Khajuraho didn't treat me so well, as I've already iterated. It was that perfectly imperfect size of not being quite big enough or crazy enough for me, while also not being small or quiet enough for me. I like extremes, and Khajuraho was an uncomfortable middle ground. The size was misleading. Having rented a bicycle and gone around most of the town in 40 minutes, I subconsciously concluded that it was peaceful enough to let down my guard in terms of touts and hawkers.
Stupid Hoku.
My second morning in Khajuraho, before I'd even attempted to view any of the numerous temples surrounding the town, I woke up, smoked a joint, and hailed a rickshaw to take me to the train station so I could get the fuck out of there. Like everyone else in Khajuraho, the rickshaw-wallah ripped me off like mad, grinning and calling me 'friend' all the while. When we turned down a dusty, desolate stretch of road, he pulled off to the side and made a motion for me to exit.
"No, dude, I said the train station," I said. He frowned and pointed up the road.
"Is there. Just there. Not far."
"Yeah, but I paid you like a hundred rupees (God I can't believe I paid you a hundred rupees) to get me to the train station. TRAIN. STATION. Not some road with a half-kilometer to go. Chalo."
He shook his head. "The parking lot, they are charge too much money. Walking, OK. Not far."
"Dude, seriously, I don't care how much they charge you, you ripped me the hell off and for that I expect to at least get all the way to where I fucking paid you to take me. C'mon."
He folded his arms and refused to budge. When I began arguing, he flipped on his radio station and drowned me out with Bollywood techno, then opened a newspaper and ignored me. Grumbling, I climbed out of the rickshaw and flipped him off. His ear-to-ear grin returned, and before I could hurl another insult his way he'd about-faced and zoomed off. I started walking. The bumping techno and auto-tuned Indian wailing slowly died into the distance.
The train station was deserted. There was literally not another soul in sight, unless you count the old man shitting on the tracks about 100 meters away. No one official, no one to buy a ticket from.
"Are you fucking kidding me," I spat. I hadn't even brought a book or anything. I wandered through the offices and rooms, under the pitifully turning fans, stepping over littered newspapers and plastic bottles. Not. A. Fucking. Soul. In. Sight. I went out the main entrance to the parking lot. Empty. I couldn't even catch a ride back to town. "They charge too much money," I mimicked the driver in a nauseating squeal. I laughed bitterly and sat on the steps, pulled out a biri, and smoked. It was only 0830. Someone would probably show up. Sometime.
Someone eventually did, I bought a ticket to Delhi, and waited another 2 hours before a couple of rickshaws arrived, overloaded with families hanging off the sides. This time, I wasn't going to pay no motherfucking hundred rupees. I went up to them.
"How much to Gole market?" I asked. They stared expressionlessly at me. One of them spat a red mouthful of pan onto the dirt, and I barely managed to get my foot out of the way. "Gole market? Gole. Market." I repeated. One of them motioned me to get in. "No, how much? Kitne?" They glanced at each other.
"One hundred," said one. His pan-masticating friend nodded subtly at him. I let out a bitter expulsion of wind and turned to the one who'd thus far avoided my eyes.
"Fifty," I said. I opened my wallet and pulled out a fifty-rupee note.
"One hundred."
"One hundred," his friend nodded assent.
"Bullshit," I said. "Sixty, bas." They smiled pitiful smiles and shook their heads. Another rickshaw was pulling up. I began walking towards it, and was stopped by their sudden cries of panic.
"No, no, wait. Sixty, OK," said the pan-chewer. At least, I think. It sounded more like "Nnn, nn, mmmmt, Ssmtmm, mmmkmmm." He motioned me in and the others made room. I plunked down and stared out the window, feeling pathetic and angry and sorry for myself.
I got ripped off far more in Khajuraho that I did in Benares. Everything - EVERYTHING - was ridiculously overpriced, and I found myself struggling to haggle only to still end up paying three times more than it was worth for a bunch of shit I didn't actually want. There were swarming hordes of overweight white people, with their polo shirts tucked into khaki shorts, squinting underneath their baseball caps and visors in the bright sunlight as they nervously followed fast-paced Indian guides sporting wide grins that revealed they'd just made a killing. I couldn't help but chuckle as they passed, shaking my head in reluctant awe as they spewed out bullshit facts they made up on the spot, completely confounding the poor Westerners as they helplessly pawed their Lonely Planets for confirmation of their tall tales.
