The following interior monologue is based on personal experiences except the parts that might get me into trouble. Those are purely fictional.
This is the threequel. If you are expecting this to be any where as good as LOTR:Return of the King or PoC:At World's End then leave. Think Godfather 3 better yet- Shrek 3.
We take our places on the raft as assigned by Jeevan – Sergei and S.L. at the front and P.B. and me at the middle with Jeevan acting as our rudder at the back. Sergei, who I learn produces a successful comedy television series in Russia, has a small camera shaped like a mini-torch which he attaches to his helmet. We tell him to save the battery until we come to the exciting parts of the ride but he is unable to comprehend our advanced linguistic abilities in the English language. We realize later that he attached the camera upside down, which resulted in the video being shot inverted. I wonder where he hid the vodka in the wet suit. We first practice a few rafting maneuvers – paddle forward, paddle back, holding the outside rope line for safety, falling into the raft from the rim- all to be performed without a moments hesitation at Jeevan’s command. Meanwhile Avnesh and Ant move ahead in their kayaks and conversing with them keeps us entertained. Ant happens to be a cricket fan and he brags about how the Kiwis had recently defeated the Pakistanis. If rafting was anywhere as tough as beating the Pakis in a game of cricket, then I had nothing to worry about.
As we paddle on, I realize how calm and beautiful it is, with the green mountains on one side and the beach, with its sparkling sand, on the other. The peacefulness of it all makes me want to reconsider my plans to retire in a beach-house in Goa, although the absence of liquor shops and non-veg food counts against the quaint pilgrimage town. Also Rishikesh seems to have as many foreign tourists as Goa, though they come to the world capital of Yoga to attain Moksha in contrast to what they want to accomplish in the sin-state of Goa. It’s settled then, Goa it is. Meanwhile, rafting seemed pretty easy in still water and I was starting to wonder what all the fuss was about.
We reach the first rapid – ‘Three Blind Mice’ and Jeevan starts giving out paddle orders so that we take the right line. The intensity of the river shakes the raft hard and the adrenaline begins to pump through the veins. I personally prefer my adrenaline to remain in its gland but I begin to understand what the adrenaline junkies harp on about as water splashes on my face and I am blinded for a second. As the rapid ends I feel exhilarated and can’t wait to reach the next one. Jeevan is less than impressed. Apparently in all the excitement we weren’t exactly heeding his commands. Just like school kids caught reading a dirty magazine, we promise not to repeat it.
During our course through the river we encounter other rafts, quite a few carrying pretty folk inside. However since I wasn’t wearing my glasses I could’ve been wrong. I begin to regret not bringing them along when I see people sun bathing on the riverbank. Not that I’m a voyeur, at least not a self admitting one, but when you gaze hazily from so far off you can’t tell whether it’s a he or she and that’s plain wrong. But then again my glasses are Carl-Zeiss so I wasn’t taking any chances. Beautiful foreign women in bikinis come and go but Carl-Zeiss anti-reflective photo-chromatic scratchproof glasses last 3-4 years if you treat it right.
Downstream the rapids get fiercer and more turbulent. At one point we are quite close to the mountain edge. I was afraid we’d be giving the phrase ‘on the rocks’ a whole new meaning but Jeevan pulls us through with his vast experience and bellowing. During another rapid, when I try to follow the “Forward hard! Forward hard!” command, my paddle doesn’t encounter any resistance, I look down and see that the wave has thrown us about ten feet in the air. Luckily for us and perhaps not so much for P.B, who seemed desperate to fall out of the boat, we remain in the raft. I would have been happy to oblige had he only asked.
In-between rapids, we jump into the cool water to beat the heat. My inability to swim makes me hold onto the side of the raft while the downstream force entangles my legs in strange positions. Avnesh notices my discomfort and tells me to hold on to the end of his kayak while he paddles on. We move this way for a while until he tells me to let go and swim to the raft. This reminds me of my father coaching me to ride a bicycle, as a kid. He lets go of the seat just about as I begin to hang of it. I panic and forget where the breaks are and crash into a stationary truck, but all in good fun. Needless to say that was the last thing I learnt from my dad, if you discount drinking. Getting back to the present, I make weird flapping motions with my hands in the general direction of the raft but the distance between us seems to be increasing which means- either I’ve just invented a way to swim in reverse or the velocity of the raft is greater than my so-called swim. Probably the latter. Avnesh realizes a lost cause when he sees one and uses his kayak to bring me back to he raft. Climbing back into the raft is another ordeal, partly due to Jeevans diminutive frame but mostly due to aloos in Noida. S.L takes a dip too and we consider it his bath in the sacred river. To bad he forgot his dettol soap in the jeep. Just to get the real sticky sins out.
