10/25
Today was a travel day. I had a 10 hour, 3 bus journey to McLeod Gang in Dharamsala so I'll give you my impressions from the bus ride.
1. India's all about the concept of mobile workspace. Forget about paying to rent space for a business. Throw down a piece of cloth, claim your bit of sidewalk, and you can cut hair, pick earwax, offer de-lousing services, pull out teeth -- any service you can think of. nothing too private to conduct in public.
2. The bus seat in front of me is busted. It's only a thin sheet of pressed wood with a piece of plastic stapled around the edges so the wood is fully exposed in the back. I can see it's split right down the middle and under the weight of the man in front, I'm watching the wood bulge out towards me. There's a horrible screeching from the wood rubbing against the frame. Of course, that's minor compared to the much more worrisome rattling of every window, every door, every joint on this bus as it careens over the bumps in the road.
Any minute now, this seat is going to give out and I'm going to find a fat Indian man with a greasy mop of hair in my lap.
3. Speaking of hair, there are a lot of people here who dye their hair bright orange. Like that man sitting in the front seat. What little hair he has left is dyed Day-glo orange. That color Brits refer to disparagingly as "the ging," like it's a plague or something. That's a coveted hair color here; I've seen it on both men and women. It's unfortunate. And by unfortunate, i mean hideous.
4. The brakes on this bus squeal sharply in protest every time they're applied. Sounds like a pig being slaughtered. The only thing that seems to work properly on this bus is the horn, which is being used promiscuously -- for good reason, I'm sure. India's roads, besides being poorly maintained seem to be fraught with obstacles: lumbering trucks bearing heavy loads that look poorly secured, mangy stray dogs, fat cows, water bison, horse drawn carts, motorcycles, auto-rickshaws, bikes, people, cars, and other equally dilapidated buses.
5. A young woman in a heavy blue shawl over her head and shoulders and a gaunt face just spent a good five minutes begging me for money. She kept showing me a black and white photo of a man who looked like he might be her husband or brother, along with a note that looked like it could be a doctor's note. When I shook my head and looked away, she got louder and more insistent, pointing emphatically at the photo.India makes you look poverty in the face about 50 times a day and challenges you to turn away from it. I gave her all the change in my pocket and she acted like it still wasnt' enough. It's hard here-- i dont' think anyone could ever do enough to make a difference.
Another traveler told me that you have to say no firmly but with compassion -- say it with your eyes. It sounds so simple and kind. But how can you say no when they know -- and you know-- how much you have an how little they have? My eyes can't say no. They're filled with the guilt of countless privileges.
6. For breakfast, I had a bag of Lays sour cream and onion potato chips and 4 bananas. It's a luxury in the US to ask questions of our food like "is it organic? Does it have transfat? What kind of oil was used? Is it whole wheat? Gluten free?" My food concerns are much more basic here: "Will it make me deathly ill? Give me a tapeworm or other kind of parasite? Dystentary or Hep A?"
Lest you think I'm being needlessly paranoid, let me assure you, I'm not. I have a stomach of steel but I've never seen food prepared in such unsanitary conditions -- not in China, not in Cambodia -- congrats, India, you win. Food is cooked in grimy alleyways in frying pans that look like they've never encountered a sponge or dish soap. Lentils sit around in uncovered metal pots and fried chipatis are heaped in greasy piles until someone buys them. I can see mud caked under the fingrenails of all the boys doing the cooking and I've never seen gloves or tongs. Given these conditions for culinary prep, I intend to survive on lassis. A lassi a day keeps the diarrhea away.
7. After almost 10 hrs on 3 different buses I've finally arrived! Mcleod Gang is the Dalai Lama's home in exile, perched atop a mountain coverd in pine forests. I have to say, the path to enlightenment is paved with some pretty big potholes and sinuous curves that hug the edge of cliffs. The smattering of signs on the way up the mountain were really amusing. I particularly liked the one "Himichal Police: Better late than Never" in front of the police station. Some just really didn't make sense: You are in cantt area, drive slow" (the imperative was blatantly ignored) and "tree forest married. services available."
8. The air is crisp and cool up here and Tibetan refugees and monks are everywhere, as are colorful yak wool shawls, monkeys, prayer wheels, and tankas. Ate dinner at a momo noodle house, found a spartan room with a sheet of foam on a cot for a mattress. No bathroom or shower but the price is right -- about $5 a night. One of the nicest things about being in this town is that I blend in much better here. With my Greek isles tan, I look vaguely Tibetan.
