Barreling Down an Indian Mountain Road

We spent the day of the 6th set of arrests on the March uploading photos to the website, sending out the press release and making all our calls to the media. Then we set out from Pithoragarh with some of the March communications and logistics team. They had to go to Ponta Sahib, where the other 265 marchers were taken after their release the previous week and where the 50 newly-arrested marchers would be taken. We had some lose ends to tie up at our quiet hill town before returning to Delhi to deliver video footage of the arrests to some media outlets.

Since we were in a border area, we had to cross a checkpoint out of the region before it closed at 8pm. But we were setting out quite late, so we literally raced off towards the checkpoint. The northern Indian roads that I loved speeding along on a bike were not as much fun in a jeep going way too fast that night. My friend and I linked arms and just tried to not think about how close we were to the cliff beside us or how many huge trucks were barreling down the single lane road towards us. Add to that a fuse for the headlights that was loose, so that when the driver switched from high beams to the normal lights, we were often plunged into complete darkness. Every time it happened, I found myself holding my breath. The monsoonal downpour added more stress, making me wonder how good our tires were or if we would just hydroplane right off the road.

Ironically, only a day before we had been laughing about the funny warnings on the roadside:

If you’re married, divorce speed!

Drinking whisky, driving risky.

Better late than never.

We had a few close calls, slamming on the breaks and coming to an abrupt stop inches from a cargo truck or the rock wall above us. The guys who had miraculously fallen asleep in the back would wake with a start, and I could feel my friend beside me tense up. In the particularly close calls, I would start giggling. Friends have told me before that I giggle when I’m uncomfortable, but I never really noticed how true it was until that night.

We eventually made it to the checkpoint, well after it was closed. The Tibetan driver turned to the Indian filmmaker in the car and they agreed that if the driver had problems, our filmmaker friend would go in and work his self-proclaimed “magic”. The driver and my friend disappeared inside. After a couple minutes, which I spent wondering if we would have to drive all the way back to town or if we would just sleep in the truck there, they emerged with smiles on their faces. They jumped into the car very proud of themselves, the checkpoint watchman lifted the barricade and we drove off – without even paying a bribe! They just mentioned that they were on the Tibetan “pilgrimage” walk that passed through the area a week or so before!

This time we were off at a slightly slower pace, but with the driver growing increasingly tired. After all the songs on our mobile phones had been played, my friend had to make conversation with the driver while I kept feeding him candies. We eventually made it, with our fingers crossed that we wouldn’t run out of gas – the 24-hour station attendant refused to wake up to fill the tank. My camping mattress and sleeping bag never felt so comfortable!

A Little Adventure

In the last couple of weeks, I’ve been surrounded by an air of adventure - the freedom fighters’ talk of going home, watching “Into the Wild”, reading “Kim” by Rudyard Kipling, talking about Jack Kerouac, and hanging out with Lex – a support marcher who refused to leave the country after receiving a “Quit India” notice.

The other day, I jumped at the chance to go on a long bike ride to run an errand for the marchers. There’s nothing like riding on the back of a Bullet with the wind in your hair to make you feel alive – except maybe driving one yourself!

The road we took wound northward, up and down hillsides, through tiny villages each different from the last, but all with curious faces watching us speed by. I kept getting lost in my thoughts, only to be pulled back into the world again by the hilariously gross sight of Indians puking out of busses or a beautiful vista revealing itself in front of us. In every new valley there was entirely different vegetation. We left jungle and headed into lush but cacti-ridden forests, which eventually turned into barren hillsides dotted with stick-like trees. We sped past the places where the marchers had camped about a month ago. In an hour we rode what it took them days to walk. I watched the road fly by beneath us and imagined every step the marchers took and how it must have felt under their feet. We also rode past the campsite where one of the marchers, Pema Tashi, passed away. I imagined the tent set up where monks stayed up all night to pray for his soul and the bonfire that was built for his cremation. I thought of my friend who held his body on the way to the hospital, and all those who prayed as watched his body burn. I wished I could have been there with them to share in their grief and their prayers for Pema Tashi.

The last 2o-odd kilometers we had to bump down a shortcut that was little more than a gravel path strewn with dry pine needles from the tall skinny trees with disproportionately giant pine cones. If we hadn’t been in a rush and my brain hadn’t been shaken around inside my skull to the point of feeling bruised, it would have been a beautiful ride. In 40 minutes we saw only two cars, which felt impressive for India. It wasn’t just me being roughed up, the bike lost half of its muffler along the way. And neither me nor my friend heard it fall off or noticed that the bike was suddenly a lot louder!

