Sarahan, Sangla and the Jeori Pass

Man proposes and God disposes…we’ve had to change our plans. The Buddhists that we met in Agonda wrote us that the Dalai Lama was dedicating a new monastery in Rewalsar the very time we planned to arrive there.  At first I was excited at the opportunity to see him again, but then we realized that the town would be mobbed with Tibetans and devotees, and there would be nowhere to stay. We had to figure out an alternative for a few days.  Gerard consulted the map…and decided on a remote mountainous route following the Satluj Valley with detours down into the Sangla Valley reaching as close to the Tibetan border as one can go without a special permit.

This had an all too familiar ring – ever since I’ve been traveling with him, Gerard has always wanted to find the remote and lonely places! This goes back to 1972 on our first trip together to Tunisia. A French doctor in Tunis examined the nasty rash on Gerard’s leg and asked, “Where have you been?” Hearing our reply, he exclaimed, “Gafsa? I’ve lived in Tunisia for 35 years and I’ve never been there!” 

And he’s still at it…now Gerard has come up with this proposal!  For a moment, I lose the spirit of adventure.  My mind focuses on the long bumpy ride, anticipating the discomfort before it happens; forgetting that it is short lived.  Usually in the end it’s well worth any discomfort. Taking into consideration how complicated public transportation would be we decided to hire a car and driver. So I was spared the bus rides!

Before leaving, we had to see a point of interest in Shimla that we’d missed on our previous two visits - the magnificent Viceregal Lodge where the British Viceroys to India conducted business during the summer.  It was also the location of the Shimla Conference in 1945, when Independence was first seriously discussed; now used as an Institute for Advanced Studies, with just a few large formal rooms open for public and with plenty of old Raj photographs. The Lodge looked like somebody had uprooted an Elizabethan style mansion from the English countryside and dropped it into the foothills of the Himalayas, complete with manicured lawns and gardens. For me, it was definitely worth the several km steep uphill hike out of town.  Nursing his sore legs the following day, I’m not sure Gerard shared my enthusiasm!Before leaving, we had to see a point of interest in Shimla that we’d missed on our previous two visits - the magnificent Viceregal Lodge where the British Viceroys to India conducted business during the summer.  It was also the location of the Shimla Conference in 1945, when Independence was first seriously discussed; now used as an Institute for Advanced Studies, with just a few large formal rooms open for public and with plenty of old Raj photographs. The Lodge looked like somebody had uprooted an Elizabethan style mansion from the English countryside and dropped it into the foothills of the Himalayas, complete with manicured lawns and gardens. For me, it was definitely worth the several km steep uphill hike out of town.  Nursing his sore legs the following day, I’m not sure Gerard shared my enthusiasm! 

We met our car and driver at the bus stand the next morning and set off, somewhat disappointed by the state of the car. As we anticipated the road was long and bumpy, but the sheer beauty of the Himalayas compensated.  The further out from Shimla, the more interesting the landscape became. But in some places the road was so deteriorated from the ravages of winter that it was hardly passable, especially in our old beat up Indica.  The fact that the transmission kept popping out of third gear didn’t give us great confidence.  But the driver was slow and cautious. Once I let go of my innate need to get to the destination in the shortest time possible there was plenty of time to take in the scenery – the breathtaking view from the treacherously narrow mountain ledge, looking down into a lush green valley, snow capped mountains towering above us.

Our first overnight stop was Sarahan, an exotic temple complex high above the valley, surrounded by a small village.  Sections of the temple were over 800 years old – courtyards and inner courtyards with intricate wooden carving. It appeared to us a strange combination of Buddhist prayer wheels and Hindu gods. In fact it seems that most of the Tibetan population has converted to Hindusim, while still maintaining some of their Buddhist customs - not unlike the Catholics in Central America.

The other thing I loved in Sarahan was the small country lanes bordered either side by stone walls and flowering fruit trees.  I often say to Gerard, ‘I wish I could go for a nice country walk”  – and here I am, doing just that!

