Dear Friends and Family,

My next stop was the Nepal/India border.

Before our mini-bus came to a complete stop 4 kilometers short of the border, rickshaw drivers gathered around the bus shouting, “Lady? Rickshaw lady?” A few other Westerners had boarded the bus after I had and so, hoping for safety in numbers, I stood up and queried, “is anyone else going to the border?”

A French lady spoke up and in seconds, she and I teamed up and gamely climbed out of the bus into bombardment. I turned to the closest rickshaw haggler and inquired into his price (my guesthouse had suggested that 30 Nepali Rupees was reasonable). The driver quoted 60 Rupees.

“60 Rupees? I think not.” I turned to another. “How much?”

“Madam, 50 Rupees.”

“How about 40?”

“How about 50?”

“How about 40?”

“Ok, madam. 40 Rupees.” We placed my backpack on to his one-person rickshaw. I gracelessly climbed into the seat while the driver gamely climbed aboard his pedals. We set off down a line of freight trucks, each truck belching noxious black smoke and, I’m certain, a fair amount of carbon dioxide. Arrogant SUV drivers driving the other direction honked until we moved aside and spit dust on us when they passed. My driver, apparently a man who doesn’t hold a grudge, pointed to the line of trucks in the manner of an accomplished tour guide (while never breaking the rhythm of his pedaling) and told me that the border was closed. I didn’t believe him – and I wouldn’t let him stop at his favorite currency exchange shop (drivers in tourist traps are often paid commissions by less than savory monetary operations; I will have none of that particular scam). My driver remained cheerful in the face of my stony denials – chattering and pedaling. I watched as his back became dotted then solid with sweat and I began to wonder what this man’s life was like. His skin was deep brown and he was agedly bent, his plastic flip-flops were cracked and his rickshaw was unshiny and dented. I was doing my best not to breathe while he was forced to breathe and pedal through foul exhaust into dust. I replayed my earlier conversation with him, mentally substituting dollar values.

“How much?” I had asked.

“Madam, 97 cents.”

“How about 70 cents?”

“How about 97 cents?”

“How about 70 cents?”

“Ok, madam. [You pay me] 70 cents.” Although I had agreed to pay more than Nepalis pay for a ride, nonetheless, I had just argued this man out of 17 cents. 17 cents is of little consequence to me – but for a man with rotting teeth and thin clothing, 17 cents may buy him an entire meal. I began to think of all the material comforts that I had and was assailed by guilt. That ride felt much longer than 4 kilometers – and in the end, I paid him beyond double our agreement.

Borders are rarely congenial places; this border was no exception. The border itself was a tall and broad gate, barely supervised. While the Nepali authorities examined my passport, 2 Japanese girls initiated a conversation with us and recommended their guide + driver (if we were looking for a ride). I had planned on taking the bus but quickly caved in the face of my French companion’s interest and the temptation of a faster, less motion-sickness inducing ride to my next destination. Later, I learned that for that drive, I paid 500 Indian Rupee (about $18) when 200 would’ve been more than plenty. That happens when one is forced to negotiate one’s own prices, but I do hate to be suckered that badly.

That car ride from the border to the closest Indian train station gave me a… preview of what was to come. [Author’s note: Dad, you may want to skip this next part.] After we had dropped my French companion at the train station and were on our way to the hotel that I planned to spend the night in, I found myself carefully fielding questions about my current lack of boyfriend. The guide, a short, wiry man who had established himself as a speedy, tactless speaker, informed me that he thought “women with big boobs were best”… and shortly followed that comment a statistic regarding the length of his manhood… and a more startling conversation about his manhood in comparison to other manhoods. The conversation was subtle enough that I was morbidly fascinated instead of afraid. I didn’t doubt that I was being propositioned but I’d never been propositioned so… statistically. The guide insisted on further proving his manhood by carrying my now-returned-to-heavy backpack into my hotel. But luckily for me, he took my firm refusal with a smile, even apologizing in case he had embarrassed me. When he had disappeared down the hall, I fell against the door of my new room and wondered how my friendly but truly circumspect behavior had lead him to think that he and I would have a quickie before he and the driver returned to their city (which, thankfully, was an additional 4 hour drive).

I was disinclined to explore the city that I slept in and enjoyed a quiet day of reading and watching the city’s unpenned monkeys climb walls until a mouse wandered into my hotel room. The mouse looked at me, I looked at it. We both wanted to scream. The mouse screamed first and presumably returned to its hiding place and so I returned to my book (although I did alert the hotel of its presence when I checked out).

My train to Delhi was scheduled to depart late into the evening. On the way to the station, I found the city streets and houses draped with Christmas lights because, come to find out, I had inadvertently selected the night of a major Hindu holiday called Diwali, the Festival of Lights, to travel. The holiday rendered the train more empty than full, and it came as a relief to have a quiet train ride with the probability of luggage thieves comparatively low. A train attendant handed me 2 scrupulously clean sheets and a blanket to sleep with and after locking my backpack to my seat, I duly attempted sleep. The train rattled and shook throughout the night. I tossed and turned and pulled at the sheets and blankets until I had twisted myself into a full-body version of a Chinese finger trap toy.