The infamous tantric temples - "Karma Sutra Temples", as they were called by the touts - were interesting, but as I strolled around the immaculate garden, giggling like all the other white people at the gorgeously carved figures draped around each other in twosomes, threesomes, and foursomes, with even dogs and elephants getting in on the fun, it came to me that temples weren't really my thing. I hadn't even been much impressed with the Taj Mahal years earlier, my favorite experience there being the wonderfully cool marble underneath my bare feet. I took some photos and video, and recorded myself dancing and rapping in front of them for my music video to my song India, (click the link to listen to it) but after a mere half hour I was bored as hell, and wanted out of there. I ate overpriced, tasteless aloo gobhi, bought a little crippled kid a bottle of Thums Up, made small talk with a traveler from Italy and a gang of loud, giggling American valley girls, and decided all I wanted to do was go back to the guest house, smoke a joint, and read until it was time to hit the train. I began to walk.
A rickshaw slowed down next to me and buzzed its horn. Anticipating an offer for some overpriced ride, I ignored it, until the driver started shouting "USA! Japan! Hallo!" (Every motherfucker in India thinks I'm Japanese.) I turned to look, and lo and behold, it was one of the dudes I'd slightly met the day before. A socially awkward kid had taken me to a little stall for an awful lunch my first day, and when we'd gotten surrounded by a few others he'd shooed them away in seemingly unfit anger. This was one of the dudes.
"Hallo, American man!" he cried. I'm going to call him Sickle. He raised his hand to his mouth in the international gesture of chillum smoking and motioned for me to get into the rickshaw. "You wanting come smoke hashish? No price. No charge. My friend." Well, why the fuck not? I could always argue the no-price thing if he was gypping me. I hopped in.
"What's up, dude? So, no price? Only fun?" I asked.
"Only fun," he confirmed. He gunned the motor and we shook off over the potholes, excrement, and random logs. Around cows, tourists, locals and goats, he expertly wove through the lanes on every side of the street until we found ourselves careening down back alleys that reminded me somewhat of Benares. We stopped at a little concrete house, painted sky blue.
"My house," Sickle explained with pride. "Coming in? Chai?"
We entered, I met his family, gave his nieces and nephews some Flarbles, and drank Chai with himself and his uncles, who spoke no English. There was no evidence of hashish or any chillum. As soon as I'd sipped the bottom of the cup of chai, he jumped up.
"Chalo," he said. Relaxing into the flow of whatever adventure I was now on, I let him lead me outside, where we didn't reboard the rickshaw but instead clambered onto the back of his shiny new Honda motorcycle. "Gift from wedding," he explained. The dude didn't look any older than 14. We set off. I was impressed by his cycle skills, as we nearly creamed toddlers and animals and the sides of buildings, careening this way and that out of town until we came to a stop. Sickle had me ascend a bunch of stairs until we came to an unnoticeable building. "Temple," he said.
"Ah cha," I replied. It didn't look like a temple. But inside, crouched in a circle around a shivalingam, were a bunch of Indians smoking chillum. The dude who brought me there motioned for me to take a seat next to a very stoned looking guy with wide, penetrating eyes, who stared at me as though he could see my soul. I didn't know if it was an act, if he was just really stoned, or if he was actually on some other realm. I'm gonna refer to him as Scruff.
"America," he said. His eyes opened wider, as if he'd just peered deep inside me. "New Mexico." Now, that got my attention. He hadn't said Japanese! But being India, it was entirely conceivable (and in fact more than probable) that he'd discerned that information from someone I'd happened to mention it to. Especially in a town as small as Khajuraho. I nodded, unable to let the impressed, slightly astounded look stop itself from crossing my face. He nodded solemnly, and without taking his gaze off mine, packed a chillum, which he passed to me. I took a big hit, invoking the name of Shiva as I exhaled, and felt the tension of the others ease as they saw me smoke a chillum properly, not touching the bowl to my lips but creating suction with my hands. One of them nodded in approval. We smoked a couple bowls like this before the wide-eyed Indian began to talk. We'd been hanging out for about 20 minutes without him letting me know he was fluent in English. I felt a scam coming on.
