So we left off careening around the mountain sides, screeching to a halt to alternately avoid cattle, women, rocks and pick up passengers. The most endearing thing about this whole “stop-go” approach is that it’s entirely unfettered by any semblance of order, or god forbid – a bus stop. People just give that empiric nod on the side of the road that can alternately mean “more chapattis”, “too expensive”, and heck, even “I want on the bus”. Seeing said nod, ticket attendant blows his tin whistle with as much power as he can, connecting with a yet untapped nerve in the drivers knee that ploughs the brake succinctly into the floor, and the passengers into the seat in front of them. Charming, it really is.
Come our third hour on the bus, the charm, as well as the cushions that were at one point our asses.. was quickly waning. Mandi, the city we were attempting to reach, was still a good 10km away, but considering the whistle was wheezing about 5 times a kilometre, a bit of a walk was starting to sound like a bit of fun.
Happily, and how Hindu I must say – we didn’t even have to make the decision. Because with a resounding crunch, we smacked directly into the side of an unsuspecting little car attempting to cross the road. I’ve been in India for a while now, visited over the past two years.. And I had yet to have even seen an accident, let alone be in one. Which, we quickly learned, was kind of like unwillingly being called up to the stage to be that volunteer performer in a shaky little act.
Everyone, men, women, children, hurled themselves from the bus. The visible villagers standing up on the hill all rushed down with their vastly differing opinions on what happened. To tell the truth, it was pretty much just Hamish and I left on the bus, trying to make out exactly how bad the driver’s head wound really was. (Evidently not that bad – he got himself out of the car and promptly disappeared. Hopefully not into a ditch somewhere.) Cigarettes were lit, judge, jury and trial selected, and they looked pretty happy to stand and argue all day as we paid our 3 rupees to get to the next town on another, equally courageous and flippant, little bus.
Finally arriving in Mandi was pretty much a relief in and of itself. The need to find a hotel superseded the one to find food, and we followed the guerrilla style “where’s Waldo” type advertising of a Lonely Planet endorsed guest house. (Literally – it was like a treasure hunt for accommodations – signs were alternately hung in trees or painted on crumbling walls – what fun!)
Now, I know that for 300 rupees (about 9 bucks) I really shouldn’t expect too much. Perhaps the dust was in my eyes or my general good sense was knocked loose in our fender bender.. But I guess I’m not entirely sure how I agreed to sleep on such yucky sheets. Yes, in some places, sheets are a luxury. And so is getting dinner with your room. But, never, ever, should the two be combined, you really shouldn’t look at your bed thinking that perhaps dinner was included IN the sheets. I pretended it was spilt curry and slept in leg warmers. Which didn’t prevent bed bugs from marring my usually pristine buttocks. But, thus are the perils of a 300 rupee room.
We were both fairly exhausted with the combination of an early morning and tangible fear, so Hamish promptly fell asleep. I sat out on the huge concrete slab out back, watching a storm roll in over the mountains and reading about Mandi. The temperature dropped substantially as the storm got closer, so I bundled up and moved under the overhang to continue knitting my scarf. (Funny thing – the farther north you go, the more people you see knitting. The hill people generally all knit their own clothes, which is understandable – but why so many foreigners?? My theory? They get up to the mountains and realise that with the absence of appropriate clothing, they might just have to make some of their own. *smile* ) I discovered from a kind, yet forward young boy that upstairs was a hostel for students getting their medical degrees, or entering into a bachelor of science program. (Which I became suspicious of the next morning when I heard a plethora of vomiting – I’d like to think it was just nerves and not some self induced doctor experiments.)
While the rain started to pour and I curled up in my deliciously white plastic lawn chair outside my brutally stark guest house, I couldn’t have been happier. The girls on the upstairs balcony were alternately studying and singing, and from what I could catch of their conversation, betting on something or another. To smell the river and watch the mountains and the rain and hear them singing as I knit my scarf.. Sometimes I wonder at the luck that I have in life. That I get to sit out a rainstorm in the Himalayan foothills, listening to Bollywood tunes sung softly from overhead while I knit a scarf from wool I found in a little shanty bazaar. I can’t believe that I get to have moments like that in my life.
Mandi itself was sweet, honestly unimpressive, and in that I mean they never tried to be impressive and ultimately succeeded. . Warm and functional and homey, Mandi is divided for the most part by a large river, with a smattering of bridges linking one side of the town to the other. We stayed on the somewhat less impressive but far quieter side of town, but truly enjoyed exploring the other. Like most towns, being built into the side of a mountain dictated that the roads and markets run in parallel switchbacks, lending to the feeling that you’re simply walking back and forth; you wouldn’t know any different if the shops on either side didn’t change.
As usual, the markets were the most impressive at night, when the saree shops are illuminated from the inside like enormous colored Chinese paper lanterns and the vegetable markets are luminescent under the portable gas lights that the venders spark without due attention. The market in Mandi had unusually narrow streets, still in an original and charmingly defunct cobblestone, which, although not conducive to walking uphill was indeed very lovely.
Hamish, being the strappingly tall young man that he is, attracted a lot of attention from a duo of tiny Indian girls. (I’ll let you know here that they frequently sized up Hamish, and unable to find the words to describe him, just kept referring to me as ‘chotti madam’. Tiny Lady.) One was the unfortunate bearer of an indecipherable speech impediment, leading the other to always be leaning in close to her mouth and translating into Hinglish, as though operating an amicable ventriloquist dummy. They were both dressed in the typical thrift store communion style dresses, imminently dirty and loved by most little Indian girls. Hamish willing took a picture with the two little girls, which their father was so proud of that he wrote down the address of his sweet shop and made me promise (with the bribe of something sweet and warm and sticky into the hands of Hamish and I) that we send him the picture of the enormous white man and his two fairy like daughters. I don’t know what kind of sweet it was, but it was delicious and if I ever eat it again I’ll be able to see, in my mind, the two tiny little girls and their beaming father.
