Okay, so, aside from the fact that I have forgotten where we went after Nainital (I think I'm entitled to blame that on the Christmas-alcohol combination), things seem to be going well. This is the first day that I have managed to get rickshaw drivers to take me where I want to go at a fair price without having to spend 10 minutes haggling with every one of them! Perhaps India is hardening me up after all. Or, perhaps the rickshaw drivers in Jaipur are more honest.
For Christmas Day we went to see the Taj Mahal in Agra, which was really amazing, although an extortionate kick in the teeth price-wise for backpackers (compare 15 rupees for an indian tourist to the 750 rupees a 'foreign' tourist has to pay...although of course it is generally only the whities that get treated as tourists). Additionally, had a wonderful evening in our hotel with some new found friends and an impromptu party (plus rather copious amounts of alcohol!). Sandra and Claud from Australia-turned-Thailand, Ray from America-turned-South Korea, Sanne from Holland and Andrea made up the infamous crew. Our raucous behaviour (which was the verbal equivalent of our fancy dress) caused a grumpy frenchman to stomp out and complain 'We arrre trrryeeeng to sleeeep' to which an extremely drunk Ray started laughing. Nothing personal I feel, but Frenchie took a rather aggressive stance to this response which seemed to have little effect; primarily because he was only wearing boxer shorts at the time.
It didn't dampen the mood although it did put an end to the festivities. Still, a Christmas I shall never, ever forget!
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Nainital
We left Amritsar on the overnight train to Haridwar. The trains here have carriages with beds in (and, of course, the inevitable, intimate, and indestructable cockroaches). Upon settling down in our booth we are joined by Varinder, who speaks excellent English, and knows just about everything about India and Indian history And one more thing..." seems to be his favourite phrase, turning what might have been succinct one-liners into a venerable essay of information. We lap it up.
Later in the evening, he calls me over. "Louise, I have a thing to tell you. Do not show people your sheep, they will laugh at you. And one more thing; the train attendants are a bit drunk, so be careful. And one more thing; you should not sleep in a bottom bunk. And one more thing; you seem very trusting, and you must be very careful, because people might take advantage of that."
Having quite happily followed this conversation in my head with the responses "I don't care if people laugh at me", "Hm, that train attendant did seem to be sweating a lot", and "I pity the fool who tries to come within 6 feet of me whilst I sleep" I suddenly come up icy cold at the words 'very trusting'. Foolish, naive, tactless, idiot, rush through my head. I feel a little bit sick that, once again, I have come across with this persona.
This is the me I used to know, my younger self, the one I have tried so hard to re-educate. Then I decided not to bother because I'm pretty sure I can't change who I am by trying to change who I am, if you know what I mean. I tend to sit with a relative confidence that although I might come across as naive, I am not a fool. Indeed, I have often played up to this image because I find it makes people lax about their self presentation; if they think you are stupid or unobservant (as follows the assumption from naive) they are less motivated to 'hide'. Perhaps this confidence is misplaced but it is there. However, I understand where Varinder was going; it is wise to not appear a fool and as such attract less attention as 'easy prey'.
Of course, my twisted mind wants to defend my 'easy prey appearance' approach; it's easy, I'm used to it, and it has worked well so far. It is probably my pride that is fuelling such justifications. Old habits die hard.
My attitude towards the probably-fake beggars is becoming less and less sympathetic the more invasive they become in their begging tactics. Today, we went for a meal. 4 'feggars' stand outside the restaurant shouting 'HELLO. HELLO. HELLO.' repeatedly along with 'MONEH PLES MONEH' and eating gestures towards their mouths. They fail to notice the 14 Indian customers, directing their determined (and incredibly loud) efforts towards me and John. I did what I have tried to do with all the beggars so far; looked them in the eye, gave them a smile and a respectful Namaste, but no more, unless I acquire information that they are a genuine beggar. My patience wore very thin with these feggars. But not so thin as to have anything untoward happen. John admonishes me: "Lou, there's no point getting angry about it, what's the point?" And he is, of course, correct. But then I wonder, what is the point to anything? Any emotion? If all this, existence, fades away, then to feel anything is ultimately futile. Everything ends. So I can feel or I can not feel and the end result is the same. Can I feel joy, love, magnamity, peace without equally irrational bouts of anger, fear, pain? I don't think so. I could become dead to the world, or perhaps be a Buddhist. Having already tried one of those paths I think I shall have to pick up my Tibetan prayer bowl and -keep- -trying-. Or, I can enjoy the rollercoaster. It is said that people feel less extremes of emotion the older they get...I am frightened to think of it. My 'passion' is very much who I am. It's what motivates me to try. Do we fade to grey just as our hair does?