We ate a late lunch in a tiny town called Daul Chinna where we passed off work stuff and treats of Maggi noodles, Real juice and spread cheese to our marcher friends – strange what people miss when they are away from the comforts of their everyday life! Despite our sore asses, we booked it back to town so that we would get there before dark. As we sped around corners, I could feel our weight sink into the bike to be lifted again as we came out of the bend. I love the exhilaration I feel on a bike.

We left the warm sunny day behind as we came into the valley where we’re staying, which seems to be perpetually blanketed in mist and rain. I was giddy with tiredness, but was glad for the day’s break from the computer. It wasn’t much, but enough of an adventure to relieve the urge – for now.

Unexpected Inspiration

I spent last week with a unique group of Tibetan freedom fighters, some of whom were ex-soldiers and one who was the most active old man I have ever met. They spent hours arguing over non-violence versus violence, and how to organize a rebellion inside Tibet. They talked endlessly about how they would cross the mountains – all they needed were the bags on their backs and a satellite phone. They were ready to go with just their small group and they were all ready to die for their country.

I stayed up late one night talking with Tenzin, one of the guys, who happens to be the same age as me. The entire time I spent in the sheltered world of a western university, he was serving in the Indian army and risking his life for a country that isn’t even his. While I dream of working to make the world a better place, he dreams of dying for his country so that he may be born in a better society free from Chinese oppression. I felt like our lives couldn’t have been more different, and yet, we were both here fighting for the same thing.

Until I met Tenzin, I would have said I was completely opposed to the notion of violence and dying for the Tibetan cause. I believed that people could do more for the cause alive than they could achieve by sacrificing their life. The self-immolation of Thubten Ngodup has always brought up an overwhelming sense of sadness at what I saw as complete desperation, as wanting freedom so badly but not knowing what else to do. Nonetheless, I respected him for his selflessness and could see how much he inspired many in the Tibetan community.

Tenzin sat in front of me that night telling me he was ready to die. When he left home, he packed light because he didn’t intend on returning. He didn’t tell his parents about his plans because he didn’t want them to try and stop him. Tenzin’s readiness to die didn’t seem like an act of desperation, like I thought it would be. It was the best way he felt he could contribute to the movement. Listening to him, I felt like an educated brat with so many naïve ideas about how to change the world. I believe in Tibetan independence with my whole heart, but in what felt like a very sheltered way. In comparison, Tenzin’s conviction is raw and powerful, and it stirred up a passion in me that had been dormant.

I had to say good-bye to Tenzin and the others a couple of days back. It was one of the hardest good-byes I have ever said because I knew that there was no certainty I would ever see them again. I tried to hold back the tears as Tenzin’s words rang in my ears. But these freedom fighters possess a fierce bravery that I have never felt before and a conviction that is impossible to ignore. I passed them a note before they left in which I wrote the words I couldn’t have said out loud: they had inspired me and I would support them in their journey in whatever way I could.

An Experiment in this “Man’s World”

I love India, but one thing I cannot get used to is being gawked at endlessly by Indian men. My female Tibetan friends who have grown up here tell me that it is the same for them. India really is a male-centric society. Sitting on the subway or walking down the road, it doesn’t take much to notice that it is predominantly men. (Whenever I notice it, I hear James Brown singing “it’s a man’s world” in my head!) Women are usually accompanied by a man (husband, brother, son, etc.) or at the very least by other women. It seems like it is a social abnormality for a woman to be walking around on her own. Add to that the Indian fascination with white women. I read an article in the local newspaper written by a man who was arguing that the Indian conception of white women is based entirely on Bollywood films. In these films, white women are portrayed as being promiscuous – which isn’t hard when romantic scenes involve coy Indian women hiding behind trees and playfully running away from their (assumed) lovers. Kissing is rare, and love scenes are innocently depicted with bees pollinating flowers. All of this leads to a society that treats women, and especially white women, as objects to be gawked at and grabbed whenever the chance arises.

My all time favorite is when Indian men actually stop in their tracks and turn around to watch me walk past. The only time the special attention is remotely flattering is when school children come up to say hello and shake my hand.

I’ve spent the last two weeks in a small Indian town closer to the March to Tibet, where there are very few foreign tourists and the gawking has been especially obnoxious and annoying. So the other day I decided to dye my hair brown to see if it would change how Indians react to me.

My first day out as a brunette was a small success. While my new hair colour didn’t stop the men from staring, it at least delayed their reaction. A blonde head can be seen a mile away in a sea of people with black hair. Now with brown hair, I seem to blend in a bit more. It was a refreshing experience. Unfortunately, my pasty white skin still gives me away – I’ll keep working on that one.