flat plains. For the first time Damsel’s wheels were able to taste the surface of a proper highway.

Being on a busy Indian highway is like an enormous game of musical chairs. The trucks provide the tunes with their musical horns and the vehicles on the roads are players, all trying to rush into one space at the same time.

It rather reminds me of a song from Playschool, a popular children’s program I used to watch as a little’un. It went If you can’t go past it you have to go around it, if you can’t go around it you have to go over it, if you can’t go over it you have to go under it!

Indian cars work on pretty much the same principle. If they can’t get past you on the right, they’ll take the left. If the left doesn’t work they’ll go via one of the wormholes.

You see, Indian roads are fitted with wormholes for the convenience of vehicles that aren’t content with getting somewhere at a less than life-threatening pace: i.e. all of them. I’m sure it is via this method that enormous honking chunks of metal kept materializing on either side of us, turning Damsel into a pitiful piece of blue cheese between two beastly crackers.

Meanwhile, Damsel the Speed Demon (it is important we call her by her full name occasionally so that she doesn’t get an inferiority complex) crawls along at knee-height, putting contentedly to herself in a rather lawnmower-like fashion. She simply refuses to be intimidated by the beasts of the road, mashed between them though she may be.

My, but she is a brave lass!

Boys in Chandigarh

In Chandigarh Damsel’s demeanour changed rather dramatically. This is probably because she is young and impressionable, and was mixing with significant numbers of her own kind for the first time. It is also where she had her first scuffle.

A planned city, every road in Chandigarh is wide and flanked by mature, leafy trees. The city is dotted with roundabouts, the footpaths are squeaky clean, fashionable young ladies clip-clop around in high heels and hip young men check out the fashionable young ladies clip-clopping around in high heels.

To complete the illusion of law and order, the streets are filled with a larger than average number of police, usually wielding guns or batons. They are visions of supreme authority with their fawn uniforms, smart hats and straight-as-a-board backs. They saunter about, swinging those batons with the superior air of a baseball player who knows he is good enough to make a home run. I had this constant niggling temptation to go up to one of them and ask if he could give me a good spanking with his baton. I’m guessing, however, that the Monty Pythonesque humour might go over their heads.

Speak to them once, though, and they go from austere to your best mate in an instant. The first policeman we spoke to for directions wanted us to step into the station… for chai! They weren’t even vaguely interested to see any papers proving our ownership of the vehicle. With that increasingly familiar expression of disbelief/amusement, they just wanted to know where we got it, whether it was difficult to drive and why we’d chosen a rickshaw rather than a cushy little car.

Further up the road, away from the policemen’s eyes (gladly), is where Damsel had her scuffle with a bully. Chandigarh might be a planned city, but do not be fooled. Just because lines, rules and traffic lights exist doesn’t mean that anyone takes any notice of them.

Typical Indian traffic is made up of frenetic drivers on disorganised roads. Typical Chandigarh traffic is made up of frenetic drivers on organised roads. For those of us trying to stick to the rules, this makes Chandigarh a more treacherous place to drive, because you end up concentrating on lines rather than what the other cars are doing. On a nice, normal, hectic road you are free of lines and rules that pull your attention away from other cars. You just go along with the craziness, and in doing so can negotiate your way through it all.

We were at a junction when Damsel received the punch. It wasn’t nearly hard enough to scare us, but it was hard enough to send shock-images of lawyers and police through our minds. Even though it was obviously his fault, I crawled out of the rickshaw with the dread of a study-deficient child slinking out of an exam room.

The car had tried to come out of a road to our left prematurely, hitting our back left corner with his front right corner. But Damsel is a tough lass! She acquired a barely visible scratch, while he was bruised with a sizeable dent. Perhaps karma does exist, as the Indians say. This is what he gets for treating the road like a dodgem car game.

Frowning, we checked the damage. Frowning, the other bloke checked the damage. Curious, other drivers stopped and gathered around. Another auction ensued, after which our hector seemed to give up. He flicked his hand towards the road and threw some curt Hindi in our vague direction. The spectators translated for us. “Go… just go.” It was too obviously his fault, and he wanted to avoid legalities.

