by Jeffrey Vonk
* * *
Right in the heart of India and I’m staring at pictures on the wall of Amsterdam, tulips and queen Beatrix. Having made it through the big steel front gate, guards usher me to the waiting room of the Dutch Embassy, where I await my appointment. About five weeks ago I applied for a second passport at the Dutch Consulate in Nepal and now I can pick it up. I will be needing a second one for reasons I’ll explain later. A tall suited man equipped with neatly parted hair and golden framed glasses on his nose, takes me to a separate room. He has some questions about my new ID. Compared to the one I have, the signatures are not even remotely similar and I’m baffled by how much the picture differs. To put it this way – if I were standing in his shoes I would have never handed out the new document. My face and haircut appear totally different, but especially the look in my eyes. It is completely unrecognizable from how I looked before. The more I look at it the happier I get. I like this new me. My travels have made me grow so much, igniting a turning point in my life. I feel confident in this confirmation that I am no longer the same person.
Back at the hostel I meet the only other guy that stays there. His name is Brian Cousins and he grew up in Australia. With ginger hair, an allied beard and a wide contagious smile, this crazy musician has been living for months in a basic hidden away town in the northern heights of India. Assimilating with the locals he took it upon himself to learn the dhol, the traditional drums of India. Talented as he is, he also perfectly masters the narcotizing harmonium. Hearing this guy perform is an absolute inspiration. Even more so watching how he fully goes up in a passionate kind of way, donating his moves and golden fingers to his dedication. No wonder he ends up later in life as one of the professional pianists of the Australian Ballet. Talking about our lives, we discover that we have been living pretty much the exact same ones at the other sides of this vast world, hence becoming inseparable until time requires to part again.
Roaming the city in a rickshaw, which is a bicycle taxi to the layman, more stimulus follows. We pass security guards in front of banks with huge double-barrelled hunting rifles of about four feet long. I bet the old leftovers from the British Empire do not even work anymore, surely it looks more impressive than threatening. When visiting a cinema with unchanged interior since the twenties, I realize that I cannot take the Bollywood movies serious. One-moment two guys on screen are beating the shit out of each other, next moment they are all singing a song together with choreographed dances and happy faces, only to continue what they were doing. This has to be for a specific kind of audience.
To withdraw from the city’s brimming atmosphere, we agree to visit a peaceful fenced park. Disembarking at the entrance we hope to innocently converse without the constant disturbs of the capital’s bee hive. It is here where our self-control is put to the test yet another time. In spite of having to pay the mandatory five rupees, the local residents freely enter through the gate. Foreigners such as ourselves are to pay a scandalous sum of twenty-five times more! I understand the business model but this is just plain robbery. What makes them think I have so much money? I am not even employed! Treated with injustice we find out the hard way. Unwittingly we stroll about when we are held standing by a uniformed guard that prevents our entry. Not to be intentionally disrespectful but literally everyone is out to empty my pockets, so I keep on walking to see what happens. When Brian decides to join me due to the ridiculous demand, we are suddenly surrounded by staff of the park who are now threatening to call the police. Reckon it balls of steel or plain stupidity, but I cannot control myself snaring, “Yeah you do that!” The park entertained us only for a while, yet already a man draws near, mentioning he has to speak to us. Lifting up his shirt, his badge reveals that he is from the Indian Secret Service. Brian’s countenance turns paler than his light skin already is. We both fear it is bye bye holiday and hello jail time, or worse. To our amazement, the agent had been watching us all along. Against all odds, he starts complimenting our former actions at the entrance. His conclusion is the same as ours; the establishments’ rules are bad for tourism. He even promises to get an article in the newspaper about it that very same day. I am certainly no Einstein myself, but finally, we meet the first person with a brain larger than a peanut.
* * *
Switching hostels on account of wanting some variety I go from the YWCA to the IYH. Here I meet highly educated Pakistani’s for the first time in my life. Moreover, I learn about their intense hate towards Indians and the other way around. Not meaning to generalize here but after meeting dozens more, it is safe to say that this is the overall viewpoint of the situation. Brian persuades me to come over to his new dwelling, the YMCA. There is no need to push me as he mentions that this hostel is in possession of an actual massage salon. It also has better prices, a pool and washing machines. Being able to do laundry is something that comes in mighty handy due to the next small crisis. Brian is so fixated on his breakfast that while shaking the bottle of ketchup he totally fails to realize that the cap was not on. By the time he looks up it is dripping from the ceiling. Pretty much everything on and around our table is covered in blobs of the red sauce, including my face and shirt. An eerie silence follows where he looks startled for a second. Of course, we crack up and can’t stop laughing afterwards. The whole restaurant is watching in disgust. However, the funniest thing is, in this total catastrophic mess there isn’t even a single spot on him! He is as clean as a nun’s underpants on a Sunday morning. Cheers to this remarkable character!