While we paddle on to the end-point of our journey, Sergei teaches us a few words in Russian. We first learn the expletives as they are, most likely, the first words you will actually use in any language. For example I’m not all that well versed in Kannada but the profanities come in handy while conversing with an auto-rickshaw driver with a tweaked meter. I don’t know if they have rickshaw drivers in Moscow but why take any chances. Incase you, like me, have an unquenchable thirst for knowledge- “Dirac” is Russian for Idiot. Then we learn the numbers- adeen for one, dva for two. I ask him what is Russian for “beautiful woman” and the words themselves, quite honestly, are quite beautiful. I commit them to memory hoping to use them at least once in my lifetime. The dream is alive.
To be continued
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Tours n Travails - Rishikesh. Part 2 of 4
The following interior monologue is based on personal experiences except the parts that might get me into trouble. Those are purely fictional.
Red Chilli Adventures is a copyrighted trademark company. I have no money to be sued.
This is the second installment of a 4 part series. You have to read the previous one(s) to truly deprecate the ones following.
We manage to reach Rishikesh, without any bullet wounds, around about 7 a.m. After asking no less than 27 people, we reach the raft organizers head quarters. A quiet short muscular Nepali boy raises the shutters and invites us in. The first thing I notice about the office of Red Chilli Adventures is that it is extremely clean. That impresses me cause I consider cleanliness next to godliness and anybody who has entered my room will agree that I’m agnostic. The place also has numerous pictures on the wall of previous clients rafting or hiking. Surprisingly the office doubles up as an Internet café, which seemed odd but I soon realize that tourists regularly need to check their mails or print out their e-tickets. Invariably more than a handful would sign up for a rafting or hiking excursion (after seeing a picture and saying I could do that). Tremendous product strategy to say the least.
As it’s a little too early, none of our guides or co-rafters has shown up. We decide to walk around the town and S.L. remembers that he has to buy soap. I tell him that he’s taking the washing away sins part a little too literally but he insists. Five minutes later, dettol soap in hand, the three of us enter a local grub house named Tip Top restaurant to have breakfast. The look of the place did little to justify the name but I’ve eaten, in my college days, at veritable shit holes like Hotel Dreamland so there was hardly any reason to kick up a fuss. After ordering the most horrible channa puri I have ever eaten I continued my almost Marshall Eriksen-esque search for the ultimate Panner Paratha. Unfortunately this wasn’t it. Furthermore half way through my cup of tea I notice there’s a dead spider in it. I decide to extract it and continue with my beverage concluding that if the concoction hadn’t killed me yet it probably wasn’t going to do so anytime soon. Plus call me cheap but there’s no point wasting tea paid for by debatably hard work- involving pressing keys at regular intervals.
We make our way to the Red Chilli office once again, where the guides (unfortunately not the cookie selling variety) are waiting. We meet Avnesh – an extremely pleasant chap who has been involved in water sports for 14 years. He tells us that he has experience rafting in almost all rivers of India and also professionally in Colorado, Norway and down the Blue Nile in Ethiopia. I could counter by telling him that I’ve worked with computers in both Bangalore and Noida but I, for one, don’t like to brag. He introduces us to another guide- a tall New Zealander bloke. He speaks out his name; I can’t catch the kiwi accent but through the garble it sounds like ‘Ent’. I want to ask him if his parents are LOTR fans but before I can the owner Avinash helps me out by saying out “It’s Ant. We Indians pronounce it differently”. Right. If, by different, you mean correct. The third guide is the muscular Nepali boy- Jeevan who would actually turn out to be the captain of out raft, barking orders while we paddled for dear life.
We wait for our co-rafters - a couple to arrive and I choose to pass the time by leering at the fair skinned golden haired tourists while they browse the web. Now I prefer my women to be dusky and dark haired but like all brown men I can’t help but going “Ooo Shiny” once in a while. Thankfully, before the women get too uncomfortable, one half of the couple, a stout Russian imaginatively named Sergei, arrives. He informs us that his wife will not be joining us as she has hurt herself during their morning yoga experiments. A mental picture of a not very well-executed hazardous tantric sex maneuver comes to my mind but I don’t dwell on it. I am slightly disappointed, meeting a real live Russian women being a childhood dream of mine, at least the part of childhood with access to the Internet.
