The Travel Gods Must Be Crazy

by Sudha Mahalingam

  Leshan Buddha seems to have a huge crowd of visitors today, most of them fashionable young Chinese. I am impressed at the devotion of the youth who leave glitzy Chengdu and its designer malls to come to this remote mountain to pray to the Buddha. Until I see most of them taking selfies (Chinese always carry a selfie stick with their phones) pretending to hold the Buddha’s serene visage between their palms, or posing as if they are pinching his nose or pulling his topknot. Indeed, Leshan Buddha is a star attraction because he offers irresistible photo ops. He puts up with all this, with an unwavering and benign smile.

  We meander through the serene hills and visit many monasteries and temples. In the evening, we are herded to a Sichuan opera. Dancers on stage change face masks multiple times, each in the twinkling of an eye. A swish of their arms, a rapid pirouette and, lo and behold, the face of the dancer, which was a fearsome demon a second ago, is now a benign goddess. I try not to blink, but still can’t see how they do it. Apparently, this is a Sichuan specialty and a fiercely guarded secret.

  Early morning on the third day, we pack our bags and get ready to go back to Chengdu where we have a flight to catch later in the evening. But as we descend to the hotel lobby, we find our fellow bus-mates are sprawled on the sofas and chairs, even spilling on to the carpeted floor. They seem to be in no hurry to board the bus, which should be leaving in minutes. There is no sign of their luggage either. Worse, the lobby is eerily and unusually silent.

  Our fellow travellers eye us with interest as we ignore them and head towards the bus. Suddenly a stick emerges from a bush to block our way. Holding it is a wizened old woman. She raises it and shoos me back to the hotel. Behind her, there seems to be some sort of a picket assembled hurriedly with chairs, stools, and whatever else the locals could manage. A dozen odd people, mostly the elderly, are assembled around the picket. The tour bus is parked under a tree beyond the picket.

  Emboldened by our foreignness, we brush past the old woman and sprint our way to the bus. A few old men move menacingly towards us, shouting and gesticulating wildly, presumably asking us to go back. The bus door is shut and there’s no sign of the driver anywhere. We hastily retreat to the lobby of the hotel where a bemused crowd of smirking faces awaits us. We shuffle uneasily, dump our bags near the reception counter and again head out to watch the tamasha.

  In a while, more locals join the picket. Housewives amble in twos and threes, presumably after completing their domestic chores. Women with babies and a few smoking men too stand around idly. More furniture gets piled on. Over the next couple of hours, the crowd swells to a couple of hundreds. It is a motley and somewhat aggressive crowd now. Occasionally, slogans are raised.

  Our efforts to find out the reason for this protest draw a blank, for want of linguistic felicity. But I am truly impressed that these people in a remote mountain village are gutsy enough to protest in public and picket in a country that has elevated unquestioning compliance to authority into a national obligation.

  A van drives by and stops near the crowd. Out jump six or seven cops, dressed in uniform. I crane my neck to see whether they disperse the crowds—after all, this is China. But they just park themselves under the shade of the trees; some pull out their cigarette packets and light up. Soon, a second and a third van pull up and more policemen jump out. The picketers start shouting slogans and some placards appear out of nowhere.

  Hours sail by. The cops look bored, but there is no sign of any attempt at resolution, whatever the problem. Around lunchtime, noodle boxes appear and the picketers turn picnickers. A couple of cops start playing games on their cell phones, perhaps to distract their attention away from the all-pervading aroma of food. IV and I are too anxious to feel the pangs of hunger.

  By now, it is late afternoon. I begin to panic. We have to be at Chengdu airport by 10 p.m. to catch our flight back home. If picketing continues for the next couple of hours, we are sure to miss our flight. I look around and pick a senior-looking officer among the cops. His midriff is sufficiently bulging, his hair receding halfway across his skull and his lapel more striped than the rest. I march up to him and tell him we need to go back to Chengdu now or we will miss our flight back home. This, accompanied by miming of a plane taking off. He stares blankly at us and goes back to picking his nose. The protesters eye us with hostility. Even if the cops let us pass, the villagers are not going to, I realize.