* * *
Somewhere in the streets I have my motorcycle fixed for a nickel and a dime. While mechanics are welding, soldering, smashing and screwing unattainable parts together I am reminded of that massage salon at the hostel we’re staying at. I feel more or less seduced by the girl in front of the salon, who is definitely easy on the eyes. For days I have been trying to avoid her seducing gaze. Because the flesh is weak, her long lashes finally won me over today. Going inside to make an appointment, she says she has time. After the payment the finely shaped girl directs me to a small room in the back where I need to strip fully naked, only to wear a linen thong. Somewhat uncomfortable I place myself on the stretcher to prepare for the much-anticipated action. Fantasies running freely in my mind. Boy oh boy am I in for a surprise. Little sexy is nowhere to be found when an obvious homosexual walks in and starts pouring a tidal wave of hot oil all over me. To make things worse his hands are hardly pressing the skin. Instead of a firm rub I receive some ritual caressing or something of the like. Presumably turning him on it turns my day into one big fiasco. By the end of the session, I feel more humiliated and battered than deceived. Fleeing the shameful scene, I pack my belongings and check out from the hostel. Convincing myself I nearly escaped this possible rape attempt.
When the Monsoon is not flooding the streets with half a foot of murky water, it is quite nice, and really warm. With increasing riots throughout the big city, the hostile environment increases daily. For that reason plans are brewed to explore other places. Police cars patrol the neighborhood, complete barriers are set up and ropes are tightened between lampposts. Multitudes of protests and demonstrations are in full swing with banners filling the already crowded streets. You can hear the collective shouting from blocks away with loud slogans exiting several bullhorns. With synchronized voices, they march as if their lives depended on it. And maybe that’s the case since persecuted women are fighting for their rights, and seas of neglected handicapped people demand a better health care system. Some are throwing objects at the beret wearing police and some are starting a fight. Amidst the chaos, a crippled man throws one of his crutches against a front window of a city bus. He appears to be very angry. Another uses one of his crutches to try to beat up an officer. He instantly regrets it for the officers are all wearing sticks themselves. Heavy-handed they almost beat him healed.
All these things are a good reason to leave the tumult behind. With this choice comes the side effect of having to welcome more suffering. I f
ind myself back to tattered tracks as paved roads belong to the past now. After just a few kilometers, I am immediately overwhelmed by the rummage, the dirt, sand gnashing between my teeth and hideous concrete apartment blocks. Highly underestimated is the imminent over population. Calamitous poverty drives people rigorously mad, so much so that some started selling their organs for a meager remuneration. If you think they are having a bad day, in some worse cases they also sell somebody else’s organs. Kidneys, lungs, thyroids, you name it. If you have two of something that means you can miss one of those. Then there is the poignant case of children who are sent off to the markets and bus stations with deliberately amputated limbs to gain more compassion from tourists when they beg. We live in a sick world, don’t we? Like the great King Solomon once said: “He who increases knowledge, increases sorrow.”
* * *
Alongside the road are dozens of miles of sprawling Hemp plants, in fact hundreds of miles. Born and raised in the Netherlands I already thought I smelled something familiar. The humid climate is the perfect condition for it to grow, and growing it does. If they only knew how lucrative it can be to sell and export those. Unending roadworks make the traffic even more chaotic than it already is. Most of the time my bike is slim enough to divert the many obstacles. With hundred and four degrees Fahrenheit my uncovered arms simmer tender and are well done. Due to my gloves, my hands remain white, which looks ridiculous in comparison with the rest of my skin, tanned like a retired Fort Lauderdale resident. Via the way of Ambala I end up in Chandigarh, where it turns out that arriving during the ritualistic season of Raksha Bandhan is not the wisest thing I have done. There is just no way of getting used to the disorder and human density. So I am not sticking around here. My motorcycle is performing okay for once so I keep on moving until I reach Amritsar in the afternoon of the next day. You are correct if the name of this large city rings a bell. Nothing less than the world renowned Harmandir Sahib anchors in this city, the religious retreat lasting for six centuries already, better known as the Golden Temple. Accessible through four gates at earth’s quarters the sanctuary is surrounded by a pool-like lake called Sarovar. It is the most holy place in Sikhism, and straight away there is a different vibe to the place where zero traces of Hinduism are found. There are an overrepresented number of men in the streets, recognizable with turban and long beards, and hardly any women in public, for they are homebound. When I walk through the back alleys and sandy narrow paths between houses with crumbling wall plaster, I discover the skittish women clustered together, nearly all of them veiled up with a polyester hijab. Without insinuating anything beyond similarities in culture, I think it is no wonder they live in peace with the Islamic community here. In an area with tens of thousands around it amazes me that I am the only white guy, well at least from my perspective I can’t detect any other. It makes me wonder what the majority does for a living. Because that same majority does not seem all too occupied with anything. Except for luring gurus and continuously being stared at, I am left alone. Pilgrims from all over Punjab and of course the rest of the country marvel at the white towers, and all the gold and marble.
When evening starts I have a clear view from the hallway on the fifth floor of my hotel. In the jumble of spirituality one thing becomes certain. When the moon rises four times the size of the biggest super moon ever, which actually freaks me out for a while thinking this could be the last night on earth, you know there is some great divine power at work here. Up until now it is the most intense natural phenomenon concerning the celestial bodies I witnessed. For sure the scariest.