"You like? It is a very good chillum, no?" Scruff asked. It was OK. I wasn't feeling it overly much, compared to the shit I'd bought off Boner in Varanasi, but I nodded assent so as not to be rude. "I have more. I can sell it to you. I love my plants. They are my guardians."
Politely, I pointed to the three-meter marijuana plants growing in the courtyard, and said, "Yeah, they look very happy. I'm sure you take good care of them." Despite the noticeable lack of any actual buds, the plants themselves looked allright. Not yellowing or anything. He smiled proudly.
"You want see my product? You must not buy, unless you are wanting. Just to see. Mine is the best in Khajuraho! Others, theirs is full of seeds. Mine, you will find maybe one, two seeds in every flower. Is the best!" I restrained myself from telling him that proper marijuana didn't have any fucking seeds at all, and was crystally and big and gorgeous. I just nodded, smiled, and took another hit of the chillum. I was barely feeling it.
"Yeah, dude, the last weed I bought was more seeds than pot!" I agreed. Fuck it, I might as well take a look. If it turned out to be beautiful buds I would be so happy and surprised I'd buy it at a fool's price. I was getting sick of smoking hashish, particularly as you usually mix it with tobacco, of which I'm less than enamored with. Some real weed would be awesome. Scruff stood up.
"Chalo," he said. I passed the chillum, Namaste'd the others, and followed him and Sickle out the door, where I got on the motorcycle between the two of them. We took off.
It was about 20 minuted later, still speeding into the middle of nowhere, that I began to worry. "Hey, Sickle," I called. "I have a train at like 1800, and it's already 1630. We can't go very far." He grinned and waggled his head.
"No problem, America," he said confidently. "I have you at train station on time. Is my best promise! You have my word!"
"Yeah, but also be cognizant of the fact that my room is a disgrace and I have to pack," I said. "My room mess. I must pack. Must pack. Fifteen, twenty minutes pack. Train at 1800." He waggled his head.
"No problem! My promise! This India! Train say 1800, maybe 1840, 1850. No problem." I resigned myself to the journey. I'm just freaking out, I told myself. This guy's from here, he knows what's up. Indian trains are always late. I'm gonna be fine.
We arrived at this little village in the middle of nowhere. As we were pulling up, the motorcycle ran out of gasoline. I reiterated my need to be to the train station on time, and Sickle waggled his head. "No problem. I buy petrol." I followed the two up to this little temple on a hill. We passed a school. I pulled out my Blooming Flower toy I'd purchased from Doodlets before I left, and amused the children for a moment or two with the folding, colored paper. We hit the temple, and Sickle gestured broadly. "Temple," he said.
"Uh huh," I answered. Fucking temples. I don't fucking care about temples. They're everywhere. It's like churches in Texas. Who gives a shit? They packed a chillum and I smoked it. Scruff was nowhere to be seen. I was feeling uncomfortable around this gang of Indians and I pointed at a tree growing through the marble. "Can I climb that?"
"No!" cried Sickle. "Holy tree!"
"Uh huh," I said. "What about that one?" I pointed to a tree outside the temple. He barely nodded before I was off, scrambling barefoot to the brambles and ignoring the group's cries of dissent. I hit the tree, swung myself up, and scrambled to the very top as quick as I could. Paying no heed to the shouted warnings, I swing upside down and meditated. A moment's peace washed over me. When I rejoined the ground a few minutes later, I saw newfound respect in everyone's eyes except Sickle and Scruff, who watched me warily.
Scruff finally brought out his shitty ass weed and displayed it proudly. Ewww. Barely a nugget on a stem. But at least it was actually green. The last marijuana I'd bought had been a tepid black. I made a show of sniffing it, despite lacking that particular sense, and feigned being impressed. "How much?"
