Kelsang Lodue, my Tibten son, and I, packed up our bags and hired a young Indian lad to shoulder the biggest suitcase up the stone steps (110 of them) to Jogibara Rd. in McLeo. He was delighted to get the 50 rubees I offered and Kelsang equally delighted to not have to do it. We then rolled our luggage through McLeo's one land narrow road that weaves through vegetable stalls, Tibetans selling their wares, shoulder-wide shops, cows, pictures of the Dalai Lama, Free Tibet signs, the occasional monkey sitting-people watching, and the tourists. Taxis and jeeps carrying towers of goods stacked on their roofs also squeeze through this masala of humanity. At the bus stop just outside town, we found our "City Land" bus I had paid top dollar for in order to get reclining seats-our trip to Delhi would take about 12 hours and mostly during the night-to sleep the whole way would be bliss-I had planned to go straight from where the bus stops at the Tibetan Settlement in Delhi known as Manju Teela to the airport and then get on my flight and zip to the modern world. Could it really be that easy?
The conductor-those wiry young men who work on every Indian bus, taking fares, making announcements and loading gear, tried to charge us 20 rubees for our bags, but Kelsang had placed them in the boot of the bus himself, so it didn't seem justified. We Indian-screamed yelled, which is really quite an art that I've watched Kelsang do many times when we are over-charged, so I decided to give it a try. "You think I"m stupid because I'm white? You think you can cheat us like that?" I yelled in my best Kali voice, throwing in some sideways head waggling. He looked pretty pleased with my retort and lowered his fee to 10 rupees!
The driver saddled up and passengers loaded-there is the usual confusion of who sits where and finally everything is sorted out, all with good vibes. a gaggle of monks had come with their monk pal to see him off and shouted and clapped as the bus pulled out and he waved from the window opposite us. The driver negogiated some tight hair-pin turns as we left this hilltop station, (as he lit his first of many cigerettes, also typical for Indian bus drivers-chain-smoking while driving), acrid smoke filled his cabin. A glass partition divides his space, large enough to hold several other men and a bed, but we can see through it from our seats to the windshield and view in front of us. Often the conductor will lite the cigarette and pass it to driver, and take a few hits himself. I could only hope it was legitimate pan they were smoking as the roads are trecherous and steep and sheer drop-offs in this part of India, at least until we descended in the Kangra Valley below.
Forget reading a book or sleep until out of the hills. Taking turns on two wheels despite the size of our "tourist" bus was no problem for the Indie-car-racer driver, smoking and playing his Hindi music full volumne. Just sit and use mindful meditation-I told myself enjoying the always amazing sights-the mountains full of pine forests, and beyond them, huge towering rock peaks of the first range of Himalayas that make this part of India seem so like your are in Tibet. In fact, during this trip I saw many bags and signs printed with "New Lhasa". There was an ancient red fort on a hilltop, shrine after shrine with gaudy Hindu statues and adornments, bullock carts--but over and over I rehearsed what I would do if we crashed-sorry to say, such a ride makes you take full measure of your surroundings and how best to exit the vehicle when and if it tips over. I focused from time to time on the Shiva statues on the dashboard by the driver, and Shiva's blue serene face, the cobra around the neck, Ganges river pouring from his head, a crecent moon beside his dreads. Was Shiva real? Could he be called upon if we plummet down this gorge we are teetering by-wait! There's Shiva now! At the bottom of the gorge was a wonderful statue of Shiva and his wife Parvati, on a large boulder! It is true!
As darkness fell, the driver made his one stop for dinner break and Kelsang and I ate a plate of cheese stuffed chapatis and "Aloo" with spices. I bravely made my way to the back toilets, following the reek of urine, to a small tin room about 3 ft. by 3 ft. with a squat pit. Many men stood outside in the fresh air relieving themselves immodestly, staring at me with great curiosity.There were some of the largest insects crawling around in the toilet I had ever seen, some beautifully green, others about 3-4" long with hard shells. What a great place to study entomology!