Sounds worryingly like a question that Carrie might ask in one of her Sex and the City articles.
We've moved into a realm which I don't think I can write myself out of, so I shall take the easy exit and end my post.
Later in the evening, he calls me over. "Louise, I have a thing to tell you. Do not show people your sheep, they will laugh at you. And one more thing; the train attendants are a bit drunk, so be careful. And one more thing; you should not sleep in a bottom bunk. And one more thing; you seem very trusting, and you must be very careful, because people might take advantage of that."
Having quite happily followed this conversation in my head with the responses "I don't care if people laugh at me", "Hm, that train attendant did seem to be sweating a lot", and "I pity the fool who tries to come within 6 feet of me whilst I sleep" I suddenly come up icy cold at the words 'very trusting'. Foolish, naive, tactless, idiot, rush through my head. I feel a little bit sick that, once again, I have come across with this persona.
This is the me I used to know, my younger self, the one I have tried so hard to re-educate. Then I decided not to bother because I'm pretty sure I can't change who I am by trying to change who I am, if you know what I mean. I tend to sit with a relative confidence that although I might come across as naive, I am not a fool. Indeed, I have often played up to this image because I find it makes people lax about their self presentation; if they think you are stupid or unobservant (as follows the assumption from naive) they are less motivated to 'hide'. Perhaps this confidence is misplaced but it is there. However, I understand where Varinder was going; it is wise to not appear a fool and as such attract less attention as 'easy prey'.
Of course, my twisted mind wants to defend my 'easy prey appearance' approach; it's easy, I'm used to it, and it has worked well so far. It is probably my pride that is fuelling such justifications. Old habits die hard.
My attitude towards the probably-fake beggars is becoming less and less sympathetic the more invasive they become in their begging tactics. Today, we went for a meal. 4 'feggars' stand outside the restaurant shouting 'HELLO. HELLO. HELLO.' repeatedly along with 'MONEH PLES MONEH' and eating gestures towards their mouths. They fail to notice the 14 Indian customers, directing their determined (and incredibly loud) efforts towards me and John. I did what I have tried to do with all the beggars so far; looked them in the eye, gave them a smile and a respectful Namaste, but no more, unless I acquire information that they are a genuine beggar. My patience wore very thin with these feggars. But not so thin as to have anything untoward happen. John admonishes me: "Lou, there's no point getting angry about it, what's the point?" And he is, of course, correct. But then I wonder, what is the point to anything? Any emotion? If all this, existence, fades away, then to feel anything is ultimately futile. Everything ends. So I can feel or I can not feel and the end result is the same. Can I feel joy, love, magnamity, peace without equally irrational bouts of anger, fear, pain? I don't think so. I could become dead to the world, or perhaps be a Buddhist. Having already tried one of those paths I think I shall have to pick up my Tibetan prayer bowl and -keep- -trying-. Or, I can enjoy the rollercoaster. It is said that people feel less extremes of emotion the older they get...I am frightened to think of it. My 'passion' is very much who I am. It's what motivates me to try. Do we fade to grey just as our hair does?
Sounds worryingly like a question that Carrie might ask in one of her Sex and the City articles.
We've moved into a realm which I don't think I can write myself out of, so I shall take the easy exit and end my post.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Amritsar
I seem to be strangely reluctant to write today...perhaps I have OD'ed on internet usage having been on twice in the past 2 days.
We have been staying at the Sikh temple for the past 3 nights, and eating in the Sikh temple kitchens...all for FREE! Well, okay, all for a donation, but it's pretty civil of them, don't you think? Very reasonable. The Golden Temple is absolutely gorgeous, we saw it as the sun was going down and then late at night, beautiful both times. It glows.
