Bodhgaya To Delhi To Dharamsala
Dom and I split off from the group for a couple of days. Instead of another long bus and train ride, we fly from the capital of Bihar (Patna). We take a Tata driven by the fellow whose nieces I met yesterday. Annand is along for the ride.
Once again, we are in Maoist country. It looks much different from the car than the bus. The houses are close. The wood fires fro breakfast n the grass huts stings the eyes.
We stop for tea at a crossroads. I can terll from the wide eyed look of the people in the “tea house that big white guys with pony tails don’t stop for tea every morning.
It’s a modified grass hut with deep recesses and an open front. There are maybe ten long tables (like the coffe shops in the real Italian partds of north beach. It,s dark back there and staring eyes are peering out.
The flies are thick here. Annand has me sit at the table closest to the road (in case we need to jump in the car). The table is so thick with flies that I wonder if I’ll be able to sit the tea down.
I mimic the sweeping motion that the rest of the men at the tea house (no women seem to be allowed). That keeps me entertained and some of the flies at bay until the tea comes. When it comes, it is served in ceremonial clay tea cups, slightly larger than a shot glass but shaoed like a half sphere.
In the middle east and some of Southern Asia, “tea” is a hot drink made mostly with hot milk and sugar, The tea itself is like the vermouth in a very dry martini, It’s mostly there by reputation.
Three sips of tea, three big smiles of gratitude and five or six slow rolling waves at the flies and were done. It’s clear that Annand accomplished something by making the stop. We tip heavily and get back in the Tata’
From there, it’s relatively uneventful until we get into the taxi at the Delhi airport.
There’s no such thing as a taxi driver who knows his (there are no women) way around Delhi. The typical gambit seems to be … wander around for a while then, blame the customer for not knowing where they are going.
What’s really funny about this round of the taxi game is that the driver started grumbling at us just as we passed the hotel.
The Palace Heights hotel on Conneaut Square is a very hip little place in a very upper middle classs part of town. Our room is tiny. The bathroom is so small that you have to come out of it to turn around. But, the water’s hot and the tiny beds are firm. Our luggage takes up all of the available floor space.
After dinner, I make the first phone calls I’ve been able to make since arriving here. Walking the streets with my phone, I notice the dogs working the block.
Like cows, dogs own the streets of India. Rarely kept as house pets, they live on the streets. They’re sort of wild and sort of tame. They seem to belong to the neighborhood.
For a half an hour or so, I watch a pack of twelve dogs negotiate sleeping space and territorial boundaries on the dark side of the street. There’s a white group and a yellow group in the pack. Barks, growls and yelps coupled with firm physical maneuvers shape this nonverbal dialog. I head upstairs when it looks like they might get a little rowdy.
In the morning we head back to the airport for the trip to Dharamsala,
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