The next morning we continued the bone shaking ride to Sangla.  Not surprisingly, the road got even worse. There seems to be continual minor landslides, probably worse in winter, and the road is barely passable in places.  

Again we turned away from the valley and climbed up to Sangla.  The town itself didn’t amount to much but a thirty minute walk away was a beautiful old village with a temple and fort. The latter is reportedly 800 to 1,000 years old.  Gerard was interested in the wood and stone structures while I was fascinated by the faces of the local women and children peering out of windows and around the sides of buildings – sometimes friendly, sometimes just curious.  837

The hotel manager said there is up to 6 feet of snow in the winter and those who can, leave town. The less fortunate are snow bound for four to five months and have to stock up on provisions.  I imagined them snow shoeing out of the upper floor windows of their houses, while the cattle are sheltered on the ground floor.   As I watch a woman cutting mustard flowers in the early morning sunshine, filling the basket and loading it on to her back, I reflect that the lives of these people seem hard - but simple compared to the clutter I deal with back home. Three women breaking stones into gravel, their pounding beginning at first light, drove home the point – simple, but very hard. 

After three days we reached the end of the valley at Chitkul, an elevation of 3400 meters.  We were wonderstruck by its natural splendour and beauty.  The town amounted to little – just a few dwellings, including a tea stall – but the snow capped mountains reaching down to the river and the blue green water sparkling in the bright sun was hard to take in. So remote and so peaceful….it was well worth the trek!  Gerard comments that a good friend says “there’s a reason why Vermont is Vermont ”;  similarly, this unspoiled beauty is due to the fact that Chitkul is so remote and difficult to reach.  We both hoped that after Chitkul, the rest of our stay in Himachal Pradesh wouldn’t be an anticlimax. 

The next day we set off for our last destination, Kalpa. It may be hard to believe but the road got even worse, taking a terrible beating on the car – and its passengers.  Traveling along narrow mountain ledges, we pass through “shooting stone zones.”  I saw the twisted frame of a car that had fallen from the road above.  There is no way its occupants could have survived and I wonder how long it was before anyone found their remains.  There are few other cars on the road.   

In the nondescript town of Rekong Peo –13KM short of our destination - our car died!  The driver fetched mechanics while we sat on the roadside, providing entertainment for the passersby as we were entertained by them also.  After several hours the mechanics, shut the hood, and it was clear our car was not going any further.  Instead of scenic Kalpa we’re stuck for now in Rekong Peo – but at least it’s a town, and our hotel room has a great view! 

I didn’t feel good about leaving our driver beside the car sunk into a fog of despondency, pounding his forehead with his cell phone. Unable to communicate, he could no longer help us. In only three days – which felt more like three weeks – I felt emotionally involved with him.  He could speak barely any English, but now and again, he’d ask simple questions, like how many children did we have, and how long we’d been married.  “40 years,” Gerard said, holding up his hand four times.  He didn’t believe it. “No, not your age, how long have you been married…four…five years?”  I worried if he had enough to eat; if he was cold sleeping in the car.  And now we were separating before completing the journey.  But what could we do?

No one in town could speak English; our cell phone had no service... But we borrowed a phone at the hotel and called our agent in Shimla. To our relief the next morning a new driver and car, in considerably better condition, arrived at our hotel to take us down the mountain.  To reach Rewalsar, we had to retrace our footsteps and then turning north, begin the climb up to a 3100 meter pass. On the way we drove through lush green valleys, spring flowers and blossoming fruit trees, then giving way to more of an alpine landscape. At Jeori Pass, we stopped at a chai stall that could have been out of the middle ages, except for the plastic chairs.  

As we began the descent down the northern side, it was clear why the pass had just opened – huge banks of snow and slush lined the roadside.  It was getting dark, so we stopped at a tiny guest house a short distance down - the only guest house in who knows how far so bargaining was limited.  Not a five star room but we had an excellent meal by candlelight – due to a power cut – and went to bed under a heavy quilt. 

