INDIA BLOG 2/2: McDonalds, horrific bus journeys, Hotel Ladies Venture, and a dangerous creepy-crawly

With the onset of the ‘Delhi belly,’ what I really needed was a day of sightseeing around the capital in the searing summer heat (not!). Our train arrived at New Delhi station at 6am, so Marina and I had 11 hours to get out and see some of the city once we found somewhere safe to store our bags for the day. We dropped off our backpacks at a guesthouse luggage room in Paharganj (main backpacker district in Delhi) for a whopping 40p for the day. The first stop on our agenda was somewhere that was clean, served food, and most importantly had strong air conditioning after our week in the freakishly hot Rajasthan. Yep, you guess it: McDonalds. It was the perfect choice. At the entrance, I kicked aside the rubbish on the pavement with a fierce left-footed strike and opened the door. The first blast of cold air almost knocked me off my feet. The restaurant was spotlessness inside – or at least seemed that way after a week travelling around India. The tables looked clean enough to eat my dinner off. We had found a little oasis of cleanliness in the midst of Delhi’s filth. I felt a million dollars as the cool air hit me from all angles. I started to hallucinate and imaged myself walking on the top of clouds in a dream as I strutted to the counter and boldly ordered a Maharaja Mac with large fries and a Diet Coke. Following this, we made our way on Delhi’s air conditioned metro to the striking Akshardham Temple, which was truly not a sight to be missed and possibly the most beautiful temple we saw during our stay in India.

The bus north into the hill country of the state of Himachal Pradesh later that day was supposed to be a gentle bus ride to the cool, laid-back hippie retreat (and home of the Tibetan government in exile): Dharamsala. In reality, it turned into the bus journey from hell. Our “door-to-door bus” didn’t depart from the end of the Main Bazaar in Paharganj, as promised. Nor was it direct. But the rest of the terms and conditions were more or less spot on. “No air conditioning” was, just as we imagined, a bus with definitely no air (the gentle 45C heavily polluted Delhi breeze doesn’t count). The driver spent several hours navigating the Friday night rush hour before we were truly on our way up north.

Before we left Delhi, I was well dosed up on a cocktail of drugs; however, come midnight my lethargy had turned into a high fever and as the night progressed, the effects of my last Imodium tablet were wearing off. To make matters worse, the bus driver navigated the winding mountain roads at breakneck speed, indiscriminately throwing the rickety bus from side to side as he navigated his way uphill. It wasn’t long before I was able to add car sickness and nausea to my list of aliments.  

Sleeping at a Tibetan refugee intake center in Dharamsala

I was practically falling apart by the time I stepped off the 13-hour bus journey to Dharamsala. It seemed just my luck that the morning of our arrival coincided with a public holiday in the neighbouring state of Punjab. The entire state had also decided to escape the heat and head into the mountains for the weekend. As a result, a reasonably priced guesthouse was not easy to find and was going to take some work. The first Marina knew that I wasn’t complaining of a dubious case of man flu was when we mistakenly walked into a Tibetan refugee intake center as we searched for a room to stay. We pleaded for a room and told the guy at reception that I was sick. He informed us it wasn’t a regular guesthouse, but somehow took pity on me and very kindly offered me his room to sleep for a few hours. Despite being literally just a bare mattress on the floor, I was very grateful and crashed out well into the afternoon.

Luckily, within a day or two I was fully recovered, and it gave us a chance to explore the town. Dharamsala, or to be precise the small hillside town ofMcLeod Ganj, has been a home-away-from-home for the Tibetan people since India granted asylum to their spiritual and political leader, the Dalai Lama, in 1959, after he was forced to flee from the Chinese who entered Tibet. To this day, Tibetan families save up enough money to allow one family member to flee the country (illegally), usually over the Himalayas to Nepal. From Kathmandu the refugees are sent by bus to Delhi and on to Dharamsala. Board and lodging are provided on their arrival, and they are taught basic computer skills as well as English.

To help develop their English skills, volunteers drop by the center in the afternoon to engage the refugees (many of whom were political prisoners in Tibet before fleeing to India) in conversation. Marina and I did just this one day and individually listened to stories of our students’ (also ex-political prisoners) fascinating tales of their month-long trek to freedom. We also checked out the highly depressing Tibetan museum that showcased the Tibetans’ struggle for independence from the Chinese oppressors as well as the temple where the Dalai Lama currently lives. In fact, we missed seeing the Dalai Lama by a whisker, as his motorcade went directly past us one day, but I was busy trying to help decide on another handbag for Marina while she patiently negotiated yet another fifty pence off the asking price.