Images of lawyers and policemen faded blissfully from our minds as we pulled back into the organised disorder. Damsel was slightly scratched, but she didn’t seem too upset. I think she might even have been a little proud of it. The tattoo was testament to the fact that although she was a petite little lump of blue, she could stand up there with the biggest of ‘em!

Things didn’t go uphill from there, and that is just how a rickshaw likes it. Damsel sailed along the nice flat roads, absent of the normal grunts and other admittedly unattractive sounds that tend to escape from her backside. And good thing, too! I wouldn’t want to see her embarrassed in front of the dashing lads of Chandigarh. Some of the rickshaws weren’t as shiny and new as her, but she is no snob. I even caught her checking out some cycle rickshaws! But her favourites were the rugged older rickshaws. They had character.

Damsel chasing tail

Damsel shows off as she overtakes

Before long we located a random genie floating around waiting to rescue defenceless foreigners. Being ourselves foreigners, we very kindly aided him in his quest. With his willing assistance we were soon settled down in a hotel whose price had been bargained down to something resembling reasonable.
The next morning, before leaving this perfectly planned city whose perfect uniformity has been perfectly thwarted by Indian drivers, we visited the local rock garden.

The Chandigarh Rock Garden

The Chandigarh Rock Garden begun because for one road inspector called Nek Chang the mere inspection of gravel and rocks was not enough. It started in 1957, when he secretly started hoarding lumps of stone that represented, to his eye, images of animals and humans. One thing led to another (as they do for these arty types who with crack-brained ideas involving junk, rickshaws etc.) and by 1975 he’d created 12 acres of interlinked courtyards filled with fantastical sculptures made entirely of recycled materials. If he’d been caught indulging in such wayward artistic activities early on, he’d have probably been reprimanded. But with 12 acres of art under his belt, the authorities decided it was a jolly good idea and gave him some money to develop the place.

Today the rock garden is spread over forty acres and created entirely from industrial and residential waste that would otherwise have festered away in piles along with all the other rubbish in India. To enter the garden one has to duck through a low hole in the rock wall. By the time you straighten on the other side you discover you’ve entered a whole new world.

Then you discover that in fact the rock garden is a whole series of little worlds linked together via timeless little paths. In some of them countless electrical sockets blink at you from high walls. In others forms stand locked in time and stone, their postures hinting at some strange activity comprehensible only to mythical creatures. In yet other worlds the creatures are more defined. There are maidens with long, craning necks, monkeys unabashedly flaunting their cheeky nature, mosaic men riding wilder beast with helmets on, jolly, chuckling men made of wire, barrels, flapping birds, prancing horses, gnome huts… every piece seems cut out of a story book.

I walked out of Nek Chang’s rock garden aching to put my paintbrush to Damsel. This is because art breeds art. If only I could get started.

Well, that was my mission.  I was becoming painfully aware, however, that time was running out. Visas do not wait for the completion of art projects before they force you out of a country.

Into the jaws of Delhi

All you clubbers out there will know what it is like to be happily boogying away on the dance floor only to have the smoke machine fart all over you, filling your nostrils and obscuring your vision. That is what it is like moving into Delhi. The air is reasonably clear, and then the grey starts rolling across the skies, ominously hinting at the nature of the beast towards which you are moving.

We kept Damsel’s windows open, desperately grasping the small relief offered by the thin panes of incoming wind. There was no relief from the smells though. When I say it was stinking hot I mean stinking hot. Particles of dirt and puffs of pollution flew in at our faces, which by the time we reached Delhi had caused my skin to become rough. Sweat oozed between breasts, squelched between bottom cheeks and dripped down shins. Trousers stuck to legs and legs to stick to the seat. Licking my lips was like licking a salty seaside shell.

It was in this state that we arrived in a little town outside Delhi. We stopped to buy some bananas and ended up hanging out with a bunch of very naughty young men who wanted to cheat us (but not over the bananas.)

The town was swarming with auto rickshaws - as in tripping over the little buggies is likely a common hazard. They were everywhere.

We stopped near a banana stall and Indians descended upon us as though the ground had lost its gravity and we had gained it. Where did you get this rickshaw?! Why did you get it?! How much was it?! They wanted to know it all – especially other rickshaw drivers.