  Distraught, we retreat to the lobby of the hotel and sulk. A few minutes later, the manager of the hotel waddles towards us with our bags and leads us out the back door. We walk away from the village into a forest. After about 500 yards, we spy a road, and lo and behold, a Mercedes with a police beacon is parked discreetly away from prying eyes. Obviously, the protesters hadn’t bargained for wily foreigners and secretive cops making common cause to outwit them. This village road, right under their nose, so to speak, is completely unattended, while the main highway down the mountain is fully barricaded and fortified. The hotel manager deposits our bags in the boot and opens the door for us to get in. We can’t believe our luck. The car drives us out of the mountains through country roads and into Chengdu—in just three hours! Surely, the nose-picking cop had something to do with this?

  The Playful Ganga Mai

  No artist’s palette could have reproduced the colour scheme as strikingly. On one side are the emerald mountains—majestic and so steep that they appear to rise almost vertically. On the other, the dazzling white beaches with their fine powdery sand interrupted by stretches of grey rocks of assorted shapes and sizes. Above is a sliver of the cobalt sky. In the middle is the jade ribbon of the Ganga—limp, serene and content. Don’t let her fool you though. Beneath the apparent placidity, she conceals a range of dizzying moods—mostly mysterious and contemplative, at times effervescent, and occasionally dangerous and diabolical. She can be the tempestuous Mandakini, the playful Bhagirathi and the impetuous Jahnavi. But at the moment, she seems to have donned her ‘Ganga Mai’ avatar—calm, benign and reassuring.

  Your raft glides effortlessly with the current, swaying ever so gently. Its inflated sides bounce off the waves playfully and you’re lulled into believing that it is invincible. After all, you’ve donned your life jacket and helmet, and were not daydreaming when the river guide barked his instructions. There are ten others in your raft. And a dozen more in the other two that follow yours. There must be some security in numbers?

  Even as you begin to enjoy the smoothness of the ride, Riju, your river guide, orders you all to climb on the sides of the raft. You look at him in disbelief and point out that you can’t swim. But he’s unimpressed and poker-faced as he urges you on. You consider mutiny, but then, he’s the boss on the raft and you had agreed to obey his instructions. You had even signed away your rights, indemnifying the rafting company against any claims in the event of a mishap. You realize that your options are rather limited. Reluctantly, you heave yourself up on the slippery rounded sides, link hands with the others to form a chain and try to balance as best as you can. The raft bounces about clumsily on the waves. You lurch and sway dangerously. Riju seems indifferent to your plight as he rows furiously downstream.

  And then you hear it before you see it—the roar of the approaching rapids. By the time you figure out the source of the roar, it’s too late. Terror immobilizes you as you’re sloshed over by the frothy waters of Daniel’s Dip, the first of the series of imaginatively named rapids on the Rishikesh stretch of the Ganga. Your knees buckle. All of you collapse inside the raft, in a tangle of arms and limbs. But you’re grateful to be breathing. As you struggle to extricate yourselves, Riju comes to your rescue, but only to push you unceremoniously over the sides of the raft into the swirling waters below. The receding roar of the rapids you just crossed is drowned by shrieks of fright. Your flailing arms miss their hold on the rings attached to the sides of the raft and you think this is it—the end. Your loved ones fleet past your mental screen and you say your last goodbyes.

  But then—what’s this
? Who’s pulling you? Some invisible hand seems to be dragging you out of the water. In a moment you’re afloat again. Of course you still don’t trust the life jacket which is just doing its job of keeping you afloat. As you bob up, you see the impish smile on Riju’s face. He tells you to lie on your back and enjoy the float. The water is incredibly chilly and it tickles the back of your neck as it makes its way into the crevices in your helmet. You’re too stiff to let go. You abuse and cajole alternately and finally persuade Riju to throw you a rope to which you cling for dear life.

  But after a while you realize that you’re not going to drown after all. The terror slowly disappears and you soon begin to enjoy the float. By now even your body’s thermostat has adjusted itself to the surrounding temperature and you no longer shiver and tremble. You feel light and invincible. The swirling waters are no longer threatening. It feels more like a caress. Time stands still as you bob up and down with the rhythm of the river. The afternoon sun sends out comforting rays of warmth. There is a sense of exhilaration that pervades you. This is life, you say to yourself. Floating on the cool waters and drifting along with the current under the cobalt sky is no less than paradise itself.