1016  The next morning, we stepped out on the balcony and saw below us terraced green fields and brilliant yellow patches of mustard flowers, with a hamlet nestled in the side of the mountain. We took a stroll and descending the stairs into the lanes we both had the sensation we were walking down into someone’s house.  It felt so intimate. 

Like waking from a sweet dream we descended down the mountain into a more familiar reality. Still attractive, but it paled in relation to where we’d been.  For once, enjoying the ride so much, I was in no hurry to reach the destination. If I had given in to my reluctance of brief inconvenience I would never had any of these experiences.

Music in the Park

Our stay in Delhi was just long enough to visit with the family, and exchange clothes for something heavier before into the setting out for Himachal Pradesh.  But Delhi was at its best.  There are perhaps two or three weeks at the end of March when the weather is perfect – not too cold…not too hot – and the air fresh and clear.  

One evening we went to an open air classical Indian concert in Nehru Park. Gerard happened to see the free event advertised in the Sunday paper. The concert was dedicated to the famous shenai player from Varanasi, Bisimillah Khan, who transformed the shenai to the solo classical music instrument it is today. His death in 2006 at the age of 90 was marked with a national day of mourning; he played for both the Independent celebrations at the Red Fort in 1947 and again at the Golden Jubilee in 1997.  During the interlude was an excellent documentary of his life and music.  The featured artist was flute player Pandit Hariprasad Chaurasi who we’ve seen a number of times in Boston. Even at his advanced age, he could still produce magic out of a bamboo flute.  It was very pleasant to be sitting in the park in the cool evening air, listening to one of India’s top classical musicians. 

We never know when illness is going to strike and our Indian family has been hit hard this year.  The grandmother passed away just days before we arrived and now the mother has been diagnosed with some strange auto immune condition that’s attacking her liver. The doctors want to put her on steroids to weaken her immune system, setting off a controversy among the family about what the best treatment would be – steroids or holistic. The daughter, who was here from Bangalore, was also herself suffering from two angry looking boils on her arm.. Meanwhile, the other side of the family, who we often stay with, was having their own problem – their younger son is suffering from an undiagnosed condition producing fever and loss of weight.

Gerard and I were sorry to leave the family dealing with all these issues, and hope that when we return in three weeks things will be a little better for them all. 

Varanasi: City of Death and Liberation

After our experience in general seating, a night train in 2AC was blissfully comfortable!  But the “weather disturbance” followed us.  Gerard watched a lightening storm from the window beside his bunk, while I slept soundly above.  Arriving just before 5 am, the now familiar Varanasi train station was easy to navigate in the dark. Too early to go to our hotel, we waited until light. Gerard adeptly handled the hustling rickshaw drivers and they left us alone.

Standing beside a toothbrush seller, I watched the deaf mute sitting cross legged on a mat, a bundle of branches from the neem tree beside him. His handicap didn’t seem to impair his ability to do his job with great efficiency and ease.  He’d select a branch and with precision chop it into equal lengths and add them to the rapidly growing pile in front of him.  He seemed optimistic…and early morning business was good.  Positioned at the station exit, a steady flow of travelers stopped for a “toothbrush”.  Holding up one finger to indicate the price, he patiently let the discerning customer disrupt his pile of sticks, rifling through to pick exactly the right one.  Women wanted a skinny stick, men a more substantial one.  An old man with softening teeth wanted the edge of the stick shaved.  For an hour I watched in fascination.  The pile of rupees he kept under a piece of newspaper in front of him grew rapidly and became 5R….10R notes as he made change.

A boy with a pile of newspapers came by and gave him several.  He stuffed them away in a bag beside him.  Later another boy dropped off the Times of India in English.  He put that away too…when business slowed down later in the day, I presumed he’d read them When he went off for a few minutes to relieve himself, he put a stone on top of the newspaper covering his rupees, confident no one would take them.  It was now lighter,   and time for us to snap out of our trance and get going…

Entry into our beloved city was rougher than usual. We had never been here during rain nor had we been here when it was cold - and on our arrival it was both. Walking through the muddy lanes at six in the morning to our guesthouse was not the welcome mat that we were hoping for.  Surprisingly even though they refused to take reservations on the phone, we had the “best room” on the fifth floor overlooking the River Ghanges.