Amritsar obviously isn't a popular tourist hub...I've seen 5 white people here, other than John and myself. This may explain why we have suddenly attained Celebrity Status...people randomly say 'Hel-lo-how-are-you' in the street, in a bubble-pop rhythm. We dutifully reply 'Fine, thank you' to which the inevitable response seems to be 'And where are you from?' John proudly jumps in with 'Iyerlaand!' which nobody here seems to recognise, compared to 'Ah, England! Yes: my son is working there/ I have a cousin in Newcastle/ My friend and I want to study there' etc. etc... and etc. It's nice though, to have some genuine conversations, beyond the tiresome jangled repetition of bazaar bargaining.
Walking round the Golden Temple, a small girl comes up to me with a serious 'Hello.' she waits patiently for my response as I look around me to try and source the voice (several inches lower than I expected). 'Hello' I respond. She squeals in delight, a big grin on her face, running back to her family babbling in excited Punjabi. They grin over at me and I at them. It is nice to know that children are recognisable the world over, their needs, their desires. This is an area that could unite the world. If we ever get there.
You can contrast this with the complicated ritual of trying to get a rickshaw for a fair price. Step one: Go ask an Indian with no motive to lie how much a rickshaw should cost to location X from here. 20 rupees, okay, no problem. Step two: 'How much to Ram Bagh from here?' '70 rupees' comes the reply. Step three: you get the picture. We normally manage to get it to a 1.5x rate of the normal price.
If you ever come to Amritsar, go see the Pakistani-India border ceremony. The patriotic zeal is both highly enlivening and quite disturbing, as is the entire ceremony... Both sets of soldiers proudly preen, and try and shout commands for a longer time than the other side can. It's not unlike watching two male birds in a dominance display during mating season. Very interesting to watch.
We have been staying at the Sikh temple for the past 3 nights, and eating in the Sikh temple kitchens...all for FREE! Well, okay, all for a donation, but it's pretty civil of them, don't you think? Very reasonable. The Golden Temple is absolutely gorgeous, we saw it as the sun was going down and then late at night, beautiful both times. It glows.
Amritsar obviously isn't a popular tourist hub...I've seen 5 white people here, other than John and myself. This may explain why we have suddenly attained Celebrity Status...people randomly say 'Hel-lo-how-are-you' in the street, in a bubble-pop rhythm. We dutifully reply 'Fine, thank you' to which the inevitable response seems to be 'And where are you from?' John proudly jumps in with 'Iyerlaand!' which nobody here seems to recognise, compared to 'Ah, England! Yes: my son is working there/ I have a cousin in Newcastle/ My friend and I want to study there' etc. etc... and etc. It's nice though, to have some genuine conversations, beyond the tiresome jangled repetition of bazaar bargaining.
Walking round the Golden Temple, a small girl comes up to me with a serious 'Hello.' she waits patiently for my response as I look around me to try and source the voice (several inches lower than I expected). 'Hello' I respond. She squeals in delight, a big grin on her face, running back to her family babbling in excited Punjabi. They grin over at me and I at them. It is nice to know that children are recognisable the world over, their needs, their desires. This is an area that could unite the world. If we ever get there.
You can contrast this with the complicated ritual of trying to get a rickshaw for a fair price. Step one: Go ask an Indian with no motive to lie how much a rickshaw should cost to location X from here. 20 rupees, okay, no problem. Step two: 'How much to Ram Bagh from here?' '70 rupees' comes the reply. Step three: you get the picture. We normally manage to get it to a 1.5x rate of the normal price.
If you ever come to Amritsar, go see the Pakistani-India border ceremony. The patriotic zeal is both highly enlivening and quite disturbing, as is the entire ceremony... Both sets of soldiers proudly preen, and try and shout commands for a longer time than the other side can. It's not unlike watching two male birds in a dominance display during mating season. Very interesting to watch.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
The Unintentional Dog Whisperer of McLeod Ganj
As an aside, we had another weird dog related incident in McLeod Ganj. Just as we were loading our stuff onto the bus, a bunch of stray dogs came up, one by one, and lay down in front of us. The locals were staring at us...I had the strange feeling of being the Chosen One, the unintentional dog whisperer, Saviour of all Dogkind. On closer examination, I believe they were probably after our newly bought veg burgers for the bus journey. But that kinda destroys the mysteriousness of it all, don't you think?