One driver, bereft of the ability to speak the same language, tried via every method available to him to convey his excitement at having witnessed foreigners driving a rickshaw. With a grin that divided his face in two, he slapped Damsel’s blue exterior heartily. He turned his palms towards the sky as if some miracle had occurred. He shook our hands with enthusiasm that threatened to cut off circulation.

This guy was not the cheater. He was just a very excited man.

The cheater came up from behind him and said in a near-perfect American accent, “Are these guys bothering you?”
“No no, they are just curious,” I said. “You spent time in America, did you?”

Oops. I should have said a near-perfect Canadian accent.

(I know, I know. I can just hear in my mind’s ear all you Canadians yelling objections at this point. But I challenge you: the day you can tell the difference between a New Zealand and Australian accent I will strive to tell the difference between a Canadian and American accent.)

“How about you have a chai with me at my shop?” suggested the Canadian-sounding Indian.

So far we’ve had spontaneous chais for the pure sake of friendly goodwill with many people in India. I mean, even armed police wanted to chat with us over chai! There was no reason to suspect this guy would be any different. What could go wrong over chai, after all?

It went like this: We had chai. We chatted amiably. He suggested we check out a local monument down the road. We went there together with his friends. We chatted amiably some more. I didn’t get genie vibes off these dudes, but nor were the alarm bells ringing… yet.

The cheater suggested we stay at his house the night. “I don’t want to blow my own horn,” he said, “but my parents’ place is like a palace. They would love to have you. Mum is cooking goat tonight.”

There was still no reason to suspect him, especially considering he was offering us a room at his parent’s house. After some consideration we conceded that maybe it wasn’t a bad idea… Moonho was tired from driving, after all.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked. I told him I wouldn’t, due to my misbehaving tummy, but that Moonho might like to share one.
“Okay!” he declared.

And then, with sudden urgency not uncommon for an Indian, we were urged to get on a motorbike with his mate. We expected to go back to our original meeting place, but instead he drove us down a small street and stopped outside a tiny shop. At this point an embryo of suspicion started wriggling and twitching in my mind. We made our way into the stuffy den of a shop and sat down. I tried to avoid eating a fly by keeping my mouth shut.

The cheater’s partner in crime spoke quick Hindi to the owner who, face unreadable, produced a bottle of whisky from the bottom of a cupboard.

The drinking was to commence there and then?!

Moonho took a little of the offered whisky and I politely declined. The partner in crime looked at me and said “Just a little.”
“No thanks, I’ve got a bad tummy,” I said.
“Just a little bit is okay,” he insisted.
“No no, it’s not okay. I’m sick.”
“Take just a little.”
“No, really, I don’t want any.”

He poured me a drink of whisky anyway. Of course, I wasn’t about to make myself sick for the sake of etiquette. I bluntly refused to drink. His face transformed for a mere fraction of a moment to an ugly mask of frustration, and in that moment my embryo of suspicion skipped a few semesters and was born. This guy wanted to give us what we didn’t want, and was after something with which we were most likely unwilling to part.

After several more failed attempts at convincing me to imbibe, we left. The original cheater had finally returned and we all walked together up the road. As we did so the two men spoke to each other in hushed tones behind hands. It occurred to me that if I was ever going to be cheated I’d prefer to be cheated by con artists with a bit more skill.

I told Moonho in Korean that I thought these guys were dodgy, and he agreed. And then, as we walked, a boy who couldn’t have been much older than fifteen slipped ghost-like into the space next to me. He looked up into my eyes somberly and said quietly “These men are no good. They will do something like give you alcohol then try to get something from you. I’m not telling you this because I want something from you myself. I just think you are a guest of India and this shouldn’t happen to you.”

I looked down at a young face that looked up at me, apparently with nothing but concern.

“Thank you,” I said. “I will take your advice.”

He nodded once then quickly slipped away, a small bird melding back into the flock as if afraid our cheaters would see him. He seemed utterly genuine. I know he had to be either a little angel or a part of the plan. I will never know which, but I hope he was of the former category. If not, I think that one day he shall become a much better con artist than the wanna-bes presently in our company.

I approached our first cheater and told him we wouldn’t stay at his parents' house – we wanted to be on our way. He must have seen the resolution in my eyes (or the boy warning us) because he didn’t object. However, after awhile he asked, “What changed your mind?”
“Nothing in particular,” I said, being careful not to implicate the boy – for our sake if he was in on it and for his sake if he wasn’t. “We just decided we should get to Delhi as soon as possible because we have a lot to do.”