Scruff waggled his head. "How much you want pay?"
Now, this sucks. If they give you a starting price, you can at least cut it in half or a third and work from there. Giving the original price means you're in their terms. I tried to get him to give me a starting point to work from, but to no end. I was his friend, he insisted, so I pay what I want.
Fine. "Three hundred," I said. Three of the group held their heads in anguish.
"No, no, no, no, no possible," managed Scruff. "Best quality."
At this point I had 45 minutes to get to my train, and I was pissed. "I paid 200 for the same amount in Benares," I insisted.
"1000," said Scruff. I laughed.
"Fuck no!" They began to argue. At this point, I wanted out of there so bad, and didn't give a shit, and wanted to catch my train. I eventually paid 700 rupees for some of the most god-awful weed in the world and tried to hightail it out of there. But no doing. Apparently, by showing off my Blooming Flower toy to the kids of the village, I'd done a great evil. Now, I had to buy them all candy. Filled with resentment, I bought a bag of chocolates and was swarmed by groping, grabbing children before Sickle grabbed the bag and threw it away, the kids gallivanting after it in a mob scarier than a horde of gangsters. We fled to the motorbike.
I missed my train. Are you surprised? By the time I'd packed, jumped in the rickshaw with Sickle, and drove to the station, the iron beast was pulling out. The good thing was that because of his promise to get me there on time, Sickle didn't charge me for the whole outing, which I'm sure he would have had we made it. He promised to pick me up free of charge for the next day's train. Yeah, right. I agreed, but ended up catching it myself.
Let me take back any statement I might have made about traveling sleeper class rather than general. Fucking general class. Holy shit.
There was literally not enough room to move. I was crammed in amidst the hordes of bodies, having to force my Western mindset to not be bothered by crotches touching my ass or vice-versa, let alone putting up with elbows, knees, dirty fucking hands, heads of hair, and occasionally chins in my mouth. It was impossible to get to the bathroom. You couldn't lift your foot without bringing it down on somebody. I felt like a cow in an American slaughterhouse, clanging down the iron trail. At one point, I noticed an Indian boy grapple on to the luggage rack and pull himself above the crowd, to perch precariously upon the open door with his toes gripping the mesh across the isle. Good idea, I thought, and hoisted myself upon the opposite door. Ahh, space. 'I could do this for a few hours,' I thought. A foot below me, the mass of bodies was unmovable. I had more room to move than anyone. I felt awesome, and saw slight jealousy in the crowd's eyes. I pulled out my iPod, popped on some gangsta-rap, and chillaxed.
I couldn't get down for 6 hours. By that time, the constant tension in my legs from stretching across the isle was almost unbearable, my ass hurt from its tender perch upon the narrow door-ledge, and I was fucking tired as hell. The one time I tried to get down to piss my bag had fallen and smacked numerous people in the face, and I myself had toppled onto everyone, gashing my hand on a jagged piece of rusty metal. I managed to pee, and get back up above everyone, and considered it a miracle. My hand was bleeding, my legs ached, my ass was sorer than a rapist in prison, and every muscle was trembling from the exertion, but I could breathe. A la ve.
After six hours, the other kid had abandoned the train and I was able to somewhat stretch out on the luggage rack. My legs were still tense, having to pinch my heavy ass bag against the wall above the multitudes of people with my feet. One moment of inattention and the bag and myself would have fallen, most likely out the open door onto the gravel and metal of the speeding-past railway tracks. Somehow, I even managed to sleep for about a half hour without unburdening the pressure in my legs keeping me from dying. I have no idea how the fuck I managed that.
I finally arrived in Jodhpur.
Stupid Hoku.
My second morning in Khajuraho, before I'd even attempted to view any of the numerous temples surrounding the town, I woke up, smoked a joint, and hailed a rickshaw to take me to the train station so I could get the fuck out of there. Like everyone else in Khajuraho, the rickshaw-wallah ripped me off like mad, grinning and calling me 'friend' all the while. When we turned down a dusty, desolate stretch of road, he pulled off to the side and made a motion for me to exit.