My trusty guide/maintenance man set up a washing line, and rewashed the floor…and the “clean” towels …and we settled in. When I think about it, it’s amazing that Gerard can travel in India at all, he’s such a neatnik! Then he proceeded to wash his sneakers...Later in the day as the sun came out, and the sweepers had done their job, the city we remembered began to reappear.

Longing for live classical Indian music we finally had the opportunity our first evening here. It was the last day of a prolonged Holi celebration which included four performing groups on a boat facing the ghat. First the solo instrumentalist played a shenai, and then came a violinist, followed by a young energetic sitar player. The last performer was delayed by another freak thunderstorm. We hustled back to our guesthouse and when it stopped raining we could hear a female vocalist through our open window.  Of course we hope to hear more, but it looks doubtful.

Our fourth time in Varanasi, we find it an easy place to be in.  There’s so much activity on the street that just going to and from wherever we need to go is fascinating. And even in our hotel room, the monkeys entertain us, hanging on the bars in front of the window, sitting with their feet dangling in, talking to us. Even though there are many places to visit, it’s not a necessity. Gerard says that staying in Varanasi reminds him of the three months he spent in Marrakech one winter.  It wasn’t so much about what to do; it was much more about just being there.    On the other hand, I feel I should be doing something; still learning that you don’t have to make things happen….sometimes they happen of their own accord.

It’s easy to be social here – most of the shopkeepers are more than happy to enter into conversation with the tourists. Both of us are amazed that merchants remember us - even from several years ago.  “Hello, I remember you from two years ago, you bought the blue bedspread!” The CD shopkeeper smiles and says, “And when did you return?”   

But as in any city the exploiters are lurking, looking for an opportunity. I’m well aware that you’re not supposed to take pictures at the Burning Ghat, where the cremations take place, but I go ahead and do it anyway.  And this time I got caught! Three men pounced on us. They ranted and raved about how illegal it was to take pictures at the cremation site and what a big mistake we’d made.  “The police will demand a large fine and destroy your camera. But….we all can a big hassle with the police if you make a donation to the hospice or buy kilos of firewood.”  “How much?” Gerard asked.  “3000 rupees!”  Greed had once again foiled their plot!  If they’d asked for 300 R they might have gotten it.  But 3,000?!  Gerard said, “Forget it, we’re going to the police,” and started to walk off.  Two of the three saw the futility of their ploy, and didn’t follow.  The third, with breath smelling of alcohol, persisted. “But sir, we can avoid big problems with the police if you make a donation.”   Again, Gerard says, “How much?”  And now it’s 500 rupees!  He confronted the man, “Have you been drinking?”  Denying it, the drunkard shrank away.  Once again the tour guide comes through; he’s good at deflecting difficult people and situations.

Our friend from Agonda, Johnny, showed up for a couple of days and one of the things he really wanted to do was see the cremation site at the Burning Ghat.  Making our way through the back alleys, we came on to the back side through the mountains of wood.  Young boys approached us wanting to guide us through the ritual - but of course for a “donation” for the hospice. For the most part, we managed to avoid all of that and stood quite close to a funeral pyre. This isn't something morbid but for the western eyes it’s very sobering to see bodies slowly melt away in the flames. Even if it’s only for a moment, the inevitability of death cannot be denied.  When the skull finally explodes in the heat, the Hindus believe it’s the final release of the soul from its physical entrapment.  All three of us were moved and silent. We left feeling a little more in touch with reality…although I’m sure what we witnessed affected each one of us differently.

