A Passage to India

Breath a sign of relief Aunties, for your nephew is now safely in India.  And what a crossing it was.  

The day began late, with Malik, the owner of my guesthouse in Lahore, trying to convince me to stay for a few more days: "God does not want you to go" he said, referring to the light rain.  Apparently God had a real problem with my departure because as soon I had assembled my bags on the bike an immense monsoon rain had begun.  I really didn't want to carry the bike back up the steep steps to the guesthouse, so I plunged into the deluge.

Imagine the heaviest rain that happens at the peak of a summer thunderstorm.  Now imagine that intensity of rain lasting two hours and you'll have an idea of the monsoon.  I can't imagine a drainage system that could handle such huge amounts of water, and the streets soon become rivers and puddles of uncomfortably brown water.  I fear that my cherished Birkenstocks will be added to the list of things that will be thrown out as soon as I get home.  You might think that such a rain would be torture to bike in, but it was surprisingly enjoyable.  I was dreading another day of biking in the heat, so the rain was perfect relief.  It was that warm rain that doesn't chill you to the bone, that type of rain that makes you want to forget what you're doing and go running through the streets (sort of like the first snowfall, since I'm explaining this to Canadians).  You're soaked within a minute but everything is waterproofed so you just raise your arms in the air and take it all in.

Well, almost everything was waterproofed.  Unfortunately my money belt's plastic lining was not closed, so it's contents were completely soaked.  Not a big deal since there wasn't much in my money belt to worry about, except of course my passport.  And so it came to pass that even my dirty underwear were safely waterproofed but my passport, the one thing you can't live without while travelling, looked like it had spent a rinse cycle in the washer.  Completely soaked.  And on a border crossing day no less.  I wish I were pulling a Greg Mortenson and making this all up.  I was tsked-tsked by every guard on the way, shaking their heads in disapproval as they tried to open my passport, often just giving up and waving me along.  Pakistan stamped me out (no electricity at the border station).  On the other side, in India, the head guard told me "your passport is completely spoiled" and started on a lecture about the importance of that document.  I don't know what happens in such a situation: can India force me back to Pakistan even though my visa is no longer valid?  Is this how Tom Hank's The Terminal happened?  As it worked out, apologetically listening to the lecture improved the man's mood and he heartily welcomed me into the country.  Seeing that I was soaked, another guard invited me for tea, where we talked about India, women, and money, which seem to be the three favourite topics in this country.  I then indulged in my first beer in months, a Thunderbolt, which the label assured me was Extra Strong.  I think I can safely say that the Thunderbolt will only strike once on this trip.

Every evening at the Wagah border - that is, the only open border between Pakistan and India - the flags are lowered and the gates are shut in an elaborate ceremony that has become a bit of an attraction.  It's almost like watching a sporting event, for there are grandstands and flag-wavers and busloads of fans on either side.  After an hour of Hindi-pop pump-up, the drama began.  Both sides have their tallest soldiers decked out with tall fan-type hats, full uniform, and clicky shoes.  They march around in a scene that must have been the inspiration for Monty Python's Ministry of Silly Walks, kicking their feet up to to touch their hats.  It was all the more funny cause there were some puddles from the monsoon so the Indian guy was splashing water all over.  They get right up in the face of the soldiers across the border, eyes wide in serious stares.  There's some bugling, some load grunting, and the flags are lowered simultaneously before the gates are slammed shut.  The entire time the crowd is chanting and cheering.  India and Pakistan aren't exactly friends, so I don't know if the ceremony is a fierce stand-off between enemies or a big show for the people.  Either way, it was quite a show.

I arrived in the nearest town, Amritsar, after dark and proceeded to the Golden Temple, the holiest place in the Sikh religion and one of the most beautiful buildings I've ever seen.  I think it would be culturally insensitive to make any Sikh puns, since I'm not Sikh-ing to making any enemies with this blog (couldn't resist!).  The big thing with the Sikhs is inclusiveness, so the temple has a big free hotel open for pilgrims and serves free food to any and all who are visiting.  I was quickly ushered into a small crowded room for foreigners, complete with fans, washing machine, and filtered water.  It's certainly a quick way for a religion to make some friends.  I admit that I didn't know much about Sikhs before arriving and well, don't really know much after leaving, except that they like to cover their heads.  They seem like a good bunch of people, very friendly and relaxed.  Inside the temple, in the centre room there are a bunch of people singing a hypnotic sort of chant that seems like it might have inspired the Beatles during their Seargent Pepper Days.  The central room had a man with a long beard, sitting next to a fan and an emergency light just in case of power loss, just reading a large book.  Walking around the pool that surrounds the temple afterwards, I couldn't help being pleased with the whole day but also really swept up in how foreign everything felt.  And I think that's sort of the essence of travelling in India, just letting yourself get swept off your feet by something you know nothing about.  Nah, maybe that is the essence of life.

I've now biked two days from Amritsar, back into the god-damn hills again, to a place called McLeod Ganj.  This is the home of the Tibetan government in exile, and a spot where many Tibetans trek to (in secret) from China.  Having heard so much about this place while I was in Tibet, I feel that the circle is now complete.  It most certainly is not Tibet, more like Disneyland does Tibet, and a hugely popular backpacking destination.  It's strange to be back in a popular tourist area after so long out in the mountains.  Today I bumped into some guys I met in Amritsar who are just out of high school, I feel like they should have a chaperone or something.  This place is big on holistic stuff and meditation and from where I was sitting at lunch I watched a wooden pipe flute vendor do a solid stream of business which is funny because probably the last thing I'd want to buy would be a wooden pipe flute.

You can't really not come to this place, especially after spending time in Tibet, and it's pretty much on the way to my next destination.  I was looking for a place to rest for a week and catch up and try to do some writing, and this fits that nicely.  There's fast internet, good range of food, and it's much cooler than the plains.  And there's always the possibility that maybe, just maybe, I'll bump into the Dalai Lama on his way to work and he'll give me a dirty look or rather, the Buddhist equivalent which I guess would amount to a pat on the back and an invitation for tea.  Ah yes Happy Belated Indian Independence day to all of you, hopefully you had a butter chicken and played some cricket.