‘Like Manali.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And the Rainbow Lodge.’
‘Exactly. This is it, man. Holy caves and all that shit. This is the stuff.’
‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘This is amazing.’
We walked along in companionable silence for a while, admiring the view.
‘it’s funny,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘You know how Manali just feels right.’
‘Yeah.’
‘How you travel through all the stress and the money-grubbing, then you arrive here and, like, instantly know that you’ve found the real India and everything.’
‘Yeah.’
‘I mean, it’s odd, because in all the time I’ve been up here, you’re the first Indian I’ve had a conversation with.’
‘So?’
‘I dunno – it’s as if the best bits – the bits that feel most like India – are the places where you don’t have to talk to any Indians.’
‘Too fucking right, man. Too fucking right.’
I ended up trying to explain this theory to Liz in the evening, and she almost burned me at the stake as a heretic. I’d never seen her so angry. For the time being, Jeremy was the royal favourite, and I was an incontinent corgi.
Maybe the places were the shit bits
Ranj was the first person I’d met since arriving in India who I actually liked. We got on well from the start, and while Liz drifted off into Bullshit Land with Jeremy, I started spending most of my time with Ranj. I’d never really had any friends from South London before, and it was interesting, because they really do have a different outlook on life.
After a fortnight or so, even Manali got boring, and it was somehow decided that Liz, Jeremy, Ranj and I would all travel to Dharamsala together. Apparently this was where the Dalai Lama and loads of Tibetan monks hung out, so it was bound to be a cool place. If you were really lucky, you’d even spot Richard Gere.
Manali had become a kind of security blanket, and the thought of leaving it behind made all my old fears creep back to the surface. I felt, though, that travelling in a big group would act as a form of insulation, and given that we had to move on at some point, this seemed like the best way to do it. Also, Dharamsala was meant to be quite like Manali, so the trip would be a gentle reintroduction to the rigours of proper travel.
*
As it turned out, none of us really liked Dharamsala, largely because we all ate something our first night that made us ill. I spent most of the night crapping, and Jeremy ended up vomiting out of his window. I knew it had been a mistake to order paella, but the Woodstock restaurant looked reasonably hygienic, and it just seemed like a fun change at the time.
Jeremy also kept on complaining that the place had become commercialized since he was last there, and that the Tibetans were cashing in on what was originally a place for spiritual reflection. He was really complaining about the fact that his once unique embroidered day-pack was now hanging up for sale outside every shop on the high street.
Just to piss him off, I bought one for myself.
We decided to rest up for a few days, then make a move from the mountains down to Rajasthan.
In order to get there, we had to take a bus all the way back to Delhi, followed by a train westwards to Jaipur. The whole thing took ages and was generally hot, smelly, dirty and uncomfortable. Also, not long into the journey Ranj started getting on well with Jeremy, which pissed me off.
Whenever the train or bus stopped, instead of getting frustrated by how long everything took, Ranj and Jeremy just got out, strolled and chatted with whoever was around, bought whatever food or tea was available, and consumed as much of it as they could before the train/bus spoilt their fun by moving off again. As soon as I started copying this technique, I began to enjoy myself.
The secret was to think of travel in a completely new way. If you took it as a way of getting from A to B, you were done for. You ended up eating your toes with frustration. You had to think of a journey as a state of being. It was an activity in its own right – a social ritual revolving around nourishment and conversation, fleetingly interrupted by pauses for motion. Basically, each trip was a little party.
For the first time, I ended up chatting to Indians, and even though none of them spoke decent enough English to say anything very interesting, most of the time they were amazingly friendly and ended up paying for my tea. I didn’t even want them to pay, but often they insisted. This was quite a confusing experience, since up until then I’d been working on the never-trust-an-Indian-they’re-a-bunch-of-criminals-who-believe-it’s-their-moral-right-to-rip-you-off-because-you’re-too-rich-for-your-own-good-and-you-still-have-the-blood-of-Empire-on-your-hands-so-even-if-they ‘re - being- friendly - watch - out - they - want - something theory. A cup of tea only set them back about two pence, but I couldn’t see what they were getting out of paying. It wasn’t as if they all wanted me to help sponsor visa applications. Unless it was part of a long-term plan to befriend me for unspecified future use. Whatever the reason, it was nice to be treated in such a hospitable way.