So the eight of us – 3 guides, 4 noobes and Avinash set off up the mountain, on the company Pajero, to reach the point from where we’d begin our expedition. The ride takes the better part of an hour as the road is under repairs. It was being maintained by the army, but somebody forgot to tell them that. As we travel we can see the clear Ganges flowing below. I learn Rishikesh is the place where the river exits the mountains and enters the northern plains and as a self-confessed geography nut that fascinates me. We pass by the rapids as we climb up and Avnesh tells us their names each time – ‘Jail no Bail’, ‘Rollercoaster’, ‘Double-Trouble’ etc. I am less than amused.
We eventually reach the starting point and help unload the kayaks, rafts and other gear from the top of the jeep. This was just the beginning of the hard work. I don’t like to complain but physical effort and I go about as well together as monogamy and Tiger Woods. Avnesh hands out skin-hugging wet suits which don’t exactly show off my figure and I’m almost glad Sergei’s wife didn’t make it. Almost. To add to that, the wet suits aren’t exactly made peeing friendly. And, before you start wondering, I’m not talking about in the water, rather land peeing. I haven’t done it in water since I grew up. About 3 months ago. Anyways I’ve done it in harsher conditions so I make do.
Avnesh then proceeds to let us know of the safety procedures- like what you would have to do if you fall of the raft and are close by or far off or under the raft or if the raft flips. They even make us sign one of those waiver forms, which say that they aren’t responsible for any unfortunate events that might occur. As you may have guessed, I was really eager to sign that. Though, truthfully, they seemed to know what they were talking about which was a relief. He also shows us how to hold a paddle- always in a T-grip else you risk chipping of your co-passengers teeth when the ride becomes a bit rough. This safety talk was getting more and more fun exactly like my team meetings at work where all one does is smile uncomfortably while the manager rants on. A helmet, a splash jacket and a life jacket complete our outfit and leave me feeling like an armored warrior all set to conquer the seven seas.
To be continued
Red Chilli Adventures is a copyrighted trademark company. I have no money to be sued.
This is the second installment of a 4 part series. You have to read the previous one(s) to truly deprecate the ones following.
We manage to reach Rishikesh, without any bullet wounds, around about 7 a.m. After asking no less than 27 people, we reach the raft organizers head quarters. A quiet short muscular Nepali boy raises the shutters and invites us in. The first thing I notice about the office of Red Chilli Adventures is that it is extremely clean. That impresses me cause I consider cleanliness next to godliness and anybody who has entered my room will agree that I’m agnostic. The place also has numerous pictures on the wall of previous clients rafting or hiking. Surprisingly the office doubles up as an Internet café, which seemed odd but I soon realize that tourists regularly need to check their mails or print out their e-tickets. Invariably more than a handful would sign up for a rafting or hiking excursion (after seeing a picture and saying I could do that). Tremendous product strategy to say the least.
As it’s a little too early, none of our guides or co-rafters has shown up. We decide to walk around the town and S.L. remembers that he has to buy soap. I tell him that he’s taking the washing away sins part a little too literally but he insists. Five minutes later, dettol soap in hand, the three of us enter a local grub house named Tip Top restaurant to have breakfast. The look of the place did little to justify the name but I’ve eaten, in my college days, at veritable shit holes like Hotel Dreamland so there was hardly any reason to kick up a fuss. After ordering the most horrible channa puri I have ever eaten I continued my almost Marshall Eriksen-esque search for the ultimate Panner Paratha. Unfortunately this wasn’t it. Furthermore half way through my cup of tea I notice there’s a dead spider in it. I decide to extract it and continue with my beverage concluding that if the concoction hadn’t killed me yet it probably wasn’t going to do so anytime soon. Plus call me cheap but there’s no point wasting tea paid for by debatably hard work- involving pressing keys at regular intervals.
We make our way to the Red Chilli office once again, where the guides (unfortunately not the cookie selling variety) are waiting. We meet Avnesh – an extremely pleasant chap who has been involved in water sports for 14 years. He tells us that he has experience rafting in almost all rivers of India and also professionally in Colorado, Norway and down the Blue Nile in Ethiopia. I could counter by telling him that I’ve worked with computers in both Bangalore and Noida but I, for one, don’t like to brag. He introduces us to another guide- a tall New Zealander bloke. He speaks out his name; I can’t catch the kiwi accent but through the garble it sounds like ‘Ent’. I want to ask him if his parents are LOTR fans but before I can the owner Avinash helps me out by saying out “It’s Ant. We Indians pronounce it differently”. Right. If, by different, you mean correct. The third guide is the muscular Nepali boy- Jeevan who would actually turn out to be the captain of out raft, barking orders while we paddled for dear life.