I will keep you posted on any other dog-related miraculous happenings...
I will keep you posted on any other dog-related miraculous happenings...
Thursday, December 11, 2008
McLeod Ganj
We've decided to extend our stay in India to a month, as it's far too vast to get a fair look at the North in just two weeks. So we will head across the Nepalese border a little later than planned, but I am certain that this is the right thing to do; I definitely want to return here at a later date to explore the south.
As I said at the end of my last post, we have been staying in a little village near Dharamsala, called McLeod Ganj. We're tucked in amongst the Himalayan foothills. This indicates two things to me; a) the views should be very good; and b) it should be BLOODY COLD. Both of these things have been true in moderation. The views have been beautiful but very hazy, owing either to low lying pollution or forming cloud layers...and the temperature has been around what you would expect in Britain at this time of year. I didn't expect to use my winter clothes this soon, but I am very glad I brought them! I am currently wearing four layers. Nobody uses heating here.
I had a cockroach crawling on my restaurant table last night. This put me off my food. This resulted in a rather heated dispute between John and the restaurant owner:
'Here now, we don't want to eat here anymore, there are cockroaches on the table, it's not hygienic!'
'This is India, you must pay, we are poor country, there cockroaches in all the restaurants, they not in the food, you must pay!'
This situation was demi-resolved by us paying for the food; I didn't eat mine, but I hope I managed to give it to one of the genuine beggars...'That man down the road, with the blue plastic? He is very sick, I always give him food...' it was strange...I had seen him sitting there every day, but I hadn't seen him, you know? You become accustomed to the poverty far too quickly, it washes over you. I gave him my momos which he explored with curiosity; I guess he doesn't normally get soup. 'Namaste' was all I managed, ashamed that I could not say more. He mumbled to himself, the incomprehensible mutterings of an elderly person with dementia. 'He does not speak' said the shopkeeper opposite...and indeed, the 'true poor' are voiceless here.
I got ripped off by a beggar kid the other day. Left to my own devices, I wandered the streets of McLeod looking for bargains (some serious retail therapy has happened here). 'Please you buy milk for my family please' comes the dewy eyed desperate plea of a scruffy 7 year old. I had been ignoring this trick for several days now, as my Lonely Planet had advised me. For some reason today I didn't manage it. His name was Sajiir. I bought him rice and milk. We shared hot chocolate at a cafe. He stuck his tongue out; I rolled mine; he showed me how to do 'two tongue' (which I still can't do). He thinks that bananas make his pee red. I tried to explain about germs. 'Little animals, yes the little animals on food, I know all, but bananas, make men pee red, I don't eat them' I don't think he really got it. We wandered around the village together and sang a bit of 'Hit me baby one more time'.
I know that this rice and milk isn't going to his sick Grandma and baby sister. 'This is how they start business, they are not true poor' is what I am told later by Haneev (my source of indian culture, chai and cushion covers). And of course he is right. I am swamped by beggars for the next half an hour after Sajiir leaves.
I saw him again today, with the other beggar children. 'Hello' he smiles, his English much improved now he doesn't have to pretend he is impoverished. 'Now, you give me money for the bus home?' 'No more money' I say. He immediately leaves.
'You must pay' seems to be a recurring theme of the Indian pysche as soon as a (dare I say it) white person wanders into their restaurant, shop, country...it is very difficult. 'Tourist tax' is ever present, although it is much better here in the hills, the prices are much fairer. I am dreading our descent tomorrow back into the bustling craze of the towns. We plan to go to Amritsar, to look at (and probably sleep in) the Golden Temple, which offers free accomodation and food to pilgrims...it will be interesting to sleep and eat with people from all over the world.
I wonder if the tourist tax is less aggressive in McLeod because there is a large Tibetan refugee presence here...there are 3 Buddhist monasteries between McLeod and Dharamsala alone, and 3 more between here and Triund (one of the mountains we here). Monks and nuns wander the streets in their distinctive red clothing; two pieces of cloth wrapped around the legs and torso. Some carry prayers beads; others carry mobile phones. Yesterday, I saw a women in traditional Tibetan dress with a Karrimor rucksack. The fusion of Indian, Tibetan and Western is bizarre. Indian adverts seem to try and emulate Western ones, but they never get it quite right...Kingfisher Beer: it rocks!...Airtel the best for you and your phone...and my favourite so far: Safety Saves! (no, really?!) The female models for these adverts are Indian, wearing some slightly odd Western clothes (presumably presumed to be trendy), and badly photoshopped to within inches of their existence to look white.