Everywhere else, crowds of Indians wanted me in their shop, restaurant, hotel or rickshaw – the only people who talked to me wanted my money – but on a train, I was in a hassle-free zone. People either left me alone or chatted to me because, apparently, they just wanted a chat. After I’d been bought several teas by people who subsequently vanished without even asking for my address, I began to suspect that this might actually be genuine friendliness. It was all very strange.
I had assumed that travelling was the crap bit you had to tolerate in order to get to the places you wanted to see, but it occurred to me that maybe the places were the shit bits that you had to tolerate in order to do the travelling.
This whole thing was getting interesting. I could feel my ‘Nnnn’ turning into an ‘Mmmm’.
Jeremy knew of a maaahvellous hotel, and as soon as we got to Jaipur, he insisted that we all go and take a look. It turned out to be pretty nice, so we all dumped our bags, washed and spent the rest of the day lolling around.
Liz and I were alone together in our room, mid loll, when I asked her if she fancied Jeremy.
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘It’s not stupid.’
‘Of course I don’t fancy him! He’s got a beard.’
‘You swear?’
‘Anyway, what if I did?’
‘What if you did what?’
‘What if I did fancy him?’
‘I don’t know…’
‘You haven’t got the right to stop me fancying people, you know.’
‘I just thought that with me and you…’
‘Me and you what?’
‘You know – now that we’re…’
‘We’re what?’
‘You know. Now that we’re having a, kind of, sexual relationship.’
‘We are not having a sexual relationship, Dave.’
‘Aren’t we?’
‘Of course we’re not. Look – we’re going to have to stop doing anything, now. I simply can’t get through to you, can I?’
‘But… we’ve been…’
‘I have told you again and again that I love James. How many times do we have to go over this for you to get the message into your thick skull? It’s not going to happen.’
‘But it already has been happening.’
‘What we’ve been doing doesn’t mean anything. I thought that was clear. You said it yourself – we’re just friends, and it’s just a bit of fun. But you keep running away with these insane fantasies that we’re in love, or something. I mean, it’s going to have to stop. As of now. It’s obvious that you simply can’t handle it.’
‘I didn’t say we were in love. I’m not in love. I just thought…’
‘Look – it was your idea in the first place, and you seemed to think that it would work, and I told you it wouldn’t, and now it just isn’t.’
‘It is. I only asked you
if you fancy Jeremy. Just forget it. Forget I spoke. Let’s go back to before.’
‘But that’s exactly the point. This is the thin end of the wedge. I’m not going to have you staking out ownership of my body.’
‘I haven’t staked out your body, for God’s sake!’
‘That’s the implication of what you said, and it’s clear from the way you’re talking that you feel you have some kind of ownership over me.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Look – I’m a free agent, and I’m telling you that from now on, we’re just friends.’
‘Oh, fuck off!’
‘Don’t you say that to me.’
‘We’re not just friends.’
‘We are.’
‘We can’t be,’ I shouted, ‘because for one thing, I don’t even like you. For fuck’s sake! I don’t know how I… You’re impossible! You’re… you’re… I just can’t… I mean… I don’t know where to start. Your arse. Everything comes out of… you just talk out of your… I just don’t know what I can say, when everything just… I mean it’s all just a load of… of… FUCKING HELL!’
All of a sudden I was alone in the room, on the bed, kind of, almost, crying.
I emerged an hour or so later to find Jeremy holding court over Liz and a gang of four year-offers from his old school. They were all reminiscing about how three years previously, Jeremy had been their house captain. And this lot didn’t have beards. The whole bunch of them were Rupert Everett look-alikes. Call me paranoid, but I could tell from Liz’s flushed face that she had an erection.