We chatted pleasantly for a little longer as we headed back to the rickshaw. I suppose they imagined my lack of animosity indicated ignorance, for they started again to try and convince us of the hilarity and fun we’d experience over a few drinks. “I’ll buy you a nice cocktail,” said cheater number 1. “And some beer!”

I objected over half a dozen times before I finally turned to him and said “If I drink I will become ill and vomit all over your lap. Do you want that to happen?”

He stared at me for a moment then shook his head. And that was the end of that.

“We’ll send you an email!” I lied as we pulled away in the rickshaw. The lads looked at us quizzically. I don’t usually lie easily, but in this case it came out effortlessly. Self-preservation is justification enough for me. Best to keep it friendly and them uncertain to the end, I figured.

Damsel hummed happily as we pulled away from the town. Some things can infuriate me, but for some reason situations like this don’t leave me feeling particularly angry or badly done by. Where there is a large population and limited resources you will find con artists. This is my second trip to India, but of all the people who have tried to cheat me in this way none have yet managed to get past chai. At least I get free chai, eh?!

Because Moonho had a little whisky in the veins, I took the rickshaw’s reins. Under my control for the first time, Damsel felt surprisingly obeisant. This is not because Moonho is a bad driver – far from it – but wheels that go in that direction exactly when you tell them to inspire confidence. I had imagined that she was like an untrained puppy, uncontrollable and liable to jump unawares in front of a monster truck at any moment. But she was perfectly well behaved.

Still, I didn’t forget that in this game of dodgem cars, rather than going ‘bump! giggle giggle’ one could well go ‘crunch! ouch, I think I’m a paraplegic.’ So I drove more carefully than a naked person walks through a forest of stinging nettles, and all was well.

As we approached Delhi we stared at the grey sky through the even greyer smoke coming out of the bum of the truck in front of us. Within all that grey wafted an air of inevitability. We hadn’t been going to return, but there was no choice. The jaws of the big city were closing in around us again, and this time we were wilfully driving into it.

Unconventional Tours, Too Many Rotis and Water Water Water!

We were in a beautiful city and I felt like I’d swallowed bubble bath liquid again. Not that I’ve ever swallowed bubble bath liquid before, but I’ve felt like I’ve swallowed it a lot during this trip. It’s a sensation of bubbles multiplying and crowding in the intestinal highway, trying to push past each other just as Indian drivers do. Nausea was also sneaking insidiously upwards from my stomach towards my throat. I decided I should go to the doctor the next morning. This time I would act fast.

But I didn’t need to act fast. Other people acted even faster for me.

We were ready to turn in for the evening. There were several Indian men chatting outside the hotel. I can’t even remember how it happened now, but one minute they were complete strangers and the next minute Moonho and I were piled into a car with all three of them and off to find a hospital.

I’m not sure exactly why three fully grown men, four including Moonho, were required to get me to a doctor. But if I’ve learnt one thing in India it is that questioning a genie on his motivations rarely results in clarification.

So we just went with the flow, and the flow took us on a grand tour of every single hospital in Shimla. I kid you not.

“Thank you so much, really, but I think I’ll survive until morning,” I said after it became obvious the doctors were all at home doing Sunday night things. My voice was immediately drowned out by a chorus of Indian accents insisting “But you might get worse at night! You seem sick! You need medicine quickly! We will take you, no problem…”

My mind flashed back to how the Tibetans insisted on helping when I got sick, then further back to the many times Koreans carted me off to the doctor for ailments that would have buggered off of their own accord. On that night, however, the Indians hit a new record in sheer determination to be helpful. Resistance was simply not worth the effort.

As our search exceeded one hour Moonho and I startled to giggle. We couldn’t help it. It just seemed so absurd to be touring hospitals on a Sunday night with a random bunch of Indians, well-wishing as they were. This is how things tend to happen in India. Everything is so sudden. You are about to go to bed and then boom! You are caught in a current of Indian enthusiasm; a current even stronger than that of the Ganga River.

