Saturday October 20th
I rest well and wake up naturally around 5am. It’s amazing how a complete lack of sleep will help you adjust to local time immediately.
When I get to the lobby, I learn that our day’s plans have changed. Instead of going to Amritsar, we will be heading the Shimla, the resort town in the mountains. I am THRILLED with this change of plans as this is also something I wanted to see. Our hosts decided this was the safer option as there are protests all over town because of a massive train accident during the Dusshera celebrations. At one of the gatherings, the the crowd spilled out onto some train tracks. A high speed commuter train came by, and people moved out of the way—onto the other track. Minutes later, with the celebration of music and drums and chanting and singing and burning at its peak, a train on the other track going the opposite direction ran through the crowd at full speed and killed more than 60 people. The cell phone footage of the accident plays on repeat on the news channels for days.
Our group boards the two large charter buses that will become our second homes for the next seven days and begins the long five hour journey through the mountains to the town of Shimla. We leave in the dark and watch the sunrise and I get a few great photos out the window of the front of the bus where I stake my claim as the co-queen of motion sickness. My seatmate is from Canada and a fellow sufferer. She’s super chatty and I become self-conscious of how much I struggle to maintain conversation in a moving vehicle. I wish my husband Alex were here to explain it to her.
For the entire trip, there are boulders and large rocks and piles of dirt and mud along the side of the road. The mountains are on our left, the side we’re driving on, all the way up the mountain. It’s a two lane road, so each time we need to pull the bus around a corner, or a pile of dirt or rocks, a slow cart, a cow, a group of school children waiting for the bus (kids go to school six days a week here), the driver sounds the air horn. A sing-songy up down tone that is as necessary a part of road communication as turn signals and brake lights here.
With no cell service and an inability to sleep, I have no choice but to pay attention. I am instantly grateful because there is so much to see and hear. The delivery trucks are my favorite thing so far. I never realized how completely unimaginative our semis and box trucks are in the U.S. until now. Truckers here take pride in their home away from home and there is a long standing tradition of truck art makes any road trip feel like the best moving art fair of your life. In fact, my artistic mission on this trip was to get a great picture of as many truck tailgates as I could. Seems like a strange goal until you see what I’m talking about. After some research, I discovered a nice UCF student already made the documentary for me and I learn that truck painting is a long standing folk art tradition in India.
HORN PLEASE from Shantanu Suman on Vimeo.
Each truck is hand painted and the images, typography, and colors all reflect the driver and his religion and home region. THE COLORS. I could write for the rest of my life about the colors of India and never do the brightness, the tone, the variety justice. These trucks serve as mobile billboards for each driver and are customized inside as well to feel like the home they are for up to ten months of the year. In the north, the tailgates say “BLOW HORN.”
Sometimes, in smaller type, they will add “use dipper at night” meaning to flash your brights to signal your approach or passing. Both messages are intricate and bright. In the south, tailgates say, “Horn Please.” The drivers adorn them with items to ward off evil spirits and protect the driver and his cargo. I imagine part of the reason for the brightness is to cut through the dullness and diffusion caused by the dust and smog.
But back to the never ending switchback roads to Shimla. About 3/4 of the way there, we stopped at a restaurant to use the restroom. We had to make a three point turn on a cliffside to get the bus going the right direction again. It did not go well. As the bus inched its way toward the cliff, my seat mate and I leapt off the bus into the street. The rest of the passengers followed.
Now with less weight, the driver confidently makes the three point turn and we re-boarded the bus quickly dodging scooter and cars and trucks honking at us at every step.
Back on the road, we stopped a bit further at a retreat resort for lunch. There were plenty of small towns and restaurants and vendors along the road on the way there, but none that could accommodate two giant charter buses and 65 people unexpectedly since our plan had changed at the last minute. Remember our plans changed in the middle of the night.
The retreat center had a main restaurant and outside dining area, and then a series of little cabins that overlooked a quiet peaceful valley. It looked like the kind of place you would want to come to unplug and get away from it all and write and relax for a few days. Along the trails were signs warning not to make eye contact with the monkeys.
