Last night I decided that I will be checking out of my hotel today and taking the overnight bus to Dehra Dun. I did the usual routine in the morning: walked to café with computer in bag, ordered an omelet and a coffee, checked the email. There is that woman again. She’s been here every morning, looks like we have parallel morning routines. She smiled at me, then worked on her computer while she waited for her Omelet. Some time later we strike conversation somehow. There was a third woman chatting too. We talked about travel in general, travel in India, recommendations for cities, etc. I realized how jaded I sounded “what’s wrong with me?” but luckily I sensed some agreement on some things I said, I think. This was the most talking I’d done at once in a week. Wow! An actual conversation, someone to talk to! I’m starting to like this place a little more.
Since I have the do something for the rest of the day until my 8pm bus I decided to go to Dharamkot. Described in lonely planet as a “village” similar to the “village” from the day before bhagsu, I have very low expectations, as a matter of fact I wasn’t looking for anything anymore, just going for the sake of going and doing something with my time. At the main square, full of traffic and honking, I noticed this Scandinavian girl. She had two huge boxes that say cake on them. And she asks for a ride up to Dharamkot. So I thought why not share the ride. We ended up in a rickshaw stuck in traffic in the same spot by the square for about 10 minutes. Still boggles my mind that a) there are cars and honking up here, b) that there is actually a traffic jam. I mean these streets were not meant for any kind of vehicular traffic let alone big cars in both directions. Drivers have to fold their side mirrors and scrape by the buildings on the side to pass each other. It is insane. We pass the bottle neck and we head up on a little road to the village above. It is suddenly peaceful and quiet, pine forests cover the hills, cows and monkeys roam freely. I’m really starting to like this, why didn’t I come here earlier. Alas, there really is no village, which is fine by me since “village” here seems to mean more of the same concrete mismatched buildings that you find in any city, just smaller. There was a little snack shop with tables. I went in and had a soda. Here is that little cute compact guy I noticed earlier. And across the table was a couple, a white guy that looks like he’s been in Asia/south Asia for too long and his companion, an Asian girl that could pass for his daughter. Flashback to Thailand.
The white guy was telling the cute little compact guy about dipping in the Ganges, unlocking secrets of the mind and stuff like that. I was too busy checking out the little guy to hear with the mystic over there was saying. He gets up and leaves. And here I am talking to Trevor, a British guy who just finished some kind of job in New Zealand and is traveling through Asia on his way back to England. Some village outside Manchester where his father has been banned from the pub (the only one in the village) across the street for being belligerent. He a little compact hairy gremlin, and we ended up just sitting there and talking for a few hours. Conversation was so random, it ranged from talking about Egypt/Manchester cotton connection in the British Empire to how he slept with a girl in Thailand then she asked him for her pay in the morning and how he was shocked that it wasn’t just love.
I walked back downhill thinking “should I stay or should I go?” since I already checked out and felt like I was done here I thought I should go, but then again go where? I’m reluctant to go to lower altitudes where temperatures may not be so pleasant. On my way back, just before entering Mcleodganj I saw my first monkey. Then another and another. There was a cute little place called “Momo Café” on the way back. I stopped by to try some momos. The place is very small, maybe 10 by 12 feet with a little “kitchen” in the corner that’s probably 4 by 6 feet. it’s amazing how someone can make a living for themselves out of such a tiny makeshift concrete room. It had one window over looking a street below, the room was painted green with the tricolor Tibetan banner encircling the perimeter of the room where the wall meets the ceiling. It was a very sweet place. I got an order of momos (basically dumplings) and they were delicious. 10 for just over a dollar.
I thought I’d look around for a cheap room, if I find one then I am meant to stay, if I don’t then I should get on that bus. No room. Got on the bus. This was not the same kind of “ordinary” bus that I had last time. I had seat number 43. Apparently a notorious seat for being the most uncomfortable. 43 is in the back corner of the bus, it is not an actual seat but rather a metal bench with a flat metal back that is also the actually back of the bus. Super tight and hardly any leg room. Very uncomfortable. It is also right on top of the wheel making it so bouncy that my head would literally touch the roof of the bus with every bump. And these roads are BUMPY! The bus was completely full. Next to me was a guy who owns a shop, so he says, in Mcleodganj. Nicky, short for Nekhil, was a very nice guy with alcohol breath. He spoke just enough English to communicate and be totally charming. “I am bad guy, I drink I do all drugs, I am very bad guy, but I am happy.” hello, nice to meet you Nicky, please distract me from the fact that my brain is being turned into soup from this bumpy ride. He told me that the guy that sold me the ticket was also a bad guy for not telling me about seat 43. He was full of drunken wisdom like “in India you are nothing without money, I stop school so I can have money.” yes, it’s like this everywhere. “no, no, no, I am nothing, now I work I make money for my son to be something good.” I wish I can remember more of what he was saying, but like I said my brain was literally disintegrating so I had very little capacity to store information. By the time we made it down the hill, in about 20 minutes, from Mcleod to Dharamsala, I just wanted to get off that bus. There was no way I could go on like this for 12 hours.
Nicky insisted to help me return my bus ticket. I was willing to just loose the 385 rupees it was worth (something like $8.50). But he took my hand to the ticket window and told me to wait. He asked for a refund for my ticket, he had to write a note stating the request for a refund. I let him do it. It was so funny, he wrote something like “I have important piece of work in Mcleod, kindly return my money.” they gave back 75% of the ticket. Amazing. Thanks Nicky! Sweet guy just gave me the money, made me promise that I will visit his shop and if I come back in 10 or 20 years I will ask about his son and do business with him. He walked away. I took a taxi back up to Mcleod. I guess I wasn’t meant to leave that night after all.
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