ON and on we drove in the hazy, dusty, muggy night. The bus jerked and swayed and I tried to doze but could not. Around 2 am, the driver mysteriously took a sharp turn off the highway and began to drive down a small lane into rice paddies. This is interesting, I thought and looked back at the other passengers to see if any were as surprised as I was-no one seemed to take notice. Most dozed and some were car sick. The road became a country lane and then dirt, our large bus lumbered along, struggling to stay on the small road and not fall off into the rice paddies. The dirt road was full of ruts and the bus lurched and jottled over them, where the heck was this driver going?? We passed through several small farms, scattering sleeping dogs left and right. This did not seem right-and I began to fear we were being taken hostage by the crazy chain-smoking driver, or involved in some drug pick up. The monk across the aisle from me dozed in peace. OK, if we were forced to get off this bus in a field, I'm sticking to him, I thought. Suddenly 3 soliders appeared from the fields with large rifles slung across their backs-Marxist? No they had turbans, must be Shikhs. They had uniforms and looked impossing in the dark, their tall backs straight with authority. their blue turbans giving them added height. Yelling at the driver to stop, he jumped down and was interrogated in typical authoritative Indian scream technique. The driver argued back-much hand-gesticulating. I turned to Kelsang to interpret, but he, miraculously, slept soundly. The soliders pointed this way and that, back to the way we had come and back to another road. The driver got in and we were off again, and soon on the highway. Later, i overheard an english speaking passenger say there was something about avoiding toll fees and truckers often take back roads to get around toll booths.
We got into Manju Teela at dawn, in the rain. It was a welcome wetting, as our backs were soaked in sweat from the bus ride and our heads foggy with lack of sleep. Gathering my stored bags, which I had kept at the Shambhala Guest House for a few rubees, Kelsang and I located a spicket and did a "squat wash" underneath, letting the fresh water rinse the dust from our faces and arms. We said our emotional goodbyes after a cup of butter tea at a Tibetan tea shop, and promised to meet again next year. He still had a hot and long two day bus ride back to Kathmandu and many worries about making it back across the border into Nepal. When you only have a Dalai Lama passport and no official papers really recognized by any gov't, crossing any border is a worry. I emptied my pocket of quite a few rubees,saving only enough for a taxi to the airport, and gave them to him with a hug and the best of luck-and many many Tashi Deleks.He pulled out of his pocket the traditional long white kata scarf that every Tibetan keeps hidden for such occassions. Around my neck it went with many, many Tashi Deleks, the Tibetan "best wishes" puja saying.
I had a Visa card, a passport and all my luggage, a Tibetan kata around my neck, and the USA to go home too-suddenly I felt blessed beyond measure. The taxi wove in and out of Delhi's insane traffic and delivered me to the gate at Indira Ghandi airport. But when I tried to get into the airport proper, the Sikh guard looked at my papers to inform me I was a whole day early! WHAT??!! I grabbed the papers back to stare in disbelieve-how could this have happened?? I had somehow gotten in my head that July 5 was Sun. and had not seen a calendar I could read in about a month. It was actually the 4th of July. The reality sank in-I was stuck in Delhi for another day and had to find a decent room in a strange city and something to do until the next day!
Somehow my good luck prevailed and I found a nice, clean guest house close to the airport and added bonus of being next door to the 5 star Radisson, where I could walk and hang out in their 5 star lounge. I hired a taxi to take me to the Delli Hatt-an outdoor shopping market full of interesting local vendors and craftsmen. AFterwards I roamed the beautiful Radisson grounds and read the paper to discover-oh my god-there was to be a nationwide strike, a bhand-or in Nepal, Bhanda, of the entire country! Oh well, this has happened to me and Danny before, once in Spain we landed just as a bhanda began and there is little you can do about it as a traveller but, once again, go with the flow.
This morning I awoke in my little room to hear the news-Calcutta was shut down and Mumbai, but delhi so far still up and running. Leftists, they were saying, were imposing strict measures on anyone breaking the strike, and taxi drivers still doing business were asking twice their normal rates to make up for the danger. I am finishing this blog now and off to airport extra early while I can still get a taxi. Maybe another day in Delhi? It will not be so bad, I really do love chaotic and bazaar India. Home and all it's orderly-ness will be soon enough-I have really learned the art of patience on this trip, from waiting to find taxis in Dhading to jeep breakdowns in Dharka to off-road bus drivers in India to long walks up and down ancient stone steps that don't seem to end. what a wonderful part of the world to learn about life and what it is all about. I hope for all of you reading this you find your bliss, right where you are and a bit of patience and tolerance in all you do! Lots of love, namastes, tashi deleks-tu de che's-Danny-take care my love where-ever you are in the world right now! Jan, HANDS in Nepal field inspector, is OUT! Shanti Om Shanti!
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