People come to Varanasi to die; they believe that if they die here their soul will be liberated.  Therefore, one could say that this is a city of death – or liberation!  No matter where you are there’s funeral processions making their way to the cremation ground. Somewhat similar to the funeral processions in New Orleans, there is a joyous character to it all.  We even met an English father and son, who had brought the grandfather’s ashes to put in the Ganges at his wish.   So other than all of the other fascinating aspects of this city, it really is renowned for death and liberation, making it necessary to go and see the Burning Ghat at least once.

Both of us have had a long standing interest in the Muslim saint, Kabir, who lived in Varanasi.  So with that in mind we thought we would go out to visit his birthplace.  As it turned out it was a long dusty rickshaw ride and the very large memorial/meeting hall was more about the person who did the fundraising than it was about Kabir. Close by we stopped in at a Kabir Sahib Ashram where a young man spoke good English and tried to explain to us the lineage of which they follow. All in all interesting, but not really worth the hike out there.

50154  Coincidentally, there’s a temple immediately next door to our guest house and we noticed over the door the name, Shibendu Lahiri.  Curious we went inside in the evening and there was a mass of pictures of the swami order of Kriya Yoga, of whom the most famous in the west is Paramahansa Yogananda (Autobiograhpy of a Yogi).  His Master’s Master was Lahiri Mahasaya. Here it was a strange blend of Hindu lingam, marble statues and pictures of several past yogis…and Einstein!  But their devotion still seemed very Hindu based, including waving incense, conch blowing and bell ringing.  Not exactly, what I understand the practice of Kriya Yoga to be!  But we still like to sit there and experience the intensity of the sound for a moment overwhelming the oscillations of our busy minds. 

Bhedaghat – Rivers, Waterfalls….”and they had a Swimming Pool!”

Bhedaghat is a nondescript small town, but a popular Indian sightseeing spot for two reasons:  sits beside a river cutting through a white marble gorge. But the biggest draw is a very impressive waterfall, especially now during the dry season. 

Hotel Marble Rock

After viewing a decidedly grubby hotel with larger than life pictures of Osho in the lobby, it’s not a hard decision for me to agree to indulge in the more expensive option.  After an unexpectedly taxing day of travel, we deserve a night of relative luxury.  And the hotel, already with standards of cleanliness, comfort and service beyond our usual experience, also boasted a pretty garden complete with a swimming pool!  The unheated water was a little cool but I had to take advantage. 

Uncharacteristically, we enjoyed hanging around the hotel and its lovely garden overlooking the marble gorge as much as exploring the town. And the restauarant was of the same quality. Comfortable bed, endless supply of hot water, soft pillow and a delicious dinner was savoured!  During the night everyone was shocked by a passing thunderstorm. It was so strange to see the garden dripping with rain in the morning. Little did we know that this storm would follow us to Varanasi.

The next morning, we walked down to the waterfalls, and it exceeded expectations. I loved the power of the rushing water, the heavy mist wafting through the air – it was like a miniature Niagra Falls.  We both imagined what a sight it would be after the monsoon.

Going down to the ghat, we joined a couple of Indian business men take a short boat ride through the gorge.  Then it was time to leave our the seduction of expensive hotels with beautiful vistas and head back down to Jabalpur to catch the afternoon train to Varanasi.   Bhedaghat was all about water…

Pachmarhi: Flowers and Faded Raj

My guide has pulled it off again. During the long journey to get here I may have had a few doubts, but Pachmarhi is definitely worth the trek. This is our third visit to Madhya Pradesh, and P is its only hill station; very popular with Indian tourists, but like other places we visited in the state, not frequented by western tourists. Maybe because it takes a certain amount of some effort to get here. Few people speak English and the food is characteristically HOT...you know you’re in the middle of India.

 We were drawn by the guide book description of “an idyllic plateau in the heart of the Mahadeo Hills” – with plenty of country walks. Walking in the surrounding hills, we found a remote cluster of caves, where Sadhus lived and performed their practices. 

 

After the busyness of Bhopal and Pune, the much appreciated silence was broken only by birdsongs. Another day we walked down a ravine to a natural temple hidden among the boulders where priests were chanting constantly.  