Back on the bus to finish our journey up the mountain with full bellies. I had done some research before leaving for the trip about Shimla. Anthony Bourdain visited the city for one of his episodes of Parts Unknown and the journey to Shimla was part of that trip. In the show, he took the train. Our bus trip crossed the train tracks he must have taken several times. Shimla is now a resort town for Indians, but during British rule—it was the home of the Viceroy and designed by the Brits as an escape from the Indian heat and monsoons during the long unbearable summers. At 8000 feet, the climate is much less humid, the air is clearer and reminds me greatly of California. Even the light as it changes throughout the day is so similar to southern California.
Finally, we reached a point of no return. A seemingly random pull off on a cliff where the bus drivers decided they could go no further and we would have to take a fleet of taxis the rest of the way up the mountain to Shimla. I piled into the front passenger’s seat of what looked like an Isuzu trooper with six of my new friends piled into the back.
We caravanned up the mountain to our first stop, The Indian Institute for Advanced Study. Made out of limestone, it was formerly the Viceroy of India’s place of rule during British occupation. The outside is largely unchanged, complete with a station full of red water buckets in case of a fire.
There are large sprawling gardens and lawns and turban wearing officers with whistles making sure you don’t step on them. Overall, the gardens looked identical to those in Florida. Everywhere I turned, I could identify each plant, tree and flower and where they were in my own yard at home. Strange to be somewhere so different and see so much familiarity. The location is now an institute for higher learning where scholars live and work on theses and research.
While wandering the grounds, I was mesmerized by a group of adults and children. The women in the group were playing a game with rocks that looked a bit like it could have been marbles and jacks if they had marbles and jacks—but they didn’t. They just picked up some rocks from the garden and began to play. I watched mesmerized for 30 minutes intrigued by how simple or complicated the game could get depending on how tough the competition was getting or how much the player wanted to show off. There were versions where you threw the rocks in the air and tried to land them on the back of your hand, then re-caught them in your palm. Versions where you created a little soccer goal with your other hand to throw the rocks through. It was endless in variation and difficulty. My only regret is that I didn’t ask them to teach me to play while we waited. After a little research later, I figured out the game is called Gutte or five stones or गुट्टे
Soon we piled back into our taxis and went into the town of Shimla. The taxis had to drop us off at the start of the pedestrian mall. We walked up a steep hill to a large flat mountain top with a 360 degree view. There were TONS of people up there. There is an Indian military monument that looks strikingly similar to one of our own.
Largely, the most noticeable part is how much the entire place looks like it was dropped straight out of Europe. It has an architectural and cultural feeling to it that is distinctly not Indian—except for all the Indians of course. Everywhere we went, people would stop and ask to take a photo with us. Everyone was kind and friendly. We split up into two groups. One group would make the 45 minute hike up to the statue of Hanuman and his temple at the top of the mountain.
The other group would stay and shop for textiles and handmade crafts. I chose the hike. Our guide did not mince words: it is a difficult hike straight up for 45 minutes. HE. WAS. NOT. WRONG. I did not expect it to be so difficult. I am in great shape. I run 20 miles a week—AT SEA LEVEL. I was only about three minutes into the hike when I started to question my decision. Thankfully, I was wearing running shoes, so I was prepared and capable of the hike, but it was a 45 degree angle AT LEAST of dirt path way.
Sometimes there were stairs along the side which seemed easier than just straight hiking. I was breathing heavy the entire hike. We started together in a group and eventually all just hiked our own way falling behind the others. Occasionally, an elderly woman with a cane wearing flip flops and a dress would pass me. I tried to keep hiking my own path.
People would pass on the way down warning you of the aggressive monkeys ahead and to keep anything lose on your body packed away. “Take off your glasses!” They would shout. “The monkeys will steal them!” When I told my kids this later, they wondered, “What would monkeys do with your glasses?!” But the monkeys have figured out that if they take something of value to a human, the human will offer them food in return for the item! Smart monkeys.
