Mountains and Mystics – India (Part Two)

India’s train stations are an eerie world of their own, closed off from the loud cities outside, they create a hum of noise and energy. Standing in the group, our luggage piled in the centre of our circle, I shifted on my feet as eyes followed my every move. A strange group of foreigners at Amritsar station at 10pm. What a sight. Shameless stares tracked me as I peeked onto the filthy tracks below the platform. They moved. Dark rats scampered over and across the damp, dirty railway line. The train sounded its shrill horn. People that sat in clusters around the platform came to life, filling the path as the train with dirty blue peeling paint and barred windows slowed to a halt. My bed for the night was a thin slab of slightly padded wood hanging above two more bunks below. Hunching between the metal roof of the train and my bed, I wriggled under my blanket and said goodnight to my bunk buddy opposite, our lovely guide Mahaveer. Rocked to sleep by the constant rhythm of the train, only the Indian women whom snored like a tractor on the bunk below could interrupt my sleep.

Strolling through the markets and to the long bridge that stretched over the turquoise Ganges River, monkeys hung off the railings and grinned at us. The beautifully decorated thirteen story Hindu temple stood proudly on the river bank. Walking further, the sun set over the river in a brilliant orange glow as students tested their yoga skills on the sandy bank. Squatting on the sidewalk to take a picture, two calves plodded over and tried to eat my hair and camera. The air temperature cooled quickly, yet joining a large group on the marble steps to the river, there was energy and warmth. Young Hindu boys dressed in orange sung and played instruments, their chants echoed throughout the accompanying worshippers. At the conclusion of the ceremony, many of us padded down the steps to the water rushing over the submerged, final step. A strong, icy cold current over our feet, the beautiful flowers and lit candle within a leaf cup were offered to the Goddess Ganges and whisked away into the night.
For dinner, the majority of us went for dinner at a place Mahaveer recommended. Despite his cryptic warning about the owner, a large man with pink paint on his face and a single horn of hair on his shaved head emotionlessly rang a bell as we entered. Giggling amongst ourselves in confusion and at the quirkiness, we ordered. Here I tasted one of India’s sweets – gulab jamun, a deep fried buttery dough with fragrant, sweet syrup.
Rishikesh was a beautiful town, the people kind and scenery pleasant. The hotel’s restaurant allowed me to indulge in banana split sundaes, chocolate and Nutella soaked pancakes and banana peanut butter crepes. The Indian food wasn’t bad, but I had to have my sweets!

