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Published: August 11th 2013
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Kathmandu to Dharamsala. Three days in transit. Three buses, two trains, one night in a horrible hotel in India's sex trafficking capital. Hectiness. Heat. Organised chaos. Single very white female walking the streets of India alone with no train ticket. Near breakdown. Somehow amongst the chaos that very alone, very out of place female managed to play the poor innocent white girl card and obtain VIP status for a ticket on what was, at the time, a full train to Lucknow. Western girl in traditional clothing turning up to a Western shopping mall in an Indian city, with the locals wearing western clothes.I think you call that irony. Top bunk in AC3 for an overnight journey with lovely company. Free Indian food from a lovely family and then falling asleep with a blanket on because the air conditioner is freezing. Waking up with wandering eyes looking my way. Smiling at the brilliance of the Indian train system, at the hecticness of the unspoken organisation. Smiling at the beauty in the train walking, food vendors; serving chilli mixes from laundry buckets with dirty hands and dirty moustaches. Wishing I could eat delicious smelling food, because despite the dirty hands part and the
million bacteria that no doubt lie within, it looks and smells delicious. Eye off every mouthful the slightly overweight, middle aged man sitting next to me devours. Enjoy having the top bunk, it means less people, less men, peering at you. Although in AC3 the likelihood of said men staring is decreased by about 50%. Enjoy having top bunk until I cannot sleep anymore. The space between the mattress and the roof is less than, well let's just say there's not much room, in fact the space between the mattress and the ceiling is inadequate for sitting in an upright position. The train journey finishes with a final early morning nap in Pathankot. My three day journey is almost over, almost.
Arrive in Pathankot, a white girl, in Pathankot, whiter than white, tired, hot and unsure of where to go next. I hop on a rickshaw and try to think 'skinny' or 'light' for the at least 70 year old man peddaling in front of me. The lady at the office told me to get a rickshaw to the bus station and a bus to Dharamsala, of course I listen to her. Turns out I could walk. For over
all eyes on me
watching you, watching me thirty minutes I find myself stuck in the hot sun waiting for the faulty boom gate to open up. There are people working together to move their motorbikes and rickshaws over the railway tracks but we stay waiting, in the hot sun. Eventually we move. There are foreigners behind me, from Tibet. They look hot too. We turn up, literally no more than 500 meters from the train platform. Should have walked because after all of that waiting around I've arrived at the side of a road, outside of a shop, literally a stone's throw from the station. This is definitely not a bus station. An argument breaks out between the hindi speaking Tibetans and the rickshaw drivers. Everything turns out okay. We're not at a bus station and we're most likely going to be getting on a 'friends' contract bus but there will be a bus coming to take us to Dharamsala. An hour later and we're off. Between the man wanting to sit next to me when there were over 30 empty seats and the man breathing far too heavily over my seat, the start was a little uneasy but eventually I managed some stilted sleep amidst the
crazy rally car driving from the coach driver. A couple of hours outside of Dharamsala, during the crazy rally driving, I was fortunate enough to share one of the most interesting conversations so far on my travels. The conversation was with one half of the Tibetan couple from the 'bus station'. Khar has been living in India for the past seven years. He is studying Buddhist Philosophy. He was born in China. In any other part of the world he would still be able to class himself as a Chinese national, but Khar was sent to Tibet when he was 16, by his parents, for a 'better' life, and to gain a better education in Buddhist Philosophy. Basically, what happened next stirred emotions up inside of me that I've never experienced. Anger, disbelief, compassion, horror, sadness. Khar wasn't/hasn't been allowed back into China since. He has not seen his parents, nor his brothers and sisters for over ten years. He now holds a Tibetan passport, and classes himself as a Tibetan national. He will never be allowed back into China. My mind was, is, still boggled at the sense, or lack there of, behind this rule. I mean, how can
anyone, how can any country, have the power to refuse entry to a national citizen. How can a country pick and choose who they let in. How can they refuse entry to someone that was born inside their own country, turn away one of their own. I still think about this conversation and wonder if Tibet will ever regain power. Will the Tibetan's ever be free?
India is full of surprises. It is beauty in hardship. Unspoken organisation in chaos. Slums and wealth. Crowds and noise and a dirtiness you will not experience anywhere else. It is incredible scenery; lush landscapes and the foreverness of desert. It is religion and acceptance, happiness and pain. It is its people. It is everything and nothing like I expected.
Buses and trains, rickshaws and motorbikes, trucks and bicycles. India in transit. Some of the best and worst hours of my life. Always slow and always surprising. It is strange men staring, intrigued women caring, children peering and babas begging. It is loud music, wind blowing in your face, bad smells, sweaty thighs. It is roadside eateries, horns and road blocks. It is no suspension in the seats, tossing and turning, sweaty
lips and wandering thoughts. It is beauty in chaos. It is India in transit and I wouldn't swap it for a thing.
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