Oh my golly gosh

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"Holy Cow! That was close", I muttered involuntarily as the motorized rickshaw driver swerved out of the oncoming traffic at the last nanosecond, ending one round of what seemed to be an ongoing and perverse game of scaring the sh*t out of his passengers. "Yes sir, all cows are holy here", he shouted, as indeed, we whizzed past a stationary cow, standing calmly in the middle of the the chaos they call traffic in Delhi, an expression of sublime contemplation on his face.

Enviously noting his peaceful calmness, I wondered what would happen if some driver happened to hit him, as we continued to veer through traffic with a recklessness that would make a Cape Town taxidriver sweat with nervousness. Later, in Kasmir, whilst enjoying a beef kebab, I found out from my Muslim companion that a cow killer would be imprisoned for at least 5 years, which means life in India. Turns out that many people believe that a war could start over the muder of a cow here. Holy cow indeed.

Delhi is a maelstrom of sensation and madness; extreme poverty next to beautiful silks and colours, choking pollution and intricate temples, a seething mass of people all trying to get ahead in that stark contrast of happiness and suffering.

I spent one day in that insane city, taking a bicycle richshaw though the twisting lanes bordered with saris and silks, past a multitude of beggars and hopelessly degenerate people, to the spice market, where rich and varied aromas compete with the incessant activity of the traders and human carthorses, for your attention. The people are friendly though, and I had more than one group of kids asking to have their picture taken with me. Finally, my rockstar status has been recognised. Bollywood, here I come. Eventually though, I had to escape to the serenity of some quiet gardens in the afternoon to establish some stability in my now rocking paradigm, having been culture slapped in the face.

It was with no regret that I left Delhi at 5am the next morning, boarding the train to my destination proper, the mighty Himalayas. I should have known that I was not in for much comfort, when my 6 hour ticket cost 1.50 pounds, but I was surprised nonetheless. Sitting crammed with 5 people on a seat meant for 3 very skinny people, on hard wooden benches, with the stomach-wrenching smell of the pit they call a toilet wafting you back to reality, is a truly Indian experience. The family I sat with were very friendly too, and we engaged in some pleasantries, while I desperately hoped at the back of my mind that nature would not call.

It's an odd feeling, eating your breakfast whilst watching villager after villager taking his/her morning poo in the passing fields. No need for fertilizer in India. Nosiree. I think it's an apt description of the cultural difference when you consider that kissing in public is a big no no, but it's perfectly acceptable to have a squat and drop off some cargo at any available piece of open land. This soon faded from my mind, however, as our train pulled into the next rubbish heap/bazaar/toilet/station and about 100 more people looked like they wanted to board. Having people almost on my lap and items hanging from every concievable place, I naturally assumed this was some elaborate joke, for the amusement of the shell-shocked Vesterner. So asked my neighbour how they actually could possibly hope to get on. "Sir, this is India" he replied, with a smile and trademark Indian head-waggle. And on they got. On the roof, hanging from the doors. In between peoples legs. It's funny how tolerant necessity can make people.

It was with not a little pleasure that I exited my second train, 12 hours later, in the little mountain town of Shimla. Thinking this would be a good base to explore the surrounding mountins, I headed for town. Little did I know that I would be passing military checkpoints on my way to Kashmir the very next day....

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Photos

The Red fort
Built by a Muslim ruler in the 1500's..one of the few pieces of architecture that's attractive!