"No, dude, I said the train station," I said. He frowned and pointed up the road.
"Is there. Just there. Not far."
"Yeah, but I paid you like a hundred rupees (God I can't believe I paid you a hundred rupees) to get me to the train station. TRAIN. STATION. Not some road with a half-kilometer to go. Chalo."
He shook his head. "The parking lot, they are charge too much money. Walking, OK. Not far."
"Dude, seriously, I don't care how much they charge you, you ripped me the hell off and for that I expect to at least get all the way to where I fucking paid you to take me. C'mon."
He folded his arms and refused to budge. When I began arguing, he flipped on his radio station and drowned me out with Bollywood techno, then opened a newspaper and ignored me. Grumbling, I climbed out of the rickshaw and flipped him off. His ear-to-ear grin returned, and before I could hurl another insult his way he'd about-faced and zoomed off. I started walking. The bumping techno and auto-tuned Indian wailing slowly died into the distance.
The train station was deserted. There was literally not another soul in sight, unless you count the old man shitting on the tracks about 100 meters away. No one official, no one to buy a ticket from.
"Are you fucking kidding me," I spat. I hadn't even brought a book or anything. I wandered through the offices and rooms, under the pitifully turning fans, stepping over littered newspapers and plastic bottles. Not. A. Fucking. Soul. In. Sight. I went out the main entrance to the parking lot. Empty. I couldn't even catch a ride back to town. "They charge too much money," I mimicked the driver in a nauseating squeal. I laughed bitterly and sat on the steps, pulled out a biri, and smoked. It was only 0830. Someone would probably show up. Sometime.
Someone eventually did, I bought a ticket to Delhi, and waited another 2 hours before a couple of rickshaws arrived, overloaded with families hanging off the sides. This time, I wasn't going to pay no motherfucking hundred rupees. I went up to them.
"How much to Gole market?" I asked. They stared expressionlessly at me. One of them spat a red mouthful of pan onto the dirt, and I barely managed to get my foot out of the way. "Gole market? Gole. Market." I repeated. One of them motioned me to get in. "No, how much? Kitne?" They glanced at each other.
"One hundred," said one. His pan-masticating friend nodded subtly at him. I let out a bitter expulsion of wind and turned to the one who'd thus far avoided my eyes.
"Fifty," I said. I opened my wallet and pulled out a fifty-rupee note.
"One hundred."
"One hundred," his friend nodded assent.
"Bullshit," I said. "Sixty, bas." They smiled pitiful smiles and shook their heads. Another rickshaw was pulling up. I began walking towards it, and was stopped by their sudden cries of panic.
"No, no, wait. Sixty, OK," said the pan-chewer. At least, I think. It sounded more like "Nnn, nn, mmmmt, Ssmtmm, mmmkmmm." He motioned me in and the others made room. I plunked down and stared out the window, feeling pathetic and angry and sorry for myself.
I got ripped off far more in Khajuraho that I did in Benares. Everything - EVERYTHING - was ridiculously overpriced, and I found myself struggling to haggle only to still end up paying three times more than it was worth for a bunch of shit I didn't actually want. There were swarming hordes of overweight white people, with their polo shirts tucked into khaki shorts, squinting underneath their baseball caps and visors in the bright sunlight as they nervously followed fast-paced Indian guides sporting wide grins that revealed they'd just made a killing. I couldn't help but chuckle as they passed, shaking my head in reluctant awe as they spewed out bullshit facts they made up on the spot, completely confounding the poor Westerners as they helplessly pawed their Lonely Planets for confirmation of their tall tales.
The infamous tantric temples - "Karma Sutra Temples", as they were called by the touts - were interesting, but as I strolled around the immaculate garden, giggling like all the other white people at the gorgeously carved figures draped around each other in twosomes, threesomes, and foursomes, with even dogs and elephants getting in on the fun, it came to me that temples weren't really my thing. I hadn't even been much impressed with the Taj Mahal years earlier, my favorite experience there being the wonderfully cool marble underneath my bare feet. I took some photos and video, and recorded myself dancing and rapping in front of them for my music video to my song India, (click the link to listen to it) but after a mere half hour I was bored as hell, and wanted out of there. I ate overpriced, tasteless aloo gobhi, bought a little crippled kid a bottle of Thums Up, made small talk with a traveler from Italy and a gang of loud, giggling American valley girls, and decided all I wanted to do was go back to the guest house, smoke a joint, and read until it was time to hit the train. I began to walk.