The day before yesterday we climbed up to Triund plateau, which was pretty hard going, although the climate here makes it easier than it was in Africa. Having reached the top we found that we didn't have enough time to climb back down in the light. The guesthouse had assured us that the rooms were 500 rupees; this quickly sprang to 1000 when we asked at the door. The caretaker showed us the rooms, shrugging his shoulders 'I very sorry, if you were Indian they would charge maybe 350 rupees'. A little pissed off (okay, more than a little pissed off on my part), we stormed up the mountain in search of cheaper rooms. We found a shack. I'm not even joking; you imagine a shack and you're pretty close to what we stayed in. Freezing cold, one wall consisted only of plastic sheeting, mice gnawing on mouldy cauliflowers hanging from the roofs, a tiny 'fireplace' with a makeshift hob consisting of a piece of tin with a hole hacked out of the middle where you (gingerly) rested the pot. The works. So, I can't say I -slept- persay, but managed to sit out the darkness with a few warmish noodles in my belly and without getting eaten by snow leopards.
A really strange thing happened on Triund...when we arrived, I was greeted by this big fluffy white dog. I've been staying away from the animals as I haven't had my rabies jabs, but for some reason he came up to greet me and I came up to greet him and within seconds, sat down next to him rubbing him behind the ears. He felt like a cushion. We chilled out together for a while, then John and I went off to look at the view and eat some Moong Dal. A few minutes later, this dog comes over and has a sniff, sits down nearby. 'Random' was the comment, and we thought no more of it. After looking at the guesthouse and all, we started up the mountain, and about half an hour further on, who did we see? The White Dog, a respectful distance away, stopping when we stopped, walking when we walked. We lost him again for a bit, got settled into the shack, started cooking. We heard noises outside. We both froze; wolves, maybe? The noises went away. About an hour later John went out to have a pee. He opens the plastic sheet door 'Holy crap!!' shuts it and rapidly backs away. 'What, what?!' I stand up. 'It's that dog! It's just outside the door!!' (John doesn't like dogs; I don't know a former newspaper boy who does). After the initial shock of a potential wolf, John goes outside and everything carries on as before.
It stayed there the whole night. Every so often I heard barking in my half sleep, and in the morning I went out to see him curled up by a rock sleeping. He didn't want to come inside the shack, even when I offered it to him.
I guess he was guarding us. He came back down the mountain to Triund where we asked a local (of the 4 inhabitants of Triund plateau) who the dog belonged to: 'No one. He comes and goes, comes up with the tourists.'
Wish he was my dog.
As I said at the end of my last post, we have been staying in a little village near Dharamsala, called McLeod Ganj. We're tucked in amongst the Himalayan foothills. This indicates two things to me; a) the views should be very good; and b) it should be BLOODY COLD. Both of these things have been true in moderation. The views have been beautiful but very hazy, owing either to low lying pollution or forming cloud layers...and the temperature has been around what you would expect in Britain at this time of year. I didn't expect to use my winter clothes this soon, but I am very glad I brought them! I am currently wearing four layers. Nobody uses heating here.
I had a cockroach crawling on my restaurant table last night. This put me off my food. This resulted in a rather heated dispute between John and the restaurant owner:
'Here now, we don't want to eat here anymore, there are cockroaches on the table, it's not hygienic!'
'This is India, you must pay, we are poor country, there cockroaches in all the restaurants, they not in the food, you must pay!'
This situation was demi-resolved by us paying for the food; I didn't eat mine, but I hope I managed to give it to one of the genuine beggars...'That man down the road, with the blue plastic? He is very sick, I always give him food...' it was strange...I had seen him sitting there every day, but I hadn't seen him, you know? You become accustomed to the poverty far too quickly, it washes over you. I gave him my momos which he explored with curiosity; I guess he doesn't normally get soup. 'Namaste' was all I managed, ashamed that I could not say more. He mumbled to himself, the incomprehensible mutterings of an elderly person with dementia. 'He does not speak' said the shopkeeper opposite...and indeed, the 'true poor' are voiceless here.