The most surprising walk was to the five caves from which Pachmarhi gets its name. (Panch means five). According to legend, the Pandavas from the mythical saga, the Mahabharata, spent their exile in these caves. After seeing Ellora and Ajunta, these caves were merely holes carved out of the rock…not impressive. 

But the flower gardens at the base of the hill were spectacular! We’re unaccustomed to seeing anything flowering in India during the dry season, and especially not a formal English style garden.  

The guidebook talks about “the faded Raj atmosphere” - and at first it looked as if it had faded completely out of sight.  But these gardens, a few bungalows, and a neogothic church confirmed the presence of the Raj.

Hearing an Indian tourist describe the thundering waterfall in nearby Bhedaghat, we decided to leave Pachmarhi a day early to visit it.  Bhedaghat is three hours up the train line we were taking to Varanasi, so it didn’t seem a big deal to go there the day before our reservation. But first we had to come back down off the plateau to Piparyia.  This time we decided to take the local bus -  twice as long as the taxi, and a bumpier ride but there would be more room to spread out.  True at first. But after multiple stops in little villages the bus was packed, with a large old lady squashed in beside G & I and the aisle full to overflowing. 

Then at Piparyia we made the mistake of buying “general seating” tickets. It was a simpler transaction…and we were only going three hours.  How bad could it be?  But we’d never ridden unreserved general seating before.  It was so crowded we couldn’t even board much less find a seat.  So hoping no one would notice, we jumped into a “sleeper” coach, one class higher. But this was no better, once again reserved seating was almost as crowded as general seating, and no one wanted to make room for us.  

So we ended up standing in the corridor beside the toilets leaning against our cases.  After a while some boys invited Gerard to sit with them in a cramped space beside the door.  I sat on my case wedged in beside a sleeping boy, trying to avoid tripping up the continual flow of food vendors, blind beggars and passengers using the toilets. Then three railway employees came and reclaimed their precious space on the ground ordering the boys, including Gerard to leave so they could sit down and eat their lunch. We were both leaning on our cases again.  After they finished eating, the railway employees took pity on us and ordered two young boys sharing a pull out seat against the window to get up and let the old Western tourists sit down.  Reluctantly they relinquished their seat and for the rest of the journey we perched on it together…and grateful.  The next time we see overcrowded trains with people sitting in the doorway we will much more empathy for their situation.

After three long hours it was a relief to disembark in Jabalpur.  But our journey was not over….we still had an hour’s rickshaw ride.  With no buses or taxis, this was the only public transport to Bhedaghat. An eager young rickshaw driver was waiting by our train; we didn’t haggle much over the price, we just accepted.   A bumpy road accentuated by no shocks left on the rickshaw -  but we were on the last leg of our journey and would soon be in Bhedaght.  Then suddenly, a loud bang and the rickshaw pitched toward the ditch…not a flat tire this time, the whole wheel was broken! Rather than yell and swear, the driver politely apologizes, “Sorry, Sir!” And standing in the road hails down another rickshaw – already full of people, but we’re squeezed in with our bags.  Further down the road, we transfer to yet a third rickshaw…..and finally reach Bhedaghat!  

It’s a Long Way to Pachmarhi

Getting to Pachmarhi involved a number of long bus rides – first to Pune, where we spent one night.  Pune is still the headquarters for the followers of Bhagwan Rajneesh (Osho), and although he died 25 years ago, there is still a large community here. After being thrown out of the US and trying to gain entry in 22 countries, Osho finally settled here.

This being the first city we’ve been in since Bangalore over six weeks ago, the city seemed louder, dirtier and more crowded than ever, but over and over again there were helpful people: the rickshaw driver who found us a hotel when it seemed hopeless – everything was full or beyond our budget; the young boy who stopped on his bike, “What do you want, Auntie?”  and then proceeded to help us find a pure veg restaurant. 