A rickshaw slowed down next to me and buzzed its horn. Anticipating an offer for some overpriced ride, I ignored it, until the driver started shouting "USA! Japan! Hallo!" (Every motherfucker in India thinks I'm Japanese.) I turned to look, and lo and behold, it was one of the dudes I'd slightly met the day before. A socially awkward kid had taken me to a little stall for an awful lunch my first day, and when we'd gotten surrounded by a few others he'd shooed them away in seemingly unfit anger. This was one of the dudes.
"Hallo, American man!" he cried. I'm going to call him Sickle. He raised his hand to his mouth in the international gesture of chillum smoking and motioned for me to get into the rickshaw. "You wanting come smoke hashish? No price. No charge. My friend." Well, why the fuck not? I could always argue the no-price thing if he was gypping me. I hopped in.
"What's up, dude? So, no price? Only fun?" I asked.
"Only fun," he confirmed. He gunned the motor and we shook off over the potholes, excrement, and random logs. Around cows, tourists, locals and goats, he expertly wove through the lanes on every side of the street until we found ourselves careening down back alleys that reminded me somewhat of Benares. We stopped at a little concrete house, painted sky blue.
"My house," Sickle explained with pride. "Coming in? Chai?"
We entered, I met his family, gave his nieces and nephews some Flarbles, and drank Chai with himself and his uncles, who spoke no English. There was no evidence of hashish or any chillum. As soon as I'd sipped the bottom of the cup of chai, he jumped up.
"Chalo," he said. Relaxing into the flow of whatever adventure I was now on, I let him lead me outside, where we didn't reboard the rickshaw but instead clambered onto the back of his shiny new Honda motorcycle. "Gift from wedding," he explained. The dude didn't look any older than 14. We set off. I was impressed by his cycle skills, as we nearly creamed toddlers and animals and the sides of buildings, careening this way and that out of town until we came to a stop. Sickle had me ascend a bunch of stairs until we came to an unnoticeable building. "Temple," he said.
"Ah cha," I replied. It didn't look like a temple. But inside, crouched in a circle around a shivalingam, were a bunch of Indians smoking chillum. The dude who brought me there motioned for me to take a seat next to a very stoned looking guy with wide, penetrating eyes, who stared at me as though he could see my soul. I didn't know if it was an act, if he was just really stoned, or if he was actually on some other realm. I'm gonna refer to him as Scruff.
"America," he said. His eyes opened wider, as if he'd just peered deep inside me. "New Mexico." Now, that got my attention. He hadn't said Japanese! But being India, it was entirely conceivable (and in fact more than probable) that he'd discerned that information from someone I'd happened to mention it to. Especially in a town as small as Khajuraho. I nodded, unable to let the impressed, slightly astounded look stop itself from crossing my face. He nodded solemnly, and without taking his gaze off mine, packed a chillum, which he passed to me. I took a big hit, invoking the name of Shiva as I exhaled, and felt the tension of the others ease as they saw me smoke a chillum properly, not touching the bowl to my lips but creating suction with my hands. One of them nodded in approval. We smoked a couple bowls like this before the wide-eyed Indian began to talk. We'd been hanging out for about 20 minutes without him letting me know he was fluent in English. I felt a scam coming on.
"You like? It is a very good chillum, no?" Scruff asked. It was OK. I wasn't feeling it overly much, compared to the shit I'd bought off Boner in Varanasi, but I nodded assent so as not to be rude. "I have more. I can sell it to you. I love my plants. They are my guardians."
Politely, I pointed to the three-meter marijuana plants growing in the courtyard, and said, "Yeah, they look very happy. I'm sure you take good care of them." Despite the noticeable lack of any actual buds, the plants themselves looked allright. Not yellowing or anything. He smiled proudly.