Driving forty minutes out of town along the river, we arrived at our campsite. More like glamping, the semi-permanent tents offered us beds and lights. Playing an intense match of Australia vs India badminton with Mahaveer, it was time for our buffet Indian lunch. Finally giving in to eating with my hands, I tried my best to encapsulate the feel and sound of my food along with the other senses to comprehensively appreciate the meal. And then it was time for rafting!
Compressed into a wet suit, spray jacket, life vest and helmet, I giggled with anticipation as we climbed onto the raft. Mahaveer sat opposite me, nervously clenching his oar and the side rope with a sheepish smile, not a strong swimmer he decided to join our rowdy rafting group anyway. The six of us fell swiftly into a good rhythm and we steamed along the mysterious river. Bouncing over the frothing rapids, I squealed in delight as we were urged to paddle on. To improve our confidence, we stood upright on the raft while floating along a flat and calm patch of river, each of us wobbling and struggling to stay balanced. Hitting more rapids, the raft dipped down and monster waves rose up and crashed into us. Shooting over waves, we flew diagonally up until we fell back onto the churning water. When the appropriate time came (i.e not in the dangerous rapids, but in a mild rapid at least) I ditched my oar and plunged into the fresh water. The air fled from my lungs and left me gasping with shock from the cold, glacial water. The heads of my rafting team bobbed around me but were swiftly pulled away in the turbulence. My effort to swim was useless as waves attempted to swallow me while the current pulled me on. The force and pressure of the river was astounding, without my lifejacket I would have been in grave danger.
The raft eventually caught up to my floating form down the river. A few others had already been pulled back aboard and it was my turn. Bracing myself against the side I pushed as Aussie Doug pulled. A small laugh slipped from my mouth and I was gone. Described as a ‘wet, flopping seal’ from my fellow rafters, they struggled to pull my deadweight back onto the raft as I laughed until my stomach hurt and I could barely breathe. Ahead of us, the setting sun reflected molten copper on the vivid blue waves just beyond the rapids.
Dried and contentedly exhausted, the group chattered happily around a small campfire. The flickering orange light cast its glow onto the faces of strangers that I had come to recognise as familiar over the past two weeks. Group travel can be so frustrating and rewarding. Seeing these people, and recalling many other people whose faces had been illuminated by a camp fire -in the wilds of Patagonia, the sand dunes of Peru, chocolate making in the Amazon of Ecuador – I thanked the fire for its power to warm and unite.
Soon the group thinned, only a few of us defying the call of sleep to exchange stories under the soft, few stars that could be seen above. Our dreadlocked, Canadian raft leader had accompanied us back to camp after the afternoons adventures. A seasoned rafting guide and traveller, we all leaned in with glittering eyes and gaping mouths as he coolly told his stories. A man-eating tiger living across the river, five children taken in the last three months. The bodies that float in the river, including two I’d failed to notice as we passed earlier that afternoon. Describing the night he and his buddies passed out drunk on the river bank, not returning to the safety of their tents. “When I woke up, my buddy was freaking out, ayyye. Pointing to sand around me. Sitting up, the imprint of a leopard’s paw was visible in the sand. They circled each one of us, ayyye. She’d watched us in our sleep, circled us, before padding down to the river, taking a drink and returning back into the jungle.” Not long before that incident had the groups adopted stray dog been stalked and killed by that same leopard.
Shuffling back to my tent across the dewy grass, cows moaned and a lone goat bleated in the jungle behind us. Pushing Jurassic Park out of my head, I slept.
Camping allows you to wake up with the day, the soft white glow of early morning light, monkeys screeching in the trees, cows bleating and birds chirping. The night is silent and soft, the day loud and bright.
Spending the afternoon admiring Rishikesh markets, I added to my suitcase until it weighed twice as much as it did at the beginning of the journey. Cockroaches scampered around my seat on the train back towards the city. Nothing visible outside, a couple of movies and nap led to the arrival back to Delhi. Dodging puddles of unknown filth, pushy taxi drivers and beggars outside confirmed; we were definitely back in the city.
The air remained thick and hazy over New Delhi, although the assault to my lungs had significantly lessened. Our lovely group soon disintegrated, disappearing for early flights or new accommodation. Taking a taxi to Lodhi gardens, four of us were pleasantly surprised at the cleanliness and unpolluted nature around us. Beautiful ruins of old tombs stood surrounded by grass and gardens. Dogs loped around while squirrels darted across the ground and up trees. Brilliant green ring-necked parrots flew above and hopped through hollows in the tree. Indian couples posed for engagement photo shoots.
Sitting and enjoying the calm before the storm that awaited outside, a bony black adolescent puppy approached me with hopeful eyes. Each edge of the dog seemed to end in a point, and a large round scar perched hairless on its back. My heart broke as I pushed against its chest, keeping it at arm’s length to stop it jumping on me. Surprised I had not yelled or attempted to hit it already, the young dog grew more hopeful, a soft smile forming with its bright eyes. Knowing I wouldn’t scold it, the others in my group sent it scampering away with a few harsh words. I watched as the dog padded around a few hundred metres away, slinking away from snarling dogs and uncaring people. It lay in the sun for a few minutes before getting up and moving to a different spot. Its eyes watched people, squirrels and other dogs. Seeing an old dog waddling behind its owner, the pup stalked them with interest. Keeping its distance, the curiosity in this dog-human companionship seemed to fascinate this lonely, stray pup.

India is so different from Australia, or even western countries. It is a polluted, cruel world yet it is more. It is colourful, cultural and stylish. The people jiggle their heads when they speak, ask for selfies and chat to strangers as if they are old friends. The streets are disgusting, excrement along the footpaths, scarred and bony stray dogs sniffing for food and the mutilated adults of India’s child trafficking underbelly moaning and begging at your feet. The chaotic bustle of vehicles honking and swerving across the road somehow contains its own harmony. Very few bumps and scrapes result in road rage, drivers giving way no matter how ridiculously the other car pushed in front. The monkeys are mischievous and cunning. The cows sit doe eyed in the middle of the road, fearless of the metal contraptions that speed towards them. Shop keepers beg you to buy through flattery and persuasion, the game of haggling not taken to heart.  Children beg for food, and then are disgusted by the food you have to offer. The Himalaya’s tower with silent wisdom, yet the air pollution demeans them in an ugly haze. Pieces of plastic, rags, and even bodies float along with the stunning turquoise water of the Ganges. How do I describe what I saw of India without sounding disappointed and unhappy? I am in awe. The cultural shock I received was a refreshing and eye-opening blow. How could I possibly, truly appreciate my life, all that I have if I had not seen life without? I never revelled in the pure air and blue skies of home until the hazy brown Delhi sky hung heavily on my shoulders and burned my lungs until they ached. There is an enticing rawness of humanity in India, a teetering balance of life that toys with the westernised brain. India is a mystical paradox, a sharp clash of culture, religions, and lifestyle. I am glad to have witnessed a small fraction of this enthralling country.