I’ve spent six months in India. Before that, I was always somewhat eclectic in my religious beliefs, following the workings of Santeria and Yoruba while at the same time receiving Buddhist empowerments. So I’m more than a little accustomed to the practice of polytheism.
Kathmandu, however, takes the concept to a whole new level. Walk anywhere outside, even if it’s just the fifty meters to the local general needs stall, and you’ll pass a small shrine here, or a mini-temple there, where one can stop in and say hello to the deity of the minute. A small niche set in a wall, a small rock daubed with vermilion and precious oils; look anywhere, and you’ll see a deity in residence. Like people, each one is different from its neighbor in appearance, outlook and temperament.
In the old African religions, the categorization is a little more systematic. It’s understood for example that you don’t just have a deity in charge of things like death, or wisdom, or wealth. That deity in turn has dozens of avatars, some wrathful, some benevolent, some younger, some more ancient. And each one is described in detail, down to the colors of the last eleke bead.
A couple days in Kathmandu is all it takes to see the same thing at work. Each little shrine feels different as I walk by, a product of the neighborhood and the people tending it. The other day I passed a shrine covered in Nepali rupees that had been nailed into the wall, the deity’s iconic representation so covered up I could no longer tell what it was. Other shrines and temples seemed to house imposing residents, whose worshippers would have to come as supplicants on bended knee. One temple seemed set up for the busy commuter, it’s god-greeting bell set out in the sidewalk for people to touch in the middle of that run for the bus.
A billion deities, little, big and inbetween, all equally respected…
December 6th, 2006
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If you’ve been following this blog and Joy’s blog with any attention, you’re probably already aware that bus rides in this part of the world are somewhat fraught with peril. Nonetheless, the truth is that to get anywhere from Rewalsar in Himachal Pradesh to anywhere else beyond Mandi, you’re looking at two bus rides minimum, even if it’s to get to the train, or the airport. If you’re not planning on train, plane or automobile to get you where you need to go, then making sure you’re prepared both mentally and physically for the trip is absolutely crucial.
By now I’ve become an old hand at the Mandi-Delhi bus run, a 12-hour red-eye trip that can feature either a highway to heaven or a road trip to hell, depending on the bus company, the condition of the bus itself, and the drivers. Often the dhaba and rest stops can be an adventure in themselves; other times the drivers will conveniently forget there are women on board the bus, and just make “men’s stops” next to any convenient stand of trees. Another important thing to know about Indian bus rides, and something I haven’t mentioned before is this: it’s been my experience that on about one bus ride out of every four, somebody will get ill, and need to puke out a window.
Yep, that’s how it works in India. If you’re on a bus and don’t feel good, the bus won’t stop for you. Just make sure you have a window seat, and sit somewhere near the back so the other passengers can use their windows, if they need to. This is one situation where spending the extra rupaiyah for a high-end Volvo AC bus is not a good idea, because the windows on Volvo buses do not open. I’ve been in a Volvo bus someone puked in, and it actually took 45 minutes of concerted complaining before the crew would agree to clean up the mess.
Anywho, it was my mission this time to get from Rewalsar, all the way to Kathmandu in Nepal, a trip that requires:
–45 minutes mountain driving by taxi
–2 hours wait for “deluxe” bus in Mandi
–12 hours ride overnight to Delhi
–6 hours wait for Kathmandu bus departure
–36 hours ride from Delhi to Kathmandu.
(Counts on fingers, carries the one) That, according to the old math, is about 51 hours straight travel, to travel the entire northeastern edge of India, and land in another country.
Did I explain how departures work for long distance bus rides in India? No? My bad. While the following description is somewhat extreme, it actually incorporates everything you can expect to happen (or not) from the time the bus can actually be boarded to the time the bus gets on the road (a time frame ranging anywhere from 15 minutes to 2 hours). This is how the Kathmandu departure went.
I showed up at the travel agent’s in Majnu-Ka-Tilla Tibetan colony at my 1:30 “reporting time”, with my luggage. “Boarding” time was 2:00. The agent would be taking me to my bus. This bit turned out to be a walk back out of Majnu-Ka-Tilla’s main gate, turning right past the auto-rickshaws and bicycle rickshaws to walk down a dirt road that ran towards the Yamuna river, which runs behind Majnu-Ka-Tilla. The agent helped carry my bag after he saw that I was having problems with the distance, which was “just up here”. The other MommyWizards and I have learned to our detriment that any walking directions that include the magic phrase “it’s just up here” invariably mean a twenty minute hike that involves negotiating seriously rocky ground, and may or may not involve hand-over-hand climbing. No climbing this time, just a nice long walk in the dust, until we reached a large open space filled with garbage. An official looking blue sign from Delhi’s Municipal government proclaimed in English, Hindu, Urdu, and Bangla that we had reached “Majnu Ka Teela Park.”
In the middle of the garbage were a couple of buses, a large crowd of Tibetans, Indians and Nepalis, and a couple of ticket takers for the buses. My agent marched up to one ticket taker, had me hand over my ticket, which the taker shuffled up with some other tickets, while the agent argued with him and tried to get my ticket back out of his hands. All the while my agent yelled at the ticket taker in Hindi at top volume, with the ticket taker yelling back. The shuffling and the yelling continued. Finally something got ticked off on a clipboard, and the ticket taker pointed to a bus. The agent turned to me, pointed at the same bus, and explained that was my bus. I turned back to the agent and the ticket taker, pointed at my bag, and explained that I would not be getting on board, until I saw where my luggage ended up.
The next ten minutes were spent watching the only baggage handler in Majnu-Ka-Tilla with absolutely no spacial logic take 10 minutes to put my one bag in the bus’s empty holding space. I could afford to take the time, because the bus was pretty much guaranteed to be leaving late. That accomplished, I got on the bus, and proceeded to be entertained by other happenings. Surrounding the buses, the ticket takers, the agents, and so on like a flock of seagulls were various fruit sellers, kids selling water and chips, some guy selling Q-tips and lighters, several beggars, and of course the requisite cows and a pregnant dog or two.
Inside the bus, of course, was the other part of the boarding process: people were randomly getting on the bus, choosing a seat whose number seemed to resemble what they remembered seeing on their ticket. These folks would plunk a small bit of luggage on the seat, and then leave the bus again, mostly to buy fruit or visit one of the many bushes and trees that stood literally in lieu of any sort of functional bathroom. Others would then board, select the same seats, and shovel around the luggage to settle in. Then the first folks would return, and more high-volume yelling would commence, to end only when the ticket-taker and his clipboard would board the bus to settle the disagreement for good. Little by little, the buses would fill up. The bus engine might start up and idle for a bit, then be turned off again. Finally, some sort of magic consensus took place, and the buses actually left, no more than an hour or so behind schedule.
December 3rd, 2006
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