That evening, inevitably, was taken up with a school reunion hosted by Jeremy, hostessed by Liz, and spoilt by me. Ranj wisely went out on his own.
For almost a quarter of an hour, they went on and on about how much of a coincidence it was that they’d bumped into each other, until I couldn’t take the tedium of it any more.
‘Look – it’s not a coincidence. This whole country might as well be an extension of the sixth-form common-room for people like you, and you all stay in the same hotels for God’s sake, so why don’t you shut up about coincidences and move on to your crappy India theories.’
‘Steady on,’ said Rupert 1. ‘There’s no call for that.’
‘I don’t care what you say,’ said Rupert 2, ‘I think it’s a bloody huge coincidence. I mean, how many people are there in this country? Bloody millions. And there’s only four of us. That’s a bloody big coincidence.’
‘But you all come to the same places and you all do the same things, don’t you? And it won’t be a coincidence when you all meet up in the House of Lords in forty years, either.’
‘Oh, so I suppose it’s a conspiracy is it?’ said Rupert 3.
‘You can ignore Mr Downwardly-Mobile over there,’ said Jeremy. ‘He thinks he’s working class despite the fact that he went to public school. He’s a social abseiler.’
‘I did not go to public school. I went to an Independent School on an assisted place.’
‘Assisted place? Oh, so we’re playing the coalminer’s daughter now, are we?’
I wasn’t in the mood for an argument. I put my head down and concentrated on my food – shifting it around the plate with my fork. I had no appetite, but didn’t want Liz to see how bad I was feeling, so I took a small mouthful.
‘He’s got a point, you know,’ said Rupert 4. ‘About the coincidence.’
The table went silent again. Jeremy, Liz and Ruperts 1 to 3 gave him hard stares.
Rupert 4 went bright red. ‘Sorry,’ he said, then carried on eating.
‘Guess where we’ve just come from,’ said Rupert 1 to Jeremy.
‘Pushkar.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Rupert 2. ‘How did you know?’
‘Educated guess.’
‘See?’ I said.
‘Where did you stay?’ said Jeremy.
‘Krishna Rest House, wasn’t it?’ said Rupert 1.
‘So you didn’t discover the Peacock Holiday Resort, then?’
‘No,’ said Rupert 4, still looking a little upset. ‘Is that the best place?’
‘It’s marvellous. And it’s got the most charming garden. The only trouble is, you get woken up by the cries of peacocks in the morning.’
Liz gasped with anticipated pleasure. ‘Oh, God. That sounds amazing. Can we go there?’ She faltered for a second, realizing that she had asked the wrong person, then turned to me and smiled, splattering me with fake goodwill. ‘Shall we go there?’
I shrugged a yes.
‘Is it cheap?’ said Liz, turning back to Jeremy.
‘What do you think? Have I ever taken you anywhere expensive?’
‘No,’ said Liz.
‘The place is a bargain. It’s as simple as that. And don’t tell too many people about it, or the price will go up.’
‘Peacocks! Waking you up in the morning! God – I can’t wait.’
‘We haven’t seen Jaipur yet,’ I said.
‘We don’t need to spend too long here,’ said Liz. ‘It’s far too touristy.’
‘What are you talking about? You haven’t even left the hotel.’
‘I know, but it’s on all the bus tours. Fat, rich, middle-aged tourists come here in air-conditioned buses to see Delhi, Jaipur and Agra. Everyone knows that.’
‘The Silver Triangle,’ said Rupert 4.
‘Golden Triangle, old chap,’ said Rupert 3.
‘Sorry,’ said Rupert 4.
‘She’s right,’ said Jeremy. ‘Jaipur has its charms, but it really is ruined by all these people on… on… two-week holidays… who come here and really don’t have the slightest interest in the country. They just want to see a few palaces, buy some cheap carpets, then they go home happy, feeling they’ve learned something about Asia. I can’t stand the sight of them, myself. They ruin all the tourist sights for the real travellers.’
