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Published: April 17th 2006
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We just stumbled back into town after 12 hours on the lowest class bus in India. The Himalayas are young and sedimentary so landslides are frequent and road work is never finished. Our bus bounced over huge fallen rocks, inches from the 1000 foot crumbling edge with no guard rail. Overflowing with people we screech brakes around thin corners with full size busses squeezing between us and the mountain. On the other side a mile down is a river. Nothing between us and death. Most women are puking, Melissa falls asleep to the bouncing, and I stay sane by imaging myself jumping through the tiny window and grabbing a small tree when we inevitably drive off the cliff.
My nerves are tight and my stomach turns the whole way. The bus slows only for fresh landslides and near collisions with bigger vehicles. At a small landslide the driver looks up to see if more rocks are coming and then bounces over the new born pieces of exploded rock. The only other time the bus slows is by a scene of bystanders looking over the edge where a car had carved a new path down to the river. The language of
the witnesses was universal. They lowered their heads and moved them side to side. The passengers were obviously dead. If only there was a simple guardrail.
We suffered through this mad bus ride for mountains that are just as scary. The greater Himalayas are sharp and appear relentless to anything soft. They remind me of shark teeth, and scare me just as much. If you walk into the mouth you’re just asking to get chewed up.
We did a nice easy two day trek because our planned trek required permits and an expensive guide, basically another avenue to empty your pockets. They insisted we have a guide. We insisted not and ended up paying off the mountain patrol a hundred rupees to let us carry on. We soon found out, after loosing the trail that a guide would have been well worth it, and especially a porter, because the altitude only allows you to hike 50 yards at a time before you’re gasping for air. Nonetheless we loved our two days on top of a bald mountain watching sheep graze on green grass with boulders scattered throughout and sharp 24,000 footers surrounding us. The mountains are clear and
crisp in the morning but before night they create clouds and speak to one another with powerful thunder grunts and lightening winks.
Melissa sprained her ankle on the way down while photographing a Hindu temple of Shiva, the god of destruction. I carried her pack the last 2 miles to a resort where we soothed the ankle with bootleg beer that taste like champagne and works quick in the high altitude. We then boarded a bus and experienced near death again for twelve hours.
Now we are back in the yoga capital, Rishikesh. Plan on heading to Dharamsala, the Tibetan refugee town located in the lesser Himalayas. There the Dalai Lama lives and there are lots of opportunities to learn about Buddhism and a peaceful mind that is so needed in this fast paced country.
I am awfully sick once again, will spare the details this time. I keep thinking I'm invincible and eating food that is not recommended. From now on only western food and 5 star hotels. Well we'll see.
I’m actually not enjoying India most of the time. It’s no vacation. It makes you sick and dirty all the time. Blows your
me hiking
before the ankle sprain ears out, tires you with its heat, and hassles you for every cent. Every young man stares hard at Melissa as do most of the old men. The young guys all look like John Travolta in grease lighting, sporting tight jeans with a snap of the comb and slick greasy hair. The horn blows non stop. The busses want to kill you. The cows unload all over the street; eat garbage that is thrown all over the street by the locals. Men piss all over the street non stop. People are poor, kids are sick, monkeys are beggars. The great river is sewer polluted. The food gets you sick, the flies eat more of your food than you do. The bathrooms are nasty. The sheets have bed bugs and flees bounce as you sleep. Yoga people are the most boring people, a western man at an ashram is the biggest enlightened jerk we've met. Hash burns everywhere and the trains are booked so to get where we want to go we have to take a 14 hr bus with seats spaced for 4 year olds where my long Norwegian sweaty legs want to burst through the next row and strangle
Jim hiking
Himalayas in the background the designer of the bus who for some dumb reason has a vent for the engine inside the bus so carbon monoxide fills your lungs for 14 hrs.
But there is lots to love. All in all it’s more like a boot camp in culture than a vacation.
I miss the comfortable life at home. I can’t wait for carpet, being barefoot outside, drinking cold tap water, sitting in AC. driving a road that doesn't constantly scream, and eating some greasy Pizza Hut!
Jim and Mel
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