If I were an old timey explorer and I stumbled into India I would probably call it the Land of 10,000 Patches or something to that effect. Broken Concrete. Trashcanlessville. I got here about two weeks ago, and having already logged about 35 hours of bus time, I've seen but a tiny sliver of a corner of the country, so I can't fairly characterize much because this place is so vast and colorful and dense. However, It's hard to miss the fact that litter is a way of life.
I'm in a mountain town called Shimla, north of Delhi. Here the macaques scrap with the dogs for street turf along the steep ridgeline that makes up the town. There's snow in the pine trees. Back in the early 1900s Shimla was designated the official summer town of the goverment (Delhi is too hot) by the British. European style wooden and stone buildings tuck themselves into the steeps. Like I mentioned, this place is much more popular in summer, and locals ask me what I'm doing here--in a friendly way.
But first when I arrived in Delhi two weeks ago, I was welcomed with a classic hotel scam that I could sense was unfolding, but I went with it anyway. It cost me about $50 and silent fury for a few days. The ol' bait and switch. Over 16 million people live in Delhi. The roads are treated very much as public spaces, with construction projects spilling out into the centerline and food stands parked askance where a car might normally travel. The bicycle is the speed limit. Vehicles on the road for more than a couple years are scarred and pitted by relentless 10 mph collisions and butter-tight driving conditions. Oh, and the horns. Oh god the horns. Trendy rickshaw and taxi drivers trick out their horns for maximum decibels and use them like they are in the world's worse symphony. The horns don't even seem useful because all the vehicles are 8 inches from each other and moving at bicycle speed.
Before I started my travels I was describing what I thought India would be like to my uncle. He jokingly said "I just want to smell that." India loves their incense, and despite the roving cows wandering into restaurants and the thieving monkeys everywhere it always smells like sage and butter and pipe tobacco, with an apricot top note.
So I hopped a train out of Delhi to a place called Rishikesh. Rishikesh is considered the yoga capital of the world and yogis from the world over flock to meditate and do their stretching on the banks of the Ganges River, the holiest river in India. It's got a pretty laid back hippie type of feel set at the foothills of the Himalayas, accessible only by a pedestrian bridge. The power goes out about 10 times a day. I met a few westerners that live there half the year to get deep into the yoga. Kids fly kites all day.
From Rishikesh I took a ten hour bus ride on a one lane goat path where land slides and erosion hollowed out the underside of the road on the nearly vertical cliffs. I was pretty certain--based on statistics alone--that we would plummet to our deaths, so within the first hour I already decided I'd yell "Figures!" when we started to roll. Miraculously I made it to my destination, Joshimath, with a mix of resigned fatalism and awe. Here the mountains don't mess around. Just around the corner lies(or rather sits up straight) Nanda Devi, the highest mountain in India. I didn't take off my down jacket for the three days I was in Joshimath. In the evening the townsfolk would start fires on the sidewalk and share chai tea to be social and I suspect more importantly, to stay warm. One day I went skiing up there. The skiing was pretty crappy, but hey, I went skiing in the Himalayas. They had a poma-lift that cost 75 cents a ride. But the views were amazing, where pine forests give way to shear cliffs for thousands of feet.
On a very unrelated note, I developed a taste for Indian pop music. That shit is so catchy. Lots of percussion and singers performing impressive tonal diphthongs. The music videos are all dancing all the time. Treat yourself to one.
Anyway, I endured the ten hour bus ride of doom back the way I came and stayed a couple nights in Moussorie, an Indian weekend hangout spot in the mountains. Other than a few conversations with locals (the Indian-English accent is one of my favorite. And they speak so elegantly "Hello sir, ahead on the road you will approach a bifurcation. Adhere to the left.") it was rather uneventful. The prominence of English here makes it a very inviting place, and I've talked politics and religion with ease.
Back to where I am now, Shimla. It's in a state where the state animal is the snow leopard. The snow leopard! I still want to go further north. I can see in the distance the mountains growing bigger. Supposedly there is some good rafting. I imagined I would have teamed up with another traveler by now to share some memories with, but I have yet to find anyone.
