The Things You See on the Road

At least an hour of my time each day is spent hiking into (and back from) town; it's a hike that's often more entertaining than a barrel full of monkeys (oh, they're part of this too). 
 

I'm never exactly sure what I'll find on this road. One of the most common scenes is a group of Indian (or other) tourists asking me for a photograph with them. No, not to take a photograph of them, but to be in one with them. I usually laugh and keep walking, imagining them taking the photo home to their friends, exclaiming “look at my American friend!” Luckily for them, there's usually a foreigner or two nearby who are happy to oblige.

Then there are the talkers. You get these a lot in the shops, where the bored salesmen use their time by chatting with foreigners. However, there are also those who seem to be walking just for the sake of this type of chit-chat. They catch up with you and introduce themselves with the magic formula (Namaste! How are you? Which country?). They usually feel the need to add that they're very interested in learning English, and some are as bold as offering to show you around town or just straight-out asking for an English lesson. They're often new Tibetan refugees, often young, and they're quite entertaining on the walk.

Then there are the roadside artists. Thangka painters are the most common; they sit on small pads on the ground next to their finished products, absorbed in the current painting. Musicians are also very common, but are most frequently Indian beggars. Some bring their families, small babies, and one common family has a young boy who plays a rhythm stick and yells “Hullllo!!” if you don't stop. And of course, there are the spontaneous hippies, like the foreign fellow (fairly successfully) playing the didgeridoo next to a Japanese woman holding a cardboard sign saying something about the tsunami. “Arigato,” she says after I put 20 Rs in the singing bowl they're using as a collection plate.

And, of course, there's the ongoing drama between the dogs and the monkeys. Stray dogs here are actually quite wonderful: they're well-treated, well-fed, and loved. People pet them at random, feed them, and children play with them. Thus, they're not the crazy, scared strays you get down in places like Chandigarh. Sometimes they'll follow you home, tail wagging, or come up to your hand, begging to be petted. But along this road, there also live some monkey troops that just won't give up the fight. They screech from the trees as dogs playfully chase them, taking to packs. After almost getting bit by a monkey the first time I saw one up close, it's kind of fun to see.

Religious sprinkles top the treat that is this road. The Tibetan monks and nuns which fill the town also come out here, perhaps for a bit of fresh air, wearing hiking boots under their long crimson robes. Every so often you'll see an old sadhu, usually sitting by one of the roadside shrines that cover this path. Then, every so often, you'll see one chatting casually with a blond woman, without a care in the world. A Muslim man and his daughter make up another common sight; they're always carrying a page of the Koran and asking people to pause so the young girl can read it to them.

Of course, you have the shoe doctor as well. There are many of these shoe repairmen in and around town, offering to fix and polish shoes right on the street. But this one is very popular, an older man who's gathered a little bit of a following. “Hello!” he yells to you as you pass by. “How are your shoes? I'm the shoe doctor!” His followers, presumably friends and others attracted to his personality, call him “doctor.” In some ways, I wish I had shoes for him to fix. 

Chai stands and small restaurants take advantage of the view and line the way, one every few minutes or so. Closer to town, tables are set up, suspended by tall pieces of wood hanging over the ledge of the road (for there really is no "side of the road" here). Most of them I see every day, quite a few of them I've bought presents from, and almost all of them smile and greet me when I approach. Ah, small towns.  

Then, just as you're about to reach Mcleod, you see it. A scenic, colorful little village built right into the steep slope. Prayer flags all around. Beautiful and welcoming.

My pictures aren't very good, but here is a holi celebration in the South (where it is a huge deal).

Today I was especially lucky, because it's holi, the Hindu Festival in which everyone throws colored powder at each other, or men in the street paint your face like eager and unskillful finger painters. Needless to say, it's pretty awesome. As I walked in to town, the number of painted faces began to steadily increase, men on motorcycles hooting at me when they noticed I was smiling at their powdered-covered faces.

On the way home after a relatively powder-free holi, I was ambushed by three young men. "HAPPY HOLI!" they yelled, showering me in green dust as one of them smudged a green thumb print across my forehead. I laugh as they take pictures with me. "Just one kiss? Please? On the cheek?" Still laughing, I escape the (very) friendly arms around my shoulders and head back on the road.

A monkey sits safe atop the Tibetan Institute for Performing Art while beautiful music spills out.

A painter so sweet that I couldn't haggle when I bought a thankha from her.

Crane 98 (lower right- brown on white) on the trip into town, near a chai stand.