‘W-w-why d-d-do you say that?’ said Rupert 4, as combatively as he could manage.
‘Because they’re so rich,’ said Jeremy. ‘Their bus is a kind of high-tech cocoon, and they climb down at the tourist spots without having the slightest idea about how much things are supposed to cost, then they walk around happily paying double for everything – which gives Westerners a terribly bad name, and makes everything infinitely harder for the real travellers who are trying to get things for local prices.’
‘After all,’ I said, ‘one doesn’t want to ask daddy for money too often.’
Jeremy gave me a stare.
‘That’s absolutely right,’ said Rupert 1. ‘I hate asking daddy for money. I find it jolly humiliating, and I can’t wait until I’m old enough to… to take him out for supper or something. I mean, that would be a great feeling.’
‘Bloody right,’ said Rupert 2.
The following day I went to the Palace of the Winds with Ranj, and I hate to say it, but Jeremy was right about the tourists. I quite liked the building though, even if it didn’t look as good as the photo in The Book.
Outside, I was surprised to see that Ranj gave some money to a beggar.
‘How can you tell which are the real beggars?’ I asked him.
‘What?’
‘How can you tell the real beggars from the organized beggars?’
‘What the fuck is an organized beggar?’
‘You know – one who preys on tourists.’
‘You are the most paranoid person I’ve ever met. A beggar’s a beggar. Someone without any money. Who lives on the street.’
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t you give them any money?’
‘Jeremy said you weren’t supposed to. He said that Indians just ignore them.’
‘What a lying, tight-fisted wanker.’
‘So you always give them money?’
‘Not always. Just – you know – like in England. If I’ve got a bit of change, and the mood strikes me, I give some of it away.’
‘Is that what most people do?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not te
lepathic. There isn’t a rule book for what you’re supposed to do, you know.’
‘I suppose not.’
I felt bad now. It was all Jeremy’s fault.
There was a story doing the rounds in our hotel about how a young tiger had escaped from Jaipur zoo by simply walking out of its cage between the bars. It had then, apparently, gone on a killing spree in a nearby village. We all thought this was a hilarious and typically Indian story until that evening, when a French guy chipped in with a new version. He claimed to have heard that the tiger had killed a Western traveller. A few people didn’t believe him, but it made the rest of us really scared.
Jaipur clearly wasn’t safe, partly because of the tiger, but mainly because Liz was drooling over all the Ruperts, so I made a big shit-eating statement about Jeremy’s perceptive analysis of the city, and how we should move on to Pushkar. Ranj was reluctant to leave Jaipur so soon, and I was briefly faced with the horrific prospect of travelling alone with Liz and Jeremy.
‘What – you’re going already? he said.
‘Yeah, it’s too touristy.’
‘But you haven’t seen it yet.’
‘We have. We’ve done the Palace of the Winds.’
‘What about the rest of it? It’s a whole city.’
‘Well, you know. We’re not into cities, really. We’ve decided they’re too hectic. And too materialist.’
‘Where are you going then?’
‘Pushkar.’
‘What’s Pushkar?’
‘You must have heard of Pushkar.’
‘No. What’s in Pushkar?’
‘Oh, it’s really mellow, apparently. There’s this lake, and… er…’
‘And what?’
‘I don’t know, really. It’s just apparently really mellow. A bit like Manali, but with a lake instead of mountains.’
‘Right, right. Sounds quite cool.’
‘And you never know – if you hang around here too long, someone’s bound to spot you. No one will find you in Pushkar. It’s just a village.’
‘Maybe you’re right. It is a bit mad here.’
‘And there’s peacocks at the hotel.’
‘So?’
‘Dunno. It just sounds cool. Oh, come with us. It’ll be a laugh.’
Are You Experienced? Page 8
