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.