  The placid stretch of Ganga Mai is but a short one. As the distant roar of ‘Wall’, the biggest rapid on this course, reaches your ears, the panic returns. Riju heaves you back into the raft one by one and just in time too. This time, you don’t stand on the sides, but crowd into the well of the raft and lean towards the stern with your feet tucked securely under the partition. The rubber vessel pitches and lurches dangerously close to the mountainside where it takes a sharp turn. And lo and behold, the next thing you see is a wall of white gushing water that storms into your nose, mouth, face and over your head. This must be it—the pralayam that our scriptures warned us about, the deluge that the Bible talked about. Your senses shut down momentarily as you’re tossed about like pebbles in a rattle, but you hold on for dear life.

  Soon you’re again on another placid stretch where you amuse yourselves, throwing buckets of water on each other. This time you don’t wait for Riju to order you into the river. To a woman, everyone is out in the water and all the three rafts are empty but for the oarsmen. The banks are dotted with beaches every few yards and there is a neat row of colourful tents in each one of them. Other rafts come into view. There is much shouting and water-throwing. A few kayaks pass by and you tell Riju that you want to try one too. He seems to be in an indulgent mood. He stops a passing kayak, tells the occupant—apparently another river guide—to jump into the water, and holds it for you with a flourish. Very confidently, you slide your sizeable bulk into the narrow space and grin triumphantly. But before you can even strap yourself in place, the kayak overturns and you find yourself in the nether regions of Ganga Mai’s belly. She rushes in to check your nose, ears, eyes, mouth, and you gasp for breath and flail your arms helplessly (your poor legs are packed too closely into the kayak). Riju’s demonic chuckle sounds ominously far away. You wiggle your legs out of the kayak somehow. A few seconds of this agony and the life jacket reasserts itself to bring you back to the surface.

  Some distance later, you have your brush with Ed, the villain of the river. As you float away from the raft, he stalks you from behind and drags you, screaming. You’re vertical for a few seconds, and however much you try, you’re unable to extricate yourself from his vice-like grip. You’re dizzy as he swirls you round and round. This time Riju doesn’t laugh, but transforms himself into a knight in shining armour. He and Harish from the other raft swim furiously towards you and drag you by the lapels of your life jacket. In a few seconds, you’re back in the safety of the raft, thoroughly chastened by the experience. Your mates mock you about your date with Ed—the vicious eddies that gobble up unsuspecting victims—but the concerned looks on the faces of the river guides tell you that you just had a close shave.

  You are taken through a series of rapid-fire rapids. Trust rafting companies to name the rapids evocatively: Rapid Fire, Sweet Sixteen, Crossfire, Return to Sender, Three Blind Mice, Roller Coaster, Golf Course, Double Trouble and even one called Black Money because it happens to be near a cottage built by an industrialist! After the first few, you get the hang of the drill on how to negotiate them. There are five of them that are Grade IV (expedition level), and the others Grade III. At the end of the third day, you’ve toted up six hours of rapids-rafting in three phases—from Kaudiyala to Marine Drive, from Marine Drive to Shivpuri and from Shivpuri to Rishikesh. That’s impressive. You are patted on the back and told that you’ve been very brave and can now go on to expedition level on the Bhagirathi or Alaknanda run and then on to Kali-Sharda, Beas and even the Brahmaputra!

  At that time, little do you realize that the real test of your courage was not the rapids. Later that evening, back at your tent camp on the sandy beach, you savour a hot dinner by the campfire and recount the day’s thrills. A full moon floods the valley with luminescent light. Suddenly, you hear a blood-curdling scream from the opposite bank. A white figure in flowing robes seems to float on the mountainside across the river. Even in the light of the full moon, you can barely make out its contours. An eerie silence envelopes the camp which only moments ago was abuzz with merriment. Riju and party whisper some legends about local ghosts to an already terrified audience. All eyes are fixed on the opposite bank, but the figure seems to have vanished. No one seems to be in a hurry to go back to their tents. Perhaps everyone is waiting for someone else to take the lead. Fear hangs, thick and palpable.