45 minutes later, I could hear a loud drumming sound as I approached the top. I knew I was in the home stretch and could see the long red tin roof getting close as much as the GIANT 108 foot statue of a monkey sitting at the top of the mountain. The closer I got, the bigger the monkey, Hanuman, seemed. I assumed the drumming sound was all part of the temple ceremonial activity. When I reached the final stretch of stairs I spotted the source of the drumming. It was a cement mixer. They were making slurry for a brick wall. It was insanely loud. It sounded like someone was trying to polish boulders into marbles. It was fittingly rhythmic and gave me the boost I needed for the last set of stairs to the top and the temple. Along the way, the monkeys would leap off the trees in large groups and run down or across the tin room. Each time they did this, people would scream and duck and grab their things like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. People are terrified of monkeys. Since animals are sacred, it would be frowned upon to kick one in the face for grabbing your Ray Bans. Especially at a temple.
I finally reached the top and caught my breath and realized how bad I was sweating. My hair was soaking wet, my shirt was soaking wet. I was severely light-headed and dehydrated and had run out of water on the way up. I took out my wide angle lens and snapped some pictures of Lord Hanuman, the monkey God and symbol of strength and energy—which I would need to get back down the mountain. Thankfully our guide had a huge bag of juice boxes (not his first trip here with a group of novices) so I chugged a papaya juice and prayed Hanuman would help me with the rest. I got a great group photo of those of us who made the hike, then my wobbly little legs led me back down the mountain from the 8,000 foot peak.
I clocked 7.5 miles that day. The statue and the Jakhu Temple are in the Shivalek Range of the Himalayas. By the way, Indians say Him-AHHH-lee-uh, not Him-uh-LAY-uh like we do in the states.
Once down, we met up with the others who had been enjoying happy hour at a really cool outdoor bar on the mountainside. It was magic hour and we were facing westward. The light turned more shades of gold than I think I’ve ever witnessed in my lifetime. Every ten minutes the mountainside looked different.
We snacked on little appetizers and I drank the best beer, a Kingfisher—really just a Michelob Ultra I think, and took in the view.
We left a little after sunset to begin the journey back to the taxis back to the buses back down the mountain. With the sun gone, the air temperature dropped quickly and everyone brought out their light jackets and scarves. This time, we made our way down via elevator. You had to buy a ticket, and only eight people could be in the elevator at a time. There was a line like Disneyworld to get on this elevator. Everyone waited patiently, small groups at a time. When we exited, we saw the line to go UP the elevator was even bigger. I turned around and saw that the building was just two elevator shafts and a walkway. Bamboo scaffolding and construction all around.
Everything in India seems to be in some state of construction or mid-project. Much the same way you come across building projects in New York city with scaffolding and walkways, but in India it all just seems much less safe. There’s no pedestrian protections or barriers, you’re just navigating rebar and piles of bricks and dirt everywhere you go. I decide I will not be wearing any open toe shoes on this trip. While waiting for our taxis, little kids step with their bare feet on my shoes and grab my arms calling me “auntie” begging for food and money. “So hungry, Auntie.” Women with babies in their arms begging. I finally can’t take it any more. I give them 50 rupees and a kids Rx bar. I realize later that 50 rupees isn’t even 75 cents. I see that little girls eyes in my sleep that night. I note that I haven’t seen a single ugly person in all of India. Every single person I have seen has been objectively beautiful. There aren’t any ugly people, and I know ugly people… I live in Florida.
The way down the mountain is on the cliff side, but it is strangely safer because the headlights help communicate to oncoming traffic faster and more safely than the horns do. It is still a bit nerve wracking. I distract myself from my constant fear of death by focusing on the roadside stands. Hundreds of tiny little shacks where people sell food in giant stainless steel pots and shiny foil packaged nuts and chips. The garbage that ends up on the roadside throughout the day is swept into a pile and burned along with sticks and twigs to keep the people tending the shop warm.
We don’t return to the hotel until 11pm, and it’s time for dinner! Indians eat very late! I have dinner because I know it will help me sleep better and in order to prepare for the week of teaching, I’m skipping the next day’s cultural exploration of Chandigarh.