It was just past 6 when I gave up all attempts at sleep and instead curled myself into the corner of my seat and absorbed myself with the window. Morning fog shrouded farmers in fields and long-legged storks picking their way between oxen. Palm trees were plentiful and still. Residences were irregular in size, space and color. Motion sick yet again, the train rocked and rolled while I refused chai and breakfast and lunch and snacks. The train was hours late. I fielded the city subway and settled into a non-descript hotel.


Delhi was yet another transitional destination for me and my “list of things to do” was heavy on errands and light on tourist destinations, which was good because it took me 3 hours to shrink my backpack with a visit to the post office. My attempt to mail packages was unexpectedly adventurous: involving native assistance and a coffee date with a handsome windbag of a man, a tuk-tuk between post office branches, a tailor to stitch my treasures into canvas, another man to seal the package with wax (my mother later inquired if I had mailed them a cloth-wrapped ham) and finally the expected post office workers to banter and negotiate with. One thing I’ll say about traveling: nothing is routine, including a visit to the post office.

Errands aside, I acted upon quality advice from a companion on my train journey and took myself to a Seikh temple with marble floors, arched colonnades and corners crowned with onion domes. To enter the temple, I received a numbered tag for my checked in shoes and prepared myself to enter in the same manner as the other supplicants: first I washed my hands under a cold faucet, then dipped my feet into a rectangular shallow pool filled with a substance closer to mud than cleansing water, and lastly knotted a borrowed scarf across my hair and over the nape of my neck. My breath caught as I raised my head from the warmed marble mosaic floor, the afore-mentioned colonnades surrounded an enormous silver square pool. Pigeons fluttered above the water, never touching, while men in full turbans and beards stepped ankle-deep in the shallow water to pose for pictures by their wives with fluttering scarves. The temple was lively but not too full of people and I found a secluded spot against the wall to simply watch. I pulled my journal out and incited the interest of a little girl, who ran from her parents to squat next to me. She was mute but looked me straight in the eye while nervously pulling at her braids. After a minute, she ran back to join her parents and infant brother. I respectfully nodded and her parents smiled and nodded back at me. A few minute later, the little girl returned to ask me in clearly rehearsed English where I was from. I smiled and replied but she was too shy for actual conversation and soon she again ran away, her feet lightly slapping against marble. I wanted to be unobtrusive - but failed. I as watched two elementary-aged boys in bathing trunks splashed each other while their smiling father stood nearby, close but not too close. Eventually I arose and paced the pool before walking through the temple. Musicians pounded deep drums with the flats of their hands. I understood nothing that I saw and did not feel (as I often do in holy places) that I was intruding.

But my time in Delhi left me in no doubt, no doubt, that I was foreigner in a foreign land. During an exploratory walk the previous night, I was approached many times. Most memorable was a young (not unattractive) man who gave me the feeling that he wanted a date but actually wanted to interest me in a visit to a splendid houseboat in Kashmir. (Admittedly, this appealed – minus the approach… and the on-going political fracas in Kashmir.) And the next day, central to my post office adventure was a pleasantly tall man in a blue business shirt, purportedly on holiday. My first instinct was to refuse his company and assistance but he too wasn’t unattractive and he didn’t make my instincts scream. He walked me to the post office and when we discovered the workers uninterested in actually opening the office, he was kind enough to treat me to coffee while we waited. Later he greatly amused me, popping over while I was watching the tailor sew my packages to inquire my opinion of the sunglasses that he planned to purchase. Blue Business Shirt man and I exchanged e-mail addresses but as he had proven himself more of a talker than a listener, I was grateful for his assistance and quite happy to bid him farewell.

Later that evening, I returned to shop in the area near the post office and was disconcerted to be recognized by a man that I had never seen.

“Hey,” he called “You bought ------- sunglasses!” I was confused until I recalled that I had provided an opinion about the purchase of sunglasses. I smiled and continued walking. Minutes later, another man approached to talk and sell me something. A minute after I had dissuaded him, a group of guys in their 20s halted me. One called,

“I know you.”

I politely paused; I didn’t know him.

“You had coffee with -------.”

And I had. But 7 hours had passed since that coffee and the shop had had enough people that I shouldn’t have been necessarily noticeable. The level of recognition and attention that I was garnering was beginning to scare me. This feeling wasn’t helped by the fact that the men followed me for a bit, calling to that it was “their turn” while the most insistent one told me, “you are a rose and you should share your scent.”

I was unprepared for this level of attention. Look, I am no Helen of Troy and frankly, after 2 years of not blending into Korea, I’m accustomed to attention, accustomed to being a foreigner. But what was new to me was that I seemed only to be interacting with men. And what was rather scary was the sexual edge to the attention that I was receiving. I felt as if I were an absolutely free, 4-course meal (complete with all-you-can-drink beer!) walking down the street, an open invitation. I decided that if I were indeed a meal, it wouldn’t matter the food or the quality of the meal, it just mattered that I was available and free. I didn’t like this feeling one bit. I finished my errands and positively fled to the safety of my hotel. And early the next morning, I took a seat on another train on the final leg of my current journey. I was tired of "the road" and ready to spend a month in Rishikesh learning yoga, learning about India.

Laura

Inside the temple...

Sunset in Delhi... over the reflective pool.