Today was a travel day. I had a 10 hour, 3 bus journey to McLeod Gang in Dharamsala so I'll give you my impressions from the bus ride.
1. India's all about the concept of mobile workspace. Forget about paying to rent space for a business. Throw down a piece of cloth, claim your bit of sidewalk, and you can cut hair, pick earwax, offer de-lousing services, pull out teeth -- any service you can think of. nothing too private to conduct in public.
2. The bus seat in front of me is busted. It's only a thin sheet of pressed wood with a piece of plastic stapled around the edges so the wood is fully exposed in the back. I can see it's split right down the middle and under the weight of the man in front, I'm watching the wood bulge out towards me. There's a horrible screeching from the wood rubbing against the frame. Of course, that's minor compared to the much more worrisome rattling of every window, every door, every joint on this bus as it careens over the bumps in the road.
Any minute now, this seat is going to give out and I'm going to find a fat Indian man with a greasy mop of hair in my lap.
3. Speaking of hair, there are a lot of people here who dye their hair bright orange. Like that man sitting in the front seat. What little hair he has left is dyed Day-glo orange. That color Brits refer to disparagingly as "the ging," like it's a plague or something. That's a coveted hair color here; I've seen it on both men and women. It's unfortunate. And by unfortunate, i mean hideous.
4. The brakes on this bus squeal sharply in protest every time they're applied. Sounds like a pig being slaughtered. The only thing that seems to work properly on this bus is the horn, which is being used promiscuously -- for good reason, I'm sure. India's roads, besides being poorly maintained seem to be fraught with obstacles: lumbering trucks bearing heavy loads that look poorly secured, mangy stray dogs, fat cows, water bison, horse drawn carts, motorcycles, auto-rickshaws, bikes, people, cars, and other equally dilapidated buses.
5. A young woman in a heavy blue shawl over her head and shoulders and a gaunt face just spent a good five minutes begging me for money. She kept showing me a black and white photo of a man who looked like he might be her husband or brother, along with a note that looked like it could be a doctor's note. When I shook my head and looked away, she got louder and more insistent, pointing emphatically at the photo.India makes you look poverty in the face about 50 times a day and challenges you to turn away from it. I gave her all the change in my pocket and she acted like it still wasnt' enough. It's hard here-- i dont' think anyone could ever do enough to make a difference.
Another traveler told me that you have to say no firmly but with compassion -- say it with your eyes. It sounds so simple and kind. But how can you say no when they know -- and you know-- how much you have an how little they have? My eyes can't say no. They're filled with the guilt of countless privileges.6. For breakfast, I had a bag of Lays sour cream and onion potato chips and 4 bananas. It's a luxury in the US to ask questions of our food like "is it organic? Does it have transfat? What kind of oil was used? Is it whole wheat? Gluten free?" My food concerns are much more basic here: "Will it make me deathly ill? Give me a tapeworm or other kind of parasite? Dystentary or Hep A?"
Lest you think I'm being needlessly paranoid, let me assure you, I'm not. I have a stomach of steel but I've never seen food prepared in such unsanitary conditions -- not in China, not in Cambodia -- congrats, India, you win. Food is cooked in grimy alleyways in frying pans that look like they've never encountered a sponge or dish soap. Lentils sit around in uncovered metal pots and fried chipatis are heaped in greasy piles until someone buys them. I can see mud caked under the fingrenails of all the boys doing the cooking and I've never seen gloves or tongs. Given these conditions for culinary prep, I intend to survive on lassis. A lassi a day keeps the diarrhea away.
7. After almost 10 hrs on 3 different buses I've finally arrived! Mcleod Gang is the Dalai Lama's home in exile, perched atop a mountain coverd in pine forests. I have to say, the path to enlightenment is paved with some pretty big potholes and sinuous curves that hug the edge of cliffs. The smattering of signs on the way up the mountain were really amusing. I particularly liked the one "Himichal Police: Better late than Never" in front of the police station. Some just really didn't make sense: You are in cantt area, drive slow" (the imperative was blatantly ignored) and "tree forest married. services available."
8. The air is crisp and cool up here and Tibetan refugees and monks are everywhere, as are colorful yak wool shawls, monkeys, prayer wheels, and tankas. Ate dinner at a momo noodle house, found a spartan room with a sheet of foam on a cot for a mattress. No bathroom or shower but the price is right -- about $5 a night. One of the nicest things about being in this town is that I blend in much better here. With my Greek isles tan, I look vaguely Tibetan.
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