Like most of our plans it started with some vague notion of doing something and was brought about through entropic providence.
I think we should go on holiday for Christmas. Where should we go? Somewhere where no one else is going for Christmas. Right. So not Europe. How about Africa? Cool. Lets go to Africa. Hmm, Africa seems quite hard to %u201Cplan%u201D on 6 weeks notice. And may potentially be dangerous Hmm. Hmmm.
Email from providence, or rather, the sub-continent: Uncle Mark (whom you may remember from such blogs as Bangkok: City of Angels) says, %u201CI hear you want to go on holiday. I%u2019m in India for Christmas and you are most welcome to visit.%u201D
Divine Inspiration? Coincidence? More like A Plan!
Enter the mad rush to get Indian visas, 10 to 15 working days to get, required in 8 in order for us to purchase tickets and get to the airport with only a mild sweat. Again, the hand of fate points north by south east and we get our visas in 8 days. Flights were purchased on the Monday. We flew out on the Friday.
Once again the global kiwis were winging it on their way!
Marks instructions had been quite detailed, minus the fact that there were very little details. He had given our names and flight to a taxi company. We were to meet the driver at the arrivals gate in New Delhi airport and we would be whisked away to Mark%u2019s home in Manali. There was the slight detail that Manali was a 15 hour drive away, but hey, we%u2019d done weirder things before. Armed with nothing more then Mark%u2019s mobile number (we didn%u2019t even have a phone), and a driver who spoke no English, we allowed ourselves to be carried away into the Indian day, and then into the Indian night.
We tried to stay awake through the drive, but the flight had left us a bit ratted and the time change made things confusing. What we witnessed, from behind the tv-like windows of the taxi, was a transition of habitats diverse and far-reaching, at first superimposed, then unique and singular, then a complex mix of each. First came the grey, dusty cityscape of Delhi, with its poor working class and even poorer slums. This slowly melted into to the red and green and grey dusty landscape of the plains, with red brick kilns and rice paddies, and giant housing construction complexes and shopping malls in seemingly the middle of nowhere (little buds of metropolis). Children tapped on the windows (and our window-pressed sleeping faces) to sell us treats or drinks, or to beg a few rupees. The long straight roads were paved sometimes, hard packed red earth with deep pot at other times. Towards the evening the hills undulated into hills and by dark the hills had grown into thick rocky and tree covered mountains.
We stopped for dinner at a mountain hotel somewhere. By now it was very late and very dark. We had thick channa masala and fragrant chai, and fresh chappati.
By the time a new day (technically) had come we were well into the mountains and stopped in front of a suspension bridge that appeared a bit too narrow for our car to traverse. Ominously, written on the side of the first pillar, was %u201Cfoot bridge%u201D. We got out of the car, convinced that if our driver were to insist on driving further, we would walk after he was safely across. It really didn%u2019t look safe. After a few bumpy attempts our driver got on the phone. Only a few minutes later Mark was navigating his own jeep across the bridge and picked us up. We were to later learn that a real Indian loading specification consisted of: What ever can get over it is the specification. Huge overlade trucks frequently crossed bridges no bigger or more structurally sound then that one. Only two minutes further up the hill, only 9 hours of flying and 15 hours of driving, well in the depths of night, we had finally arrived at our destination.
Please wait.. Loading First frame.....