I got ripped off by a beggar kid the other day. Left to my own devices, I wandered the streets of McLeod looking for bargains (some serious retail therapy has happened here). 'Please you buy milk for my family please' comes the dewy eyed desperate plea of a scruffy 7 year old. I had been ignoring this trick for several days now, as my Lonely Planet had advised me. For some reason today I didn't manage it. His name was Sajiir. I bought him rice and milk. We shared hot chocolate at a cafe. He stuck his tongue out; I rolled mine; he showed me how to do 'two tongue' (which I still can't do). He thinks that bananas make his pee red. I tried to explain about germs. 'Little animals, yes the little animals on food, I know all, but bananas, make men pee red, I don't eat them' I don't think he really got it. We wandered around the village together and sang a bit of 'Hit me baby one more time'.
I know that this rice and milk isn't going to his sick Grandma and baby sister. 'This is how they start business, they are not true poor' is what I am told later by Haneev (my source of indian culture, chai and cushion covers). And of course he is right. I am swamped by beggars for the next half an hour after Sajiir leaves.
I saw him again today, with the other beggar children. 'Hello' he smiles, his English much improved now he doesn't have to pretend he is impoverished. 'Now, you give me money for the bus home?' 'No more money' I say. He immediately leaves.
'You must pay' seems to be a recurring theme of the Indian pysche as soon as a (dare I say it) white person wanders into their restaurant, shop, country...it is very difficult. 'Tourist tax' is ever present, although it is much better here in the hills, the prices are much fairer. I am dreading our descent tomorrow back into the bustling craze of the towns. We plan to go to Amritsar, to look at (and probably sleep in) the Golden Temple, which offers free accomodation and food to pilgrims...it will be interesting to sleep and eat with people from all over the world.
I wonder if the tourist tax is less aggressive in McLeod because there is a large Tibetan refugee presence here...there are 3 Buddhist monasteries between McLeod and Dharamsala alone, and 3 more between here and Triund (one of the mountains we here). Monks and nuns wander the streets in their distinctive red clothing; two pieces of cloth wrapped around the legs and torso. Some carry prayers beads; others carry mobile phones. Yesterday, I saw a women in traditional Tibetan dress with a Karrimor rucksack. The fusion of Indian, Tibetan and Western is bizarre. Indian adverts seem to try and emulate Western ones, but they never get it quite right...Kingfisher Beer: it rocks!...Airtel the best for you and your phone...and my favourite so far: Safety Saves! (no, really?!) The female models for these adverts are Indian, wearing some slightly odd Western clothes (presumably presumed to be trendy), and badly photoshopped to within inches of their existence to look white.
The day before yesterday we climbed up to Triund plateau, which was pretty hard going, although the climate here makes it easier than it was in Africa. Having reached the top we found that we didn't have enough time to climb back down in the light. The guesthouse had assured us that the rooms were 500 rupees; this quickly sprang to 1000 when we asked at the door. The caretaker showed us the rooms, shrugging his shoulders 'I very sorry, if you were Indian they would charge maybe 350 rupees'. A little pissed off (okay, more than a little pissed off on my part), we stormed up the mountain in search of cheaper rooms. We found a shack. I'm not even joking; you imagine a shack and you're pretty close to what we stayed in. Freezing cold, one wall consisted only of plastic sheeting, mice gnawing on mouldy cauliflowers hanging from the roofs, a tiny 'fireplace' with a makeshift hob consisting of a piece of tin with a hole hacked out of the middle where you (gingerly) rested the pot. The works. So, I can't say I -slept- persay, but managed to sit out the darkness with a few warmish noodles in my belly and without getting eaten by snow leopards.