One of the benefits of traveling is that essentials are reduced to a minimum - finding a clean and affordable hotel and, within walking distance, a veg restaurant. On our way to dinner, a group of young men on motor scooters raced round the corner and catching a glimpse of me in the growing dusk, shrieked, “White Girl!” – a refreshing change from “Auntie.”

The following day we boarded an overnight sleeper bus for Bhopal, fourteen hours away.  It’s a little hard to explain but basically there’s curtained cubicles with just enough room for two people to lie down and barely enough head room to sit up. I boarded with trepidation at the prospect of being captive for so long. But surprisingly enough it was almost fun… We lay chatting late into the night and finally drifted off with the jostling of the bus. Waking early in the morning as the bus pulled into a roadside breakfast stand with only a few hours to go.  It was nowhere near as bad as I’d feared.

We’d passed through Bhopal on the train before, but I had no desire to stop there.  The spectre of the 1984 Union Carbide chemical disaster was still too real, and in my mind caste a long shadow over the city. But now it was unavoidable because we didn’t feel like taking another seven or so hour journey immediately.  

Bhopal has a strong Moslem legacy emphasized by three mosques, one of which is said to be the largest in India, (although the people in Delhi would not agree….). We were able to walk around all three mosques, watching young boys reciting the Koran, and rows of men kneeling in prayer. We didn’t have a chance to get much of a sense of Bhopal except that it’s yet another Indian city that can’t keep up with the growing population.  It’s the cities that continually remind us of how over populated India is – 1.1billion today and still growing.

The next afternoon we took the train to Piparyia, riding sleeper class for the mere four hour journey.  Buying tickets at the train station is never easy – long, long lines at each counter, the occasional outburst when someone tries to cut in at the front of the line.  But I’m amazed at the patience of Indians to wait.  Noticing a significantly shorter line for “current reservations” we join it. Everything seems good.  The form’s filled out correctly and with the usual pushing and shoving, we hand it over - only to be told, “Come back in 15 minutes!” I demand, “Why?” but he’s not about to give me an explanation. Fuming at Indian bureaucratic inefficiency, I join Gerard back at the end of the line. Two boys have explained to him that “current reservations” means you can only buy the ticket an hour before departure.  Meanwhile the annoying clerk closes his window altogether…now I’m really loosing my patience....reopening up only just in time for us to get our tickets. 

Settling in on the train, our compartment began to fill to overflowing -fifteen people crowd into a space designated for eight. But it’s reserved seating! Further adding to our confusion, when the ticket collector came around, he only looked at four tickets– including ours, while the rest of the passengers merely nodded, and he walked away.  Striking up a conversation with a boy across from us, he explained that the rest of the passengers had monthly passes and they crowd on wherever they can. He reminded us that it was Holi in a few days (the festival of color, one of India’s largest holidays) and everyone was going home to spend it with the family.

The boy who spoke good English told us he worked for the Secret Service.  Inquiring about our experience in India he seemed somewhat surprised that we’ve never had any real problems and meet only friendly people. His job focuses around tracking the Naxalites, a Marxist faction that is particularly violent.  By the time we reached Piparyia he’d managed to put me on edge and arriving at night didn’t help.  We still had 50 Km to go to Pachmarhi, no hotel reservation and had not eaten dinner yet.  The crowd of hustling taxi drivers was threatening to me.  Gerard picks one with a small private car, another passenger and a trunk full of heavy packages.  My unease was mounting as we set off down a dark winding road, in the company of two men we knew nothing about. Some way down the road the driver stopped right in the lane of traffic and turned off the engine. With no explanation, he got out, along with the other passenger, leaving Gerard and I shut in the car in the darkness.  Now my paranoia is in full swing.  Immediately I thought, they’re abandoning us - we’re going to be robbed and murdered! But if they wanted to do that, wouldn’t they throw us out the car and drive away themselves – not the reverse?  My blood sugar was really low- I needed to eat…

The reality was a flat tire – too much weight in the small car.  The driver proceeded to change the tire in the middle of the dark road - cars, trucks, bicycles with no lights, cows - all passing dangerously close. Finally we’re on our way again, but I still have a sense of foreboding.  Arriving in town, our fellow passenger, who had hardly said a word to us during the journey, proceeded to help us find a budget hotel and negotiate a discount on our behalf – and the restaurant was still open!  I wasn’t very pleased with the room, but I kept it to myself.  The next morning, by daylight, everything seemed a lot better.  I realized the fellow on the train had definitely unnerved me. 