"You want see my product? You must not buy, unless you are wanting. Just to see. Mine is the best in Khajuraho! Others, theirs is full of seeds. Mine, you will find maybe one, two seeds in every flower. Is the best!" I restrained myself from telling him that proper marijuana didn't have any fucking seeds at all, and was crystally and big and gorgeous. I just nodded, smiled, and took another hit of the chillum. I was barely feeling it.
"Yeah, dude, the last weed I bought was more seeds than pot!" I agreed. Fuck it, I might as well take a look. If it turned out to be beautiful buds I would be so happy and surprised I'd buy it at a fool's price. I was getting sick of smoking hashish, particularly as you usually mix it with tobacco, of which I'm less than enamored with. Some real weed would be awesome. Scruff stood up.
"Chalo," he said. I passed the chillum, Namaste'd the others, and followed him and Sickle out the door, where I got on the motorcycle between the two of them. We took off.
It was about 20 minuted later, still speeding into the middle of nowhere, that I began to worry. "Hey, Sickle," I called. "I have a train at like 1800, and it's already 1630. We can't go very far." He grinned and waggled his head.
"No problem, America," he said confidently. "I have you at train station on time. Is my best promise! You have my word!"
"Yeah, but also be cognizant of the fact that my room is a disgrace and I have to pack," I said. "My room mess. I must pack. Must pack. Fifteen, twenty minutes pack. Train at 1800." He waggled his head.
"No problem! My promise! This India! Train say 1800, maybe 1840, 1850. No problem." I resigned myself to the journey. I'm just freaking out, I told myself. This guy's from here, he knows what's up. Indian trains are always late. I'm gonna be fine.
We arrived at this little village in the middle of nowhere. As we were pulling up, the motorcycle ran out of gasoline. I reiterated my need to be to the train station on time, and Sickle waggled his head. "No problem. I buy petrol." I followed the two up to this little temple on a hill. We passed a school. I pulled out my Blooming Flower toy I'd purchased from Doodlets before I left, and amused the children for a moment or two with the folding, colored paper. We hit the temple, and Sickle gestured broadly. "Temple," he said.
"Uh huh," I answered. Fucking temples. I don't fucking care about temples. They're everywhere. It's like churches in Texas. Who gives a shit? They packed a chillum and I smoked it. Scruff was nowhere to be seen. I was feeling uncomfortable around this gang of Indians and I pointed at a tree growing through the marble. "Can I climb that?"
"No!" cried Sickle. "Holy tree!"
"Uh huh," I said. "What about that one?" I pointed to a tree outside the temple. He barely nodded before I was off, scrambling barefoot to the brambles and ignoring the group's cries of dissent. I hit the tree, swung myself up, and scrambled to the very top as quick as I could. Paying no heed to the shouted warnings, I swing upside down and meditated. A moment's peace washed over me. When I rejoined the ground a few minutes later, I saw newfound respect in everyone's eyes except Sickle and Scruff, who watched me warily.
Scruff finally brought out his shitty ass weed and displayed it proudly. Ewww. Barely a nugget on a stem. But at least it was actually green. The last marijuana I'd bought had been a tepid black. I made a show of sniffing it, despite lacking that particular sense, and feigned being impressed. "How much?"
Scruff waggled his head. "How much you want pay?"
Now, this sucks. If they give you a starting price, you can at least cut it in half or a third and work from there. Giving the original price means you're in their terms. I tried to get him to give me a starting point to work from, but to no end. I was his friend, he insisted, so I pay what I want.
Fine. "Three hundred," I said. Three of the group held their heads in anguish.
"No, no, no, no, no possible," managed Scruff. "Best quality."
At this point I had 45 minutes to get to my train, and I was pissed. "I paid 200 for the same amount in Benares," I insisted.
"1000," said Scruff. I laughed.
