onwards and upwards

Earlier this week I finished reading The Great Railway Bazaar by Paul Theroux. I like his travel writing, despite (or because of) his somewhat appalling personal qualities. He has an irritating habit of filling his characters' dialogues with literary quotations, which tends to steal the non-fiction from his work. Only a turd or a liar would claim to pull out a meaningful quotation for each clever moment. This is my primary reason for suspecting that Paul Theroux is, in fact, a lying turd.

Then again, I spent all of my formative tween and teen years reading sexy pulp paperbacks thinly disguised as fantasy/science fiction... so what do I know? In any case, here's a passage from The Great Railway Bazaar that still holds true, nearly 40 years later. I do not claim to have memorized it:
"...one of those strange conversations I later found to be the mainstay of American small talk in India: The American on His Bowels. After the usual greetings and pauses these people would report on the vagaries of their digestive tracts. Their passion was graceless and they were as hard to silence as whoopee cushions."

This past week, onwards and upwards to Manali I went. It's very likely the furthest north I'll go in India. Manali was all crumbling brickwork decorated with antique wooden window frames and balconies. The main drag in central Manali was hung with strings of thick, coloured tinsel rustling in the air. The sound of the tinsel was nearly familiar... a sweet combination of strung-up cornflakes and autumn leaves and origami. Manali is a mountain town, and every river in every valley in the area made a pleasant whitewater white noise. Unless you're interested in "adventure tourism", a term that generally spooks me, Manali's mostly good for strolling about and snacking. OK, twist my arm.

I saw a terrifically ambiguous road sign between Manali and the nearby village where I was staying (Vaishisht):

BRO
REGRETTABLE INCONVENIENCE

Uh huh. After Manali I began my slow drift south and east. The 9-hour bus ride was a predictably terrifying screech around narrow mountain roads, winding one-lane affairs that hug the ridges. The bus loudspeakers blared Indian cowboy music: the melodrama of Hindi vocals laid over Ennio Morricone instrumentals. Far below in the valleys, cows appeared to be sleeping while immersed up to their ears in milky turquoise rivers. Unlikely vehicles zoomed around on what I thought were goat paths.

I'm now in the state's capital, Shimla, renowned for being the 'summer capital' during British rule. The crusty old colonial architecture proves it. Hordes of domestic tourists fill the pedestrian-only streets to eat ice creams and ogle girls. On no fewer than four occasions I witnessed young parents placing a toddler on the back of a placid pony for a tourist photo op, only to have the photo spoiled by hysterical screaming. Haha! Is it sociopathic to find the situation hilarious? Just so familiar, like everything else in this bizarro Little England. Every second stroller contains a tiny person bashing a toy keyboard to produce tinny versions of 'Oh Susanna' and 'London Bridge is Falling Down'.

One of Shimla's main sights is a temple way up the hill, the Jakhu temple, which celebrates the monkey god Hanuman. After several days I'm still too nervous to go, because I know there will be hundreds of rhesus macaques up there. These aggressive little monsters are all over Shimla - ranging from chihuahua to bulldog in size. There's something about monkeys that I don't trust - those little beady eyes know too much, those little brains contain only judgments and poop-flinging. Can you imagine getting undressed in front of a monkey? It would probably be snidely thinking "Buzz's girlfriend - woof!" instead of the more appropriate "eeeee! EEEEEE!" Last night I took a wrong turn and got cornered in a back alley by a dozen of them, screeching and lunging in my direction. I surprised myself by screaming loudly and windmilling my arms in a monkey-wards flail. Then I ran like hell. In your dreams, monkey temple!

Tomorrow morning I board the Himalayan Queen, a train that runs the Shimla-Kalka line, which is famous for being one of the narrow-gauge rail lines in India. Later on, I hope to travel on the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway and the train to Ooty in south India.

Yeah, yeah, so I just figured out how to include links in my blog posts and I'm going nuts with my newfound power. Being a simpleton has its advantages.