A really strange thing happened on Triund...when we arrived, I was greeted by this big fluffy white dog. I've been staying away from the animals as I haven't had my rabies jabs, but for some reason he came up to greet me and I came up to greet him and within seconds, sat down next to him rubbing him behind the ears. He felt like a cushion. We chilled out together for a while, then John and I went off to look at the view and eat some Moong Dal. A few minutes later, this dog comes over and has a sniff, sits down nearby. 'Random' was the comment, and we thought no more of it. After looking at the guesthouse and all, we started up the mountain, and about half an hour further on, who did we see? The White Dog, a respectful distance away, stopping when we stopped, walking when we walked. We lost him again for a bit, got settled into the shack, started cooking. We heard noises outside. We both froze; wolves, maybe? The noises went away. About an hour later John went out to have a pee. He opens the plastic sheet door 'Holy crap!!' shuts it and rapidly backs away. 'What, what?!' I stand up. 'It's that dog! It's just outside the door!!' (John doesn't like dogs; I don't know a former newspaper boy who does). After the initial shock of a potential wolf, John goes outside and everything carries on as before.
It stayed there the whole night. Every so often I heard barking in my half sleep, and in the morning I went out to see him curled up by a rock sleeping. He didn't want to come inside the shack, even when I offered it to him.
I guess he was guarding us. He came back down the mountain to Triund where we asked a local (of the 4 inhabitants of Triund plateau) who the dog belonged to: 'No one. He comes and goes, comes up with the tourists.'
Wish he was my dog.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Catch up! Catch up!
There is never enough time to write and always so much more to do than is physically possible in the time I have in any one place! At least this shall give me an appetite to return. I really feel like all I'm doing is dipping my toes in the water here. Hopefully Nepal will be better, as it's a much longer stop and I'll actually be working there, all going to plan.
So, Africa....gonna skip Knysna and Jeffreys Bay here and dive straight into the safari! Really good fun, we did a self drive one, praying that the baboons wouldn't come and rip out wing mirrors off. They didn't and we had a fantastic day, had a mother elephant and her baby 4 feet away from the car (a little too close I felt), warthogs running out in front of the vehicle and a million huge tortoises plodding along without much concern for anything other than vergeside grass. Also saw buffalo, zebras, ostriches and a mongoose (of all things)! John poked fun at me for getting excited about dung beetles ('But they're flightless! The only one of their kind!') He still seemd to think sticking my head out the window to look at poo was a bit weird. Guess I can agree.
We drove back from Jeffreys Bay to Cape Town via Route 62 (gorgeous drive if you ever go, beautiful, the roads are very good in South Africa, it made up for missing out the Chapman's Peak). On the way home we came across Chandelier's Ostrich Rides and Races. - Lou goes :D -. 10 minutes later (after having a tame zebra stick its head through the car window and slather all over John) I'm sat on an ostrich. They're very powerful, hard to ride, you kinda slip off no matter what you do! I felt a bit bad for the birds...don't think I'd want to encourage that kind of treatment of animals...but it was definitely an experience I'll never forget.
It was worse at Kalk Bay. There was a fishing boat going out to sea, loads of guys holding one end of the net on the shore. They had a catch within 20 minutes; I went over, excited to see an authentic African fishing haul. They were big fish, as long as my arm, very powerful, I was laughing in surprise at their strength. And then suddenly this horrible realisation crept over me that they were suffocating. The fisherman threw them further up the beach as they tried to kick themselves back into the sea. A group of people gathered round, still laughing in delight as I had been a few seconds before. One woman picked up the still flipping fish by the tale, laughing as her husband took a picture. It had blood foaming from its gills. They all made this weird yelping noise, sounded like a distress signal to me, this tiny squeak almost drowned out by the laughter. I didn't know fish could make noise.
What don't I know about animals? I'm sure they feel pain; what organism would survive if it didn't have aversion to life threatening situations? Maybe they don't feel it like we do but there's no way of knowing that. But we assume we do; we laugh as we watch fish bleed on the beach.
From Africa to India. Stopped over in Qatar for 12 hours (in between flights). They have some fantastic architecture there in Doha, but it's obviously still very undeveloped...there are huge swathes of building sites. Would like to go back in 10 years or so and see it then.
I'm currently in India. Dehli is, quite possibly, the most insane place in the world. For example...road signs and markings indicate that we should be seeing two lanes of orderly traffic going in one direction. Erm...death defying 6 lane chaos is what we dive into, complete with cows, beggars, desperate pedestrians diving in front of us, and lines of necklace-wearing goats being whipped down the street. Drivers seem to believe that honking their horn is essential to their survival. They are probably right.