Next up – From Mandi to Manali, a paradigm shift.
Come our third hour on the bus, the charm, as well as the cushions that were at one point our asses.. was quickly waning. Mandi, the city we were attempting to reach, was still a good 10km away, but considering the whistle was wheezing about 5 times a kilometre, a bit of a walk was starting to sound like a bit of fun.
Happily, and how Hindu I must say – we didn’t even have to make the decision. Because with a resounding crunch, we smacked directly into the side of an unsuspecting little car attempting to cross the road. I’ve been in India for a while now, visited over the past two years.. And I had yet to have even seen an accident, let alone be in one. Which, we quickly learned, was kind of like unwillingly being called up to the stage to be that volunteer performer in a shaky little act.
Everyone, men, women, children, hurled themselves from the bus. The visible villagers standing up on the hill all rushed down with their vastly differing opinions on what happened. To tell the truth, it was pretty much just Hamish and I left on the bus, trying to make out exactly how bad the driver’s head wound really was. (Evidently not that bad – he got himself out of the car and promptly disappeared. Hopefully not into a ditch somewhere.) Cigarettes were lit, judge, jury and trial selected, and they looked pretty happy to stand and argue all day as we paid our 3 rupees to get to the next town on another, equally courageous and flippant, little bus.
Finally arriving in Mandi was pretty much a relief in and of itself. The need to find a hotel superseded the one to find food, and we followed the guerrilla style “where’s Waldo” type advertising of a Lonely Planet endorsed guest house. (Literally – it was like a treasure hunt for accommodations – signs were alternately hung in trees or painted on crumbling walls – what fun!)
Now, I know that for 300 rupees (about 9 bucks) I really shouldn’t expect too much. Perhaps the dust was in my eyes or my general good sense was knocked loose in our fender bender.. But I guess I’m not entirely sure how I agreed to sleep on such yucky sheets. Yes, in some places, sheets are a luxury. And so is getting dinner with your room. But, never, ever, should the two be combined, you really shouldn’t look at your bed thinking that perhaps dinner was included IN the sheets. I pretended it was spilt curry and slept in leg warmers. Which didn’t prevent bed bugs from marring my usually pristine buttocks. But, thus are the perils of a 300 rupee room.
We were both fairly exhausted with the combination of an early morning and tangible fear, so Hamish promptly fell asleep. I sat out on the huge concrete slab out back, watching a storm roll in over the mountains and reading about Mandi. The temperature dropped substantially as the storm got closer, so I bundled up and moved under the overhang to continue knitting my scarf. (Funny thing – the farther north you go, the more people you see knitting. The hill people generally all knit their own clothes, which is understandable – but why so many foreigners?? My theory? They get up to the mountains and realise that with the absence of appropriate clothing, they might just have to make some of their own. *smile* ) I discovered from a kind, yet forward young boy that upstairs was a hostel for students getting their medical degrees, or entering into a bachelor of science program. (Which I became suspicious of the next morning when I heard a plethora of vomiting – I’d like to think it was just nerves and not some self induced doctor experiments.)
While the rain started to pour and I curled up in my deliciously white plastic lawn chair outside my brutally stark guest house, I couldn’t have been happier. The girls on the upstairs balcony were alternately studying and singing, and from what I could catch of their conversation, betting on something or another. To smell the river and watch the mountains and the rain and hear them singing as I knit my scarf.. Sometimes I wonder at the luck that I have in life. That I get to sit out a rainstorm in the Himalayan foothills, listening to Bollywood tunes sung softly from overhead while I knit a scarf from wool I found in a little shanty bazaar. I can’t believe that I get to have moments like that in my life.
Mandi itself was sweet, honestly unimpressive, and in that I mean they never tried to be impressive and ultimately succeeded. . Warm and functional and homey, Mandi is divided for the most part by a large river, with a smattering of bridges linking one side of the town to the other. We stayed on the somewhat less impressive but far quieter side of town, but truly enjoyed exploring the other. Like most towns, being built into the side of a mountain dictated that the roads and markets run in parallel switchbacks, lending to the feeling that you’re simply walking back and forth; you wouldn’t know any different if the shops on either side didn’t change.
As usual, the markets were the most impressive at night, when the saree shops are illuminated from the inside like enormous colored Chinese paper lanterns and the vegetable markets are luminescent under the portable gas lights that the venders spark without due attention. The market in Mandi had unusually narrow streets, still in an original and charmingly defunct cobblestone, which, although not conducive to walking uphill was indeed very lovely.
Hamish, being the strappingly tall young man that he is, attracted a lot of attention from a duo of tiny Indian girls. (I’ll let you know here that they frequently sized up Hamish, and unable to find the words to describe him, just kept referring to me as ‘chotti madam’. Tiny Lady.) One was the unfortunate bearer of an indecipherable speech impediment, leading the other to always be leaning in close to her mouth and translating into Hinglish, as though operating an amicable ventriloquist dummy. They were both dressed in the typical thrift store communion style dresses, imminently dirty and loved by most little Indian girls. Hamish willing took a picture with the two little girls, which their father was so proud of that he wrote down the address of his sweet shop and made me promise (with the bribe of something sweet and warm and sticky into the hands of Hamish and I) that we send him the picture of the enormous white man and his two fairy like daughters. I don’t know what kind of sweet it was, but it was delicious and if I ever eat it again I’ll be able to see, in my mind, the two tiny little girls and their beaming father.
Next up – From Mandi to Manali, a paradigm shift.
No comments:
Post a Comment