I immediately understood why Marina had spent two weeks in Dharamsala on a previous visit when I noticed the abundance of jewelry shops. After deciding against the handbag that cost me my only sighting of the Dalai Lama (I’m not bitter as you can tell!), we hit the jewelry shops where she totally redeemed herself with her amazing bargaining skills, especially with all the Kashmiri salesmen. It was quite an experience to witness. Each item took on average of around 45 minutes to negotiate. She kept everything very lighthearted, took her time, and joked around as each party inched closer and closer to a meeting point. Every few minutes the seller’s “absolute last price” became his “absolute, absolute last price.” With each one of Marina’s belly laughs and flick back of the hair, the price dropped another few dollars. Yet even when it came to the “absolute, absolute, absolute last price,” Marina still looked like she was ready to walk away unless he was willing to compromise further. Finally the seller relented and she picked her jewelry for a fraction of the price I would have ever achieved.

For the majority of our stay in Dharamsala we stayed at a basic guesthouse called Hotel Ladies Venture, which despite sounding like a brothel, was actually a pretty regular guesthouse on the inside. We moved there after an incident at our first guesthouse on the first night. As we were getting ready, I heard a piercing scream from the bathroom where Marina was showering. It was followed by a loud thud on the ground. It was the kind of scream that could only have been two things: an attacker or a creepy-crawly. I quickly ruled out an intruder, as the bathroom window was smaller than some jail cell windows. The scream had been one of pure terror. I manned-up, fulfilling my husbandly duties and ran into the bathroom, flip flop in hand all ready to pounce on the perpetrator. By the volume of the scream I expected to find a hairy tarantula dangling precariously over Marina, or even a cobra reeling up hissing. Err… no. What I witnessed was Marina lying on her backside having slipped in her haste to escape from the evil clutches of a daddy long-legs, which was scuttling away as quickly as its legs could take it away. Panic over.

Hiking Triund, 2875 meters above sea level

The best day of the holiday was when we woke up at dawn and hiked up to a mountain village of Triund, which was the peak of the mountain that overlooks Dharamsala. The day-trek took nine hours in total (admittedly with a slight detour via two nearby villages – Bhagsu and Dharamkot - en route back to McLeod Ganj). Armed with a packed lunch, an iPod, personal speakers, and a thin, plastic poncho of the kind people worn on a wet day at Thorpe Park (theme park), we meandered our way up the mountain until we were well above the clouds. At the summit, we could see the next (snow-capped) mountain over in the range, its vastness impressive as it towered over where we stood (2,875 meters). This was our first ever view of the Himalayas, and it was pretty damn unforgettable.

 We were back in Delhi for the final day of our holiday after a week chilling in Dharamsala. We had a lot to see in Delhi and not much time. The Lonely Planet suggested visiting the Sulabh International Museum of Toilets that was supposed to “showcase the advancement in toilet facilities in India since 2500BC.” We weren’t sure whether this was a misprint in the book or simply a poor joke as we hadn’t notice any kind of improvement in bathroom facilities (the hole in the ground, no toilet paper, no soap, and eye-watering smells all too prevalent). Instead, we opted for 16^th century Humayun’s Tomb, described by the Obamas as “spectacular” after being taken there on their recent state visit to India. If it was good enough for Barack it was good enough for us. To be fair, it was very impressive with the main tomb looking like a smaller version of the Taj Mahal.

  

I boarded the Virgin Atlantic pristine new Airbus back to Heathrow with the same feeling as the last time I left India back in 2008: I was sad to leave after taking a while to acclimatize. India really grows on you more than any other country. The dirt, grime, clearly visible human disease and deformity, stray animals, constant hassling, honking, craziness, warm beer, and sheer incredible mass of people are all quite overbearing on your arrival.

  

After a while though, you forget about all of that and concentrate on what makes India such a fascinating country: its vibrancy, colour, culture, people, landscape, food and so on that make it a must for anyone, like us, who wants to see and experience all different parts of the world. India is unique. On top of its obvious plus points, it is generally much safer than many second and third world countries. When leaving an ATM you don’t have to scour the area for potential problems as though you are a secret serviceman ahead of the President’s arrival (as is the case in Central or South American, in particular). Violent crime is rare in India. The worst that happens to the vast majority of tourists is they get scammed for one thing or another, or simply overpay. To a westerner the amounts are usually insignificant and are often more of a wake-up call than a real hit to the wallet. You come to the realization that most of the locals are simply very poor and are only trying to make a living. But at least in India it’s all done with a smile. We’ll be back!