Unable to find a regular doctor, they took me to the labour ward of a woman’s hospital, which was open because newborns don’t care whether or not it is Sunday. I tried to explain that having a parasite is quite different to having a baby, but they were determined to explore every avenue. I entered a labour ward full of Indian women whose eyes immediately went to my belly (which I’d been rubbing due to the pain.) Unable to speak Hindi, I let them think what they would.

One of the genies, called Sushil, ushered me towards the doctor’s room, and I sat down awkwardly. “Eh-hem… hello… I’m not actually pregnant,” I said. “I just have a bad tummy.”
She looked at me for a moment and asked if it was related to periods.
“Eh, no… only, these men very kindly wanted to help me and… well, they insisted on bringing me here… I know you only deal with pregnant women though…”

The doctor turned to our new friend and explained patiently that we’d have to find a regular doctor. Then, zoooom! Off I was zipped once more! I’m sure we must have left a puff of genie smoke behind us in the doctor’s office.

After what must have been at least two hours of valiant doggedness, the genies did manage to find me a doctor who kindly saw me despite the late hour. He gave me medicine, I took it gratefully and only then would the genies allow me to go back to the hotel. Thus ended our Tour De Hospital, and so begun our friendship with Sushil.


Sushil and Sulochana

Sushil is mildly obsessed with rotis (one of the many types of round Indian flatbreads.) He started by insisting that I should eat five or six with every meal, a habit which would absolutely cure all my ailments and prevent any other from occurring..

“Are you sure?” I asked.
“No doubt!” he replied. This is his pet phrase.
I tried to explain that women don’t usually eat as much as men. That was a mistake.
“Nooo, women need to be strong. Women must eat more! They must eat seven or eight rotis at every meal!”

Not only would a daily overdose of rotis cure me of all ills, he said, but it would also ensure lots of healthy babies. That is where things started getting really silly. “One roti for each baby!” he insisted, his ever-present grin expanding even further. “But I don’t want eight babies!” I said, laughing. I could feel Moonho silently but vehemently agreeing by my side.

Moonho and Sushil

Sushil teaches maths and science at a little ‘after-school school’ below our hotel. We ended up chatting with him often, during which rotis only filled the conversation about fifty percent of the time. It wasn’t long before we were invited to his house for dinner. We accepted with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. Exactly how many rotis would I be expected to eat?

“My wife is very lovely and sweet,” he informed us, utterly sincere. “And you can try her cooking. It is great!”

I looked at his eyes, bright against his dark skin, and thought that perhaps his was not an arranged marriage. I asked whether it was (this is not a rude question in India) and his face lit up. “We have a love marriage!” he announced.

And indeed, the two together were a pleasure to behold. Their smiles were as fixed as the shape of a boomerang. They obviously took great pleasure in each other’s company. Sushil even wants to create a position at his school for her so that they can be together during the day as well.

I asked about their castes, which apparently is also an acceptable question. It turned out that he is Brahman while she is a supposed lower caste in comparison. “But these days those things don’t matter,” Sushil said with a dismissive flick of the hand.

Sulochana laughed frequently and as his equal. In fact, hers is one of the best laughs I’ve ever heard; the sort that takes you along for the ride even if you are not in on the joke. She is a content product of the new generation. And Sushil’s words were not biased – she is also a bloody fantastic cook!

But here is the problem: some people participate in extreme sports. Sushil participates in extreme hospitality.

On his insistence, the amount we ate that night could have fed a whole African village for a week. Dal, curry, rice, curd, pickles, rice pudding and of course rotis piled up before us like the formation of mountains seen in fast forward. The quality of the food was fit for royalty, but afterwards the mountains of food on our plates had become mountains of food in our bellies. Even Moonho, who is a big eater, was struggling. If I’d gone to the labour ward that night instead of the night before, they would have believed me pregnant.

After dinner they refused to let us walk home, insisting that we take their double bed while they slept on a single one. Despite (or possibly because of) a belly pregnant with dal and roti, I slept like a baby and woke up to another meal of herculean proportions.

Although I couldn’t eat like that daily without my digestive tract exploding, Sushil was right about one thing. That food really did give me some much needed energy.

Naughty monkeys

Shimla monkeys are particularly naughty. It is a big city by Himachal standards, which means lots of food scraps to steal. Better yet, lots of meals-in-progress to steal.