"Fuck no!" They began to argue. At this point, I wanted out of there so bad, and didn't give a shit, and wanted to catch my train. I eventually paid 700 rupees for some of the most god-awful weed in the world and tried to hightail it out of there. But no doing. Apparently, by showing off my Blooming Flower toy to the kids of the village, I'd done a great evil. Now, I had to buy them all candy. Filled with resentment, I bought a bag of chocolates and was swarmed by groping, grabbing children before Sickle grabbed the bag and threw it away, the kids gallivanting after it in a mob scarier than a horde of gangsters. We fled to the motorbike.
I missed my train. Are you surprised? By the time I'd packed, jumped in the rickshaw with Sickle, and drove to the station, the iron beast was pulling out. The good thing was that because of his promise to get me there on time, Sickle didn't charge me for the whole outing, which I'm sure he would have had we made it. He promised to pick me up free of charge for the next day's train. Yeah, right. I agreed, but ended up catching it myself.
Let me take back any statement I might have made about traveling sleeper class rather than general. Fucking general class. Holy shit.
There was literally not enough room to move. I was crammed in amidst the hordes of bodies, having to force my Western mindset to not be bothered by crotches touching my ass or vice-versa, let alone putting up with elbows, knees, dirty fucking hands, heads of hair, and occasionally chins in my mouth. It was impossible to get to the bathroom. You couldn't lift your foot without bringing it down on somebody. I felt like a cow in an American slaughterhouse, clanging down the iron trail. At one point, I noticed an Indian boy grapple on to the luggage rack and pull himself above the crowd, to perch precariously upon the open door with his toes gripping the mesh across the isle. Good idea, I thought, and hoisted myself upon the opposite door. Ahh, space. 'I could do this for a few hours,' I thought. A foot below me, the mass of bodies was unmovable. I had more room to move than anyone. I felt awesome, and saw slight jealousy in the crowd's eyes. I pulled out my iPod, popped on some gangsta-rap, and chillaxed.
I couldn't get down for 6 hours. By that time, the constant tension in my legs from stretching across the isle was almost unbearable, my ass hurt from its tender perch upon the narrow door-ledge, and I was fucking tired as hell. The one time I tried to get down to piss my bag had fallen and smacked numerous people in the face, and I myself had toppled onto everyone, gashing my hand on a jagged piece of rusty metal. I managed to pee, and get back up above everyone, and considered it a miracle. My hand was bleeding, my legs ached, my ass was sorer than a rapist in prison, and every muscle was trembling from the exertion, but I could breathe. A la ve.
After six hours, the other kid had abandoned the train and I was able to somewhat stretch out on the luggage rack. My legs were still tense, having to pinch my heavy ass bag against the wall above the multitudes of people with my feet. One moment of inattention and the bag and myself would have fallen, most likely out the open door onto the gravel and metal of the speeding-past railway tracks. Somehow, I even managed to sleep for about a half hour without unburdening the pressure in my legs keeping me from dying. I have no idea how the fuck I managed that.
I finally arrived in Jodhpur.
Ha ha... eee. The train ticket stand is in the middle of town right near hotel green house. Yeah dude, some guy had made a hammock out of a blanket on the general class train I tried to take to Rajasthan from Mumbai. I recently heard a woman saying general class was awesome and that she had enough space to stretch out and although my experience was the complete opposite of that (I had to sit on my backpack with people's legs above my head so i couldn't straighten it and I had nothing to lean on and no physical space at all) I didn't object cause I thought 'maybe I was just on a super crowded train' but my intuition said otherwise. i will dissuade people from doing that if I get a chance in the future. 300 is a lot for a good sized bag of even good ganja. Two years ago I got one of those bags for 100. But that was in rural Kerala on a bus. ...In Kolkata some hash dude tried to tell me I didn't know anything about hash. I certainly got a laugh out of that (the best Indian hash is still just finger hash) and as I didn't want any hash he din't git nothin' outta me! So it goes.
ReplyDelete...Dude, sometime I am gona come back here and get a boat and give free rides across the river in Hampi just to spite the assholes who run the ferry and maybe I'll get my own rickshaw to give free rides in places where the rickshaw drivers are dicks too. I don't mind a little extra - I live on baksheesh, but some of this shit is just people being total assholes. And being a rickshaw driver would be fun!