Above the Haze in Mahalabeshwar

The 12 hour private bus from Margoa in Goa would take us only 48 KM from our next destination, Mahabaleshwar, a small hill station on a remote plateau in the western ghats.  “We will arrange for a taxi, included in the price,” the bus company told us. But we couldn’t get reassurance from the non English speaking conductor about when or where we’d get off. In the dark, the four lane highway is treacherous; the conductor takes our bags out of the storage and points across to the distant far side, where a small bus depot and restaurant are lit up.  With my heart pounding, I follow Gerard into the median, dragging my case.  “Run!” he shouts…and we make it to the other side.  

Inside the restaurant, a man listens to our request for a taxi to Mahabaleshwar.  “But where are your tickets?”  “We gave them to the conductor on the bus”….we have no record of our reservation.  It doesn’t look good and we suspect we may have to pay extra for the taxi now.  The man is in no rush to help us, and speaks virtually no English.  “15 minutes!” he says... It’s getting late and we only have a tentative hotel booking.  30 minutes go by…  Hungry, tired and nervous that I may have nowhere to sleep tonight, I keep hassling the man….  For two hours, his response continues: “15 minutes.”  Finally a jeep arrives and we’re transported effortlessly up the winding mountain road to the plateau.  The driver drop us off in the center of town, and to our surprise make no demand for payment.

Mahalabeshwar, famous for its strawberries and clean mountain air, is a hill station developed by an Englishman in the 1830s.  It’s the highest point in the western ghats, with wonderful views into the valley below were it not for the inevitable haze. 

Gerard tries to make a joke with the young Indian boys: “Do you know why there is so much haze?  It’s due to all the damn cigarette smokers in Mumbai!”  The joke falls flat.  

One afternoon, we took a 7 Km walk through the woods to a beautiful viewing point. The guidebook told us we probably wouldn’t meet another living soul – and it was right.  Walking along a path that was once a road, long since abandoned, we passed by the crumbling gateway to Nugent Lodge, the one time residence of some Englishman.

Another day we took the local bus to old Mahalabeshwar, a peaceful hamlet with an old Shiva temple sitting on a ridge, overlooking the valley stretching far below. 

On the way back from the temple, we passed a strawberry farm offering large of glasses of fresh strawberries and cream which was irresistible. We ate in the sunshine sitting in a garden surrounded by hollyhocks in full bloom.  A Hallmark moment! 

An old Indian couple (older than us) from Long Island approached us in the bus station to share the cost of a sightseeing taxi with them for the day. Ken came to the US in 1969 via Canada with $300 in his pocket. Arriving at JFK unable to speak English, a taxi driver found him a room for the night, another man helped him get a job – within 6 months he’d brought over his wife and child, and by the end of the first year he owned a duplex in the Bronx and was working as an accountant at Chase Manhattan where he continued to work his way up.  Today, two sons are eye surgeons and his daughter, a producer for NBC Dateline. 

He had a wealth of amusing stories including on his first flight out of India he sat next to a white woman – the first he’d ever seen. She took her shoes off and he stared at her feet - she had no toes!  Being an outspoken man, he asked if all white people had feet like that.  She laughed and explained that she was wearing “knee-highs” and took one off to prove she wasn’t a freak, with webbed toes, after all! 

In the evening, Indian tourists are bused in from the resorts scattered around the countryside.  This is definitely an Indian tourist destination. The majority are newlyweds from Mumbai and Pune, the bashful young brides in their iridescent nylon honeymoon suits.  After five days we were glad we’d made the effort, but once is enough – we doubt we’ll return anytime soon.