I had a bag of peanuts, and noticed a one-eyed he-monkey strutting his furry stuff around our hotel. Aww. A strutting monkey with only one eye.

So of course, I gave him some of the peanuts from my bag. And of course, this was not enough for him. Before I knew it he was soaring through the air towards me like a sugar glider.  It was instantaneous as everything is in India: Now you’re here, now you’re there! Now you see it, now you don’t!

I wasn’t upset over the loss of my peanuts to Monkey One Eye. I thought he could have been more graceful about our wanting to take a photo though. Moonho moved forward a little with his camera, but Monkey One Eye was having none of this touristy bollocks. Fangs clearly exposed, he puffed his body so that there would be no mistaking his supreme manliness. He moved towards Moonho like a footballer looking to vent his testosterone.

The camera clicked, but it didn’t catch the monkey. It caught naught but the blurred motion of escape (Moonho’s escape – not the monkey’s.)

But Moonho wasn’t going to leave without a photo any more than the monkey wasn’t going to leave without all of my peanuts. My husband seems on a mission to take a photo of every mangy dog, every vaguely stationary bird, every scraggly-eared donkey, every watery-eyed cow and every naughty monkey in India.

So he waited until the monkey was busy with his goodies and started snapping. When Monkey One Eye’s appetite was sated, he disappeared over a wall and into the thicket and Moonho put his camera away, believing we’d seen the last of him.

We were eating lunch outside later on when he reappeared. Monkeys can fly – I swear. One minute he is over there; the next he is on our table. There was a brief manly standoff between Moonho and the monkey during which teeth were exposed, muscles were puffed up, red bottoms were flashed and a chair was used as a shield/potential weapon. I’ll let you guess who did what.

I would have helped but a laughing fit had rendered me temporarily disabled. The monkey scampered away in the end, discouraged by Moonho’s elaborate chair act (which had also drawn a few curious Indian eyes.) Yay for my husband, Defeater of Monkeys!

Despite an ego akin to that of a footballer, Monkey One Eye still managed to be adorable and cute. Theatrics over, he flopped over a branch of a nearby tree and started working on all his itchy bits, innocuous as a newborn puppy.

It’s a pity footballers can’t get over their brawls quite so easily.


To Tattapani's hot spring

As soon as I heard this place called Tattapani has a hot spring, I knew I was destined to soak in its warm waters. Stuff registration! I could hear the spring calling my name. Its single greatest desire was to soak all the aches and pains from my tired body. Well, I couldn’t deny a little spring its one pleasure in life, could I?!

So into Damsel we climbed and onto the road we trundled again. I didn’t think the roadside scenery could possibly be improved on what we’d already seen. I was wrong. To get to Tattapani one is transported for a time to the sheer fertile slopes that is Scottish landscape - only this Scottish landscape is dotted with cacti and what appears to be aloe vera plants monstrous enough to attack Indiana Jones.

I’m talking about gobsmackingly beautiful stuff here. While Indiana Jones is tackling giant aloe vera plants in the hills, I wouldn’t be surprised to see James Bond on the road engaging in an exciting car race with a wild, long-haired beauty, halting only just in time for James to win and avoid plunging down into the valley below.

Like James… James Bond, we also avoided toppling over the precipitous hills. Down, down, down Damsel drove, out of the nippy air, out of Scotland, and into dense humidity that sits upon one’s shoulders like a baboon. In one of the deep wrinkles of the valley and by the river sat Tattapani: a tiny town whose life seems to revolve around the hot sulphur water oozing upwards from the earth.

We chose to stay at Old Spring View Hotel because it cost a pittance and, more importantly, it had two big hot spring baths. The closer I got, the louder their calls became: Leah, let me wash you clean! Let me soak you until you are naught but wrinkles! Let me make your muscles malleable again!

Despite the insistence of the hot spring, I made it wait until night before I graced its waters with my tired post-sickness body. Greedy me wanted the bath all to Moonho and myself, and oh was it worth the wait. Water lazily slapping a dark river shore, the voices of a few crickets and some soft Indian music somewhere in the distance were our only audial accompaniments, and even they melted away as warm water wriggled its way into our pores. We gave each other a massages then simply laid back it splayed postures, allowing ourselves to become limp pieces of meat.