  Your heart misses a beat when moments later, a kayak pulls up on your beach. Even as you’re contemplating dashing up the mountainside and away from the river, out jumps Tarun, one of the camp organizers. As he takes off his life jacket, you notice he’s wearing a white shirt. He pulls out a white sheet with a flourish, wraps it loosely around his shoulders and mimics the blood-curdling shriek of the ghost on the other bank. Then he breaks into peals of laughter. He’s joined by his colleagues from the camp. You realize that your hosts have spared no effort to give you an absolutely thrilling time.

  Worm’s-Eye View from Palestine

  Riding the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower or the chairlift to the Great Wall of China for a stunning bird’s-eye view may be on the bucket list of millions of tourists, but we pride ourselves on being travellers, not mere tourists, don’t we? Never mind if it calls for a generous dose of masochism. Therefore, we opt for a worm’s-eye view, of Ramallah and Biblical Jericho, no less, even if it entails driving through long stretches of barricades, barbed wires and bazooka-toting guards of conflicted neighbours Israel and Palestine.

  Kapilan, my teenage son, and I are on an extended visit to Jerusalem and the West Bank in Palestine. After a brief visit to the Church of Nativity at Bethlehem on the Palestinian side, we go in search of a taxi that would take us to Ramallah and Jericho. It so happens we are in Palestine the day after a Turkish flotilla carrying food supplies to Gaza was shot down by Israelis. Scores of Palestinians in black clothes are protesting silently outside the Church of Nativity. The solemnity and gravitas of the protest—just holding up placards without speaking a word—bespeak a sense of dignity that only the long-suffering can muster.

  Unlike Israel, Palestine wears a weary, war-torn look. We go looking for transport to Ramallah, the capital. From the look of the place, we expect to get only beat-up jalopies, or worse, donkey carts for taxis. But surprise, surprise, all taxis here are Mercs, no less. Some haggling and we hop into the swanky-looking vehicle and speed off through graffiti-laden, deserted streets. The Merc’s windows rattle and refuse to roll up. This Merc is no less beat-up, except, its polished exteriors reveal little of its pathetic health. Of course the air conditioning doesn’t work. It must be 42 °C. But Naif is a chatty driver and we feel a sense of kinship with the beleaguered Arabs as he rattles off their myriad woes.

  We hurtle down the highway to Ramallah. Barbed wires, barricades, spiked walls, massive gates and uniformed men signal the v
isitor to keep a safe distance. There are stretches where the wall is reinforced concrete at least two feet thick, draped over with barbed wire and towers with gunmen to boot. The graffiti and posters seem excessive even to the jaded Indian eye. Traffic on the road is thin. You pass an occasional donkey cart.

  I wonder aloud why anyone would fight over this wasteland. Kapilan, a history buff, looks at me with all the derision he can muster and reprimands me. ‘Do you realize this is the most hallowed piece of real estate on planet Earth?’ It is at his insistence we are doing this trip. I sulk silently.

  Ramallah looks every bit the beleaguered and besieged capital of Palestine. It is a tiny enclave on the West Bank of the Jordan River—referred to simply as the West Bank, surrounded on three sides by Israel and its now-infamous wall. In fact, the wall cuts right through East Jerusalem, taking livelihood away from thousands of Arabs trapped on the Palestinian side. East Jerusalem is where all the holy sites are: the Temple Mount, the Dome of the Rock, the Wailing Wall and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Israel took over this land in the Six-Day War in 1967.

  People in the West Bank are trapped as much by their geography as by their politics. Other than the barbed-wire barricade separating them from Israel, the only border they have is with Jordan through what is called the King Hussein Bridge. Palestine, like the erstwhile Pakistan, is in two bits. The other bit is the infamous Gaza Strip, virtually a strip of Mediterranean Coast adjoining Egypt and separated from the West Bank by vast stretches of Israeli territory. The third piece, Golan Heights to the north adjoining Syria, has been occupied and appropriated by Israel since 1967. Palestinians from Ramallah cannot go to Gaza and vice versa, and when they travel abroad, they use the Jordanian airport.