The paradoxes of India

If India were a person, it would certainly be schizophrenic and possibly a complete psychopath.

From standing on the top of a mountain yesterday morning, surveying the distant mountains and thinking that this was perhaps my favourite place in the world…



… I then ventured into the old town, where, in chronological order I was:

a) Accosted by a disgusting, filthy man, who, after asking me most seductively, “You wan’ fuck?” and waggling his middle finger at me like a rabid worm, proceeded to follow me and touch himself while muttering, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” under his breath;

c) Mere inches away from being attacked by a pack of wild dogs, after mistakenly attempting to navigate their rubbish dump. Fortunately, I do a mean dog impression so managed to scare them off with some authentic growls and woofs. (This makes me sound like Lara Croft - I should probably mention that I was also crying and shaking with fear at the same time);

c) Followed by at least twenty-nine different groups of Indian men, yelling “One photo with you, miss”, who all seemed equally unable to keep their eyes above my neck, and equally unable to take no for an answer. One group of which, after telling them in no uncertain terms that no, I was not going to pose for a photo with their stinky armpits on my shoulder, just followed me into this restaurant and are now sat opposite, staring at me like greedy mere cats.

(Please wait a second while I switch seats so I have my back to them…. )

I feel I should also mention here, purely for the basis of a fair analysis, that I also spent yesterday evening wandering around the old town, poking my head into crevices and whatnot and, after nosily poking my head into a doorway, a lively and slightly crazy Ladakhi lady appeared and invited me into her ancient mud and brick house for chai. And in two days’ time I’m back there for a traditional Ladakhi meal and dancing.

The country might be a psychopath but it certainly isn’t making it easy for me to hate it.

Let sleeping dogs lie...

Life has slowed down to a pace almost beyond imaginable. I’m currently top of the improvers’ list in a course named How To Relax And Amuse Oneself For Hours.

This mainly consists of reading books (from start to finish, no less!), café hopping, rain dodging and watching India go by in its amusing way while waiting for the arrival of my intrepid camera.

(Which, by the way, is now unnecessary as the other one has had amiraculous recovery.)

Still no dreadlocks though, I’m happy to report.

The most difficult decision I’m facing each day is what to eat. Chinese, Tibetan, Israeli, Mexican, Continental, Italian, South Indian, North Indian, English - the array of cuisines is simply dazzling, but the end result probably more similar than the locals care to admit.



This morning I opted for an English Breakfast, Madam - toast, beans, eggs and hash brown. Sound familiar? Well it wasn’t. Cumin, turmeric, peppers, onions and chilli all made an appearance in one form or another and, while I certainly enjoy boiled potatoes, yes sir I do, I probably wouldn‘t eat them on toast for breakfast.

I ate all this while watching a particularly amusing game of Indian road roulette, whereby hoards of creaking tuk-tuks chug painfully to the top of the hill, before switching off the engines and juddering down the other side like out-of-control runaway trains, horns screeching as all manner of animals and people scatter into roadside ditches like confused ants.



Apart from the sleeping dogs, of course, which usually just continue snoring in the middle of the road as the vehicles slalom dangerously between them.

Nothing wakes the dogs. Every few metres there’s another one: mangy and flea-bitten, dozing in a doorway; napping on a rock next to the roaring river; asleep on a pillar in the middle of a construction site.



They only awake at night, whereupon they gather underneath my bedroom window and conduct howling wrestling matches.

Talking of strange animals, there appears to be a glut of them in Manali. So far I’ve encountered two absurdly decorated yaks, a sheep that wakes me up each morning with a ’Laaauuura’ sounding baa; and a crazy myxomatosis-eyed rabbit giant.

And when I say giant, I mean giant: as big and as white as a polar bear - or perhaps just a little smaller.

For the meagre sum of 20 rupees the equally-as-crazy-eyed owner will let you hold him. Personally I would pay 20 pounds to never even have to see it again.