The pollution here is obvious. You can't see from one end of a street to the other because of the smog. Every few minutes you hear hideous productive coughing and the inevitable phlegm splat on the pavement as the victim spits. I can't really say I blame them; Dehli is the only place where I've inhaled through my mouth and actually been able to chew on the contents.
Beyond this cacophony of sensory information, the vibrancy of India shines through. You go from intense disgust to absolute delight in seconds; walking past an open air latrine into the incense of the bazaar; from a hobbling beggar to a beautifully embroidered sari; from the aggressive invasion of a lying tout to the calm and peace of a temple.
IN. SANE.
I'm now in the foothills of the Himalayas, near Dharmsala (this is basically as close to Tibet as you can get without actually being there). Much more chilled out.
So, Africa....gonna skip Knysna and Jeffreys Bay here and dive straight into the safari! Really good fun, we did a self drive one, praying that the baboons wouldn't come and rip out wing mirrors off. They didn't and we had a fantastic day, had a mother elephant and her baby 4 feet away from the car (a little too close I felt), warthogs running out in front of the vehicle and a million huge tortoises plodding along without much concern for anything other than vergeside grass. Also saw buffalo, zebras, ostriches and a mongoose (of all things)! John poked fun at me for getting excited about dung beetles ('But they're flightless! The only one of their kind!') He still seemd to think sticking my head out the window to look at poo was a bit weird. Guess I can agree.
We drove back from Jeffreys Bay to Cape Town via Route 62 (gorgeous drive if you ever go, beautiful, the roads are very good in South Africa, it made up for missing out the Chapman's Peak). On the way home we came across Chandelier's Ostrich Rides and Races. - Lou goes :D -. 10 minutes later (after having a tame zebra stick its head through the car window and slather all over John) I'm sat on an ostrich. They're very powerful, hard to ride, you kinda slip off no matter what you do! I felt a bit bad for the birds...don't think I'd want to encourage that kind of treatment of animals...but it was definitely an experience I'll never forget.
It was worse at Kalk Bay. There was a fishing boat going out to sea, loads of guys holding one end of the net on the shore. They had a catch within 20 minutes; I went over, excited to see an authentic African fishing haul. They were big fish, as long as my arm, very powerful, I was laughing in surprise at their strength. And then suddenly this horrible realisation crept over me that they were suffocating. The fisherman threw them further up the beach as they tried to kick themselves back into the sea. A group of people gathered round, still laughing in delight as I had been a few seconds before. One woman picked up the still flipping fish by the tale, laughing as her husband took a picture. It had blood foaming from its gills. They all made this weird yelping noise, sounded like a distress signal to me, this tiny squeak almost drowned out by the laughter. I didn't know fish could make noise.
What don't I know about animals? I'm sure they feel pain; what organism would survive if it didn't have aversion to life threatening situations? Maybe they don't feel it like we do but there's no way of knowing that. But we assume we do; we laugh as we watch fish bleed on the beach.
From Africa to India. Stopped over in Qatar for 12 hours (in between flights). They have some fantastic architecture there in Doha, but it's obviously still very undeveloped...there are huge swathes of building sites. Would like to go back in 10 years or so and see it then.
I'm currently in India. Dehli is, quite possibly, the most insane place in the world. For example...road signs and markings indicate that we should be seeing two lanes of orderly traffic going in one direction. Erm...death defying 6 lane chaos is what we dive into, complete with cows, beggars, desperate pedestrians diving in front of us, and lines of necklace-wearing goats being whipped down the street. Drivers seem to believe that honking their horn is essential to their survival. They are probably right.
The pollution here is obvious. You can't see from one end of a street to the other because of the smog. Every few minutes you hear hideous productive coughing and the inevitable phlegm splat on the pavement as the victim spits. I can't really say I blame them; Dehli is the only place where I've inhaled through my mouth and actually been able to chew on the contents.
Beyond this cacophony of sensory information, the vibrancy of India shines through. You go from intense disgust to absolute delight in seconds; walking past an open air latrine into the incense of the bazaar; from a hobbling beggar to a beautifully embroidered sari; from the aggressive invasion of a lying tout to the calm and peace of a temple.
IN. SANE.
I'm now in the foothills of the Himalayas, near Dharmsala (this is basically as close to Tibet as you can get without actually being there). Much more chilled out.
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