Afterwards we took our new supple, floppy bodies to bed where we both sunk into a deep, still sleep.

Other good things about Tattapani…

Fireflies or faeries?

Tattapani is either teeming with fireflies or faeries. At night the little lights shine everywhere and shine bright, moving gently here and there upon invisible meandering paths. We went up the road to a bushy area and turned off our lamp. It was as if the stars of the sky had descended and landed among the grass blades and bushes. I just stood still and stared, spellbound by the many cousins of Tinkerbell. Moonho tried to capture them on camera but they were not to be caught. Magic things, after all, should be difficult to catch.

Shiva Cave

The walk to get there is small enough that it isn’t particularly tiring and long enough that it isn’t overcrowded. Shive cave, as you have probably gathered, is a cave dedicated to the worship of Shiva. In the wall of a river that becomes fat and turbulent during monsoon, I suspect the cliffs on either side contain many such furrows and caves. This one, however, was a sacred one, and after ringing the bell I entered it reverently with my head bent.

The holy man sitting inside gestured towards my feet. Oops. I’d forgotten to take my shoes off. I scurried back out, took them off, rang the bell and entered it reverently with my head bent… again.

Despite my fear of small spaces, I braved the inside of the small cave, feeling the fresh dampness inside my nostrils and slimy dampness under my bare feet. I was awarded with a tikka on my forehead and some white sweets that look like tiny solidified cotton balls.

Below the cave is a low point of the path that touches the river. The river was clear, flowing rapidly, and was deep enough for swimming. Woohooooo! For the first time in a long time I immersed myself in a large body of water and swam. My love for feeling my body free in water is as intense as my dislike of feeling my body entrapped within a small space. Robbing gravity of its power, the water made me feel light once again. I hadn’t felt that light since before I’d gotten sick in Dharamsala.

Bliss I tell you, bliss!

The Germans

I mention the Germans because they were great. Both in their forties or thereabouts, they had the life-force of twenty-year-olds. Thea had this special laugh that, upon reflection, could only possibly be matched by Sulochana (roti-obsessed Sushil’s wife.). When it started it surprised you, and by the time it ended you’d realise you were laughing too. Michael, the other German, had a kind face that would suddenly crack into these goggle-eyed expressions that shouted out loud and clear “Yes, I’m eccentric, and I’m proud of it!”

We fell in love with them immediately. Thank you, funny and lovely people! The laughter you caused shall make us live longer!

Rafting

July is not rafting season in Tattapani. The river moves too fast and its volume covers the rocks that would otherwise create a break in the flow and white rapids.

But I really wanted to go rafting. I really wanted to.

The first day they said maybe we could go the next day. It rained that night and the next day they said the water was too high. I pleadingly asked again the day after. No go. The day after that I asked one of the guys working at Old Spring View Hotel. He said no. I asked another, just in case he felt differently. He didn’t.

Third time lucky. I asked the main guide and owner of the Old Spring (and two other hotels in town.) He ummed. I pointed out that it was our last day. He aaahed. I made big eyes and smiled. He looked towards the river. I smiled wider and brought my hands together in a pleading fashion.

“Well, it isn’t going to be very exciting without the rapids,” he said.
“I don’t mind, I just want to see the scenery!”
“Well… I guess…”

I know I’m a stubborn poo head. I guess this is the similar to tantrums I used to throw as a four year old, only without the kicking and screaming and with considerably more begging.

Moonho shook his head when I got my way, but hey! We got to go rafting, German friends and all! It was a 6km stint, and I admit there were few rapids. But it was a taste of Indian rafting, and I want more! In fact, I am inspired to take more in-depth lessons if I ever get the chance. There is something appealing about having nothing between you and a live, writhing body of water but a mere layer of rubber and air.

As I watched bulbous green hills drift swiftly backwards, I swore that if I ever make it back to Tattapani at peak season I would hire our friendly guide and do the 45km stint.

But unfortunately it was time to turn our minds towards more practical matters (sigh.) I’d spoken to a guy at the Ministry of Transport, who said that Damsel's registration could be done in Shimla despite what the Shimla lads had told us. Try again, he said. So try again we would.

Phew. All for you, Damsel, all for you…