With no other Westerners present communication is slow these days. Something as simple as having a conversation can greatly lift spirits. Having tried out several expensive hotels, my mood discerns that the road is calling again. Apparently, I have not yet mastered to fully enjoy where I am. Instead of truly being in the moment and letting go of all fear I put too much pressure on myself trying to get to the next destination. Leaving the comfort of a fan-cooled room behind it is immediately distinctly hot. This region has all the characteristics of a desert. As there is hardly any agriculture around it’s landlocked in sand. Back in New Delhi I had already obtained a visa in my passport for the next country I’m going to. Making my way to the border I get excited about the concealed treasures of the inadvisable lands of Pakistan. Little did I know that this day holds nothing but misery in store for me.
When you think about it, it is quite exceptional for a border that stretches thousands of kilometers to have but one border crossing. In this particular case the Wagha border. Standing at one of the windows inside the immigration office the slow pace of uniformed employees increase the tension until they finally stamp my passport. Was that so hard, I think to myself, being more impatient than usual. Having packed my gear I slowly drive on a track of no man’s land, relieved to be out of India. There I go as a free man towards the big green gates of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan. I cannot wait to move up north to greet the Himalayans one last time. From there I have the adventurous plan to drive all the way to the Middle East. Daydreaming about what’s to come is interrupted with the sound of a thousand charging grizzlies, suddenly coming from behind. I am lost for words when the Indian Army comes speeding up with vehicles and half a platoon, just to violently arrest me. Overwhelmed by the volume of force, I am easily overpowered and stand no match. Against my will, I am hurled back into the office I was at before. Armed military staff force me to hand over my passport and since I have absolutely no idea what is about to happen I comply. One of the higher ranked men takes out a pen and puts a cross through my stamp, and writes Exit Cancelled beneath it. Obviously bewildered by the situation I begin to realize that I am being denied from exiting the country, so I explode. Now I am shouting at several close-by people, before an unorganized group of camouflaged uniforms starts yelling back at me! For minutes, the office displays a verbalized standoff. No matter how hard I try, no matter how loud I raise my voice in the heat of the moment, without any explanation, I’m being blown off. The fact no one seems to speak English is not helping either. The only two words I do recognize are not very promising. They are: “You!” and “Prison!” An Indian prison is the last thing I want to end up in right now, or ever for that matter. There is nothing left to do than to pack my stuff and find another purpose for the next months. I am devastated.
My new impetuous intentions to make it all the way to the Mediterranean from here crumble to pieces before my eyes. Although it was never a big dream of mine, rather just an infatuation, it seemed like so much more fun than taking an airliner. Now all of the many reflections I had about the great Silk Route are brutally taken from me, such as visiting a Dutch army base in Afghanistan or climbing that lonely monolithic mountain south of the Caspian Sea in Iran. I need some time to let it all sink in. A few hectometers back a colored parasol provides shade in the blistering midday heat. Quenching my thirst with a cold bottle of Mirinda soda, the only soda known to these parts. This orange beverage is so sweet that it makes your teeth rot out while you’re drinking it. While feeling defeated I am thinking about my next move with hands in my hair, still embedded in disbelief I bend over in a white chair, when a man with a black mustache also grabs a chair and joins my table. Sitting there in a tank top the unavoidable heat made him remove his striped button shirt. Around his hairy wrist, he is wearing a gold bracelet. Of course, ninety-nine percent of the whole country has a black mustache, but not all of them spontaneously invite me to their home, like this one does. Just like that I find myself a place to crash for the night in a town rather avoided.
Mister mustache and I talk the whole afternoon just sitting at that round plastic table. Then an unusual and intriguing thing happens that makes me say, “I’ll take a rain check on that one!” to my new dinner companion. What the hell is happening here? From every angle in the desert, people are moving towards the border in large numbers. My attention is especially drawn to the fact they are all passing the immigratio
n office. When they shuffle towards the area where I was arrested I think I might be dreaming. Dying to know what the fuss is about I blend in to the stream of spectators moving forward with strong current. I’ll be damned, large dark green bleachers are set up right in front of Pakistani soil. Sitting themselves down they all seem to be in a cheerful mood. About a staggering five thousand men in total, including women and children. Loud music is stirring up the crowd with people on this side of the fence flapping huge national flags. Through the bars on the other side, I see them waving Pakistani flags from in between the minarets and high towers with the crescent moon on top. Like in a seventeenth century painting, pink crepuscular rays are filling the sky. The patriots show zero restraint, flaunting their nationalism in all sorts of ways. My astonishment rises when the entire crowd sounds as one, howling: “Hindustan! Hindustan!” Which, of course, was the country’s name before the British changed it to India. Speaking about the British, during the independence of 1947 they drew the notorious Radcliffe Line straight through the city, dividing it in an eastern part and western part. This phenomenon is often referred to as the Asian Berlin Wall. Military parades of both countries that follow are truly a show to watch. Perfect march and gun movements of the soldiers are very impressive. They began closing the ceremony after a while with the sound of trumpets playing while the flags on either side are lowered at the same time, taken off from the flagpole, neatly folded and handed over to the rivaling country. The time and effort they put into this is nothing less than admirable. Especially because this is done every single day again, at sundown.
