Being in McLeod is really not very similar to being in the rest of India. The mountain air, the climate, the huge number of Tibetans and the even greater number of tourists and western food joints. Having finally left after nearly two weeks there, I have found the usual oddities of being at sea level in India.
Leaving McLeod is always fairly easy, and something that reminds me of my time there in 2002. I took that Delhi bus out of town maybe a dozen times, the last one being the most momentous, as all my Tibetan friends and locals had adorned me with the ceremonial Khata’s. This trip out was not so popular, as I am returning in a few days, but the drive down to Delhi is certainly in the top few. I was in a tiny sleeper that was the width of my narrow shoulders and just a little shy of my length. The most amazing accomplishment was the destruction of three inner tubes, delaying the journey by at least three hours. I luckily slept through the last one!
Once in Delhi I was begrudgingly giving my passport information and the websites I have visited to the Internet wallah, when I turned to get my bag and heard a blood curdling scream. I turned around to see the poor guy gnashing his teeth and spasming in a stiff grip against his wooden bench. His eyes were rolling around and his breathing was rapid. It was close to a trance like state, and I am sure the locals would blame some demon, however the situation became more serious when blood began to spurt from his mouth. Of course the usual crowd of a dozen people had formed at this point, and a few half trained hippy medics began to push forward. It was quickly decided to sit him upright and leave him until he came around and could move to a more comfortable spot. Of course once the hippy had resumed her skype chatting, the hotel staff grabbed the guy and dragged him to the couch. This poor man looked absolutely distraught and unable to focus on anything. It was across between embarrassment, fear and complete confusion. Once I had decided that my complete lack of participation was no longer needed, I grabbed my bags and left for New Delhi Railway Station.
Of course, as is only possible in this part of the world, I boarded the train and found a grinning local sitting in my seat with an officially issued ticket. Having booked the ticket only that morning I was dubious of its validity, even though I had bought it through the official tourist quota. However, lesson number one in public transport in India, is to never show any weakness, and certainly to never back down. The German couple opposite began to look a little nervous as this big chap grabs my ticket and inspects that authenticity. He runs off to make some more inquiries, and comes back with an even bigger grin than my seat partner. “You have been upgraded to first class Mr. Ben.” My German friends looked disappointed, possibly for the civilian class they were stuck in, but more likely due to the peaceful departure of their English/American ally.
There are many other differences that you face when leaving the mountains and hitting the mainland. It seems that even in Varanasi, they haven’t seen many foreigners. Either we are a complete oddity, they don’t expect us to be here in 42 degrees heat, or they just love staring at us, wagging their heads and grinning with their paan stained teeth. We are always the best way to practice English. “What country you from?” “How long India?” “Where after?” “You like rickshaw to temple?” “Want smoke good stuff” and so on. The attention is sometimes welcome, and even endearing, but when I am trying to walk from one burning Ghat to the next, with no shade, the pause to chat is not welcome. The worst moment that I had to tutor a budding student was outside Qtab Minar, where I had been stung by one of those large, bright yellow, gangly legged wasp-type-creatures. I ran outside the grounds, to try and find some tourists (who also like to be known as travelers out here) who may have some sting cream. I ran over to the soda-wallah just as he was filling his ice tank. He graciously offered me a lump, which I grabbed and tried to freeze my leg with. These young boys ambled over holding hands and asked me, “How are you? What is your good name?” Needless to say, I was not amused and didn’t try to correct their grammar. I may have even taught them a few new words to throw into the mix!