We wait for our co-rafters - a couple to arrive and I choose to pass the time by leering at the fair skinned golden haired tourists while they browse the web. Now I prefer my women to be dusky and dark haired but like all brown men I can’t help but going “Ooo Shiny” once in a while. Thankfully, before the women get too uncomfortable, one half of the couple, a stout Russian imaginatively named Sergei, arrives. He informs us that his wife will not be joining us as she has hurt herself during their morning yoga experiments. A mental picture of a not very well-executed hazardous tantric sex maneuver comes to my mind but I don’t dwell on it. I am slightly disappointed, meeting a real live Russian women being a childhood dream of mine, at least the part of childhood with access to the Internet.
So the eight of us – 3 guides, 4 noobes and Avinash set off up the mountain, on the company Pajero, to reach the point from where we’d begin our expedition. The ride takes the better part of an hour as the road is under repairs. It was being maintained by the army, but somebody forgot to tell them that. As we travel we can see the clear Ganges flowing below. I learn Rishikesh is the place where the river exits the mountains and enters the northern plains and as a self-confessed geography nut that fascinates me. We pass by the rapids as we climb up and Avnesh tells us their names each time – ‘Jail no Bail’, ‘Rollercoaster’, ‘Double-Trouble’ etc. I am less than amused.
We eventually reach the starting point and help unload the kayaks, rafts and other gear from the top of the jeep. This was just the beginning of the hard work. I don’t like to complain but physical effort and I go about as well together as monogamy and Tiger Woods. Avnesh hands out skin-hugging wet suits which don’t exactly show off my figure and I’m almost glad Sergei’s wife didn’t make it. Almost. To add to that, the wet suits aren’t exactly made peeing friendly. And, before you start wondering, I’m not talking about in the water, rather land peeing. I haven’t done it in water since I grew up. About 3 months ago. Anyways I’ve done it in harsher conditions so I make do.
Avnesh then proceeds to let us know of the safety procedures- like what you would have to do if you fall of the raft and are close by or far off or under the raft or if the raft flips. They even make us sign one of those waiver forms, which say that they aren’t responsible for any unfortunate events that might occur. As you may have guessed, I was really eager to sign that. Though, truthfully, they seemed to know what they were talking about which was a relief. He also shows us how to hold a paddle- always in a T-grip else you risk chipping of your co-passengers teeth when the ride becomes a bit rough. This safety talk was getting more and more fun exactly like my team meetings at work where all one does is smile uncomfortably while the manager rants on. A helmet, a splash jacket and a life jacket complete our outfit and leave me feeling like an armored warrior all set to conquer the seven seas.
To be continued
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Tours n Travails - Rishikesh. Part 1 of 4
The following interior monologue is based on personal experiences except the parts that might get me into trouble. Those are purely fictional.
P.S: I know not how to use a comma
I’ve never been a big fan of water. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy the occasional bath or two. A Single Malt Whiskey with said liquid and a dash of soda is beyond description. The beach too is one of my favorite places but only the sandy part not the saline.
Nonetheless being surrounded by water, with land more than just a stones throw away is not my idea of a good time. Besides I throw like a girl, girls with pigtails and not 15” biceped more-testosterone-than-me javelin throwing she-men. Add to that the fact that I can only drink like a fish but not swim like one and you’ll know why I am a land-lover.
Hence when my friend P.B suggested that we take a trip to Rishikesh to white-water raft on the holy Ganges I was more than a little apprehensive. I did try to make up some excuse about work, which worked the first weekend, but then he postpones his flight so that we could do this trip the next. If he was so intent on drowning in the holy river, far be it from me to stop him. Besides I’ll try anything at least once and I’ll eat anything at least twice but that’s a story for another day.
So I book a cab and wait for Friday midnight for it to ferry me to my watery grave. Greek souls had to pay a single gold coin to boatman Charon to carry them across the River Styx to the underworld; I get a deal for 6 bucks a kilometer. In the meantime we talk to a few people who suggest that we should go to Haridwar since its on the way and it happens to be the time of the Mahakumbh, which takes place only once in 12 years. By suggested I mean- “Don’t cross any old Babas or they’ll put an eternal curse on you and your progeny.” I don’t give two nuts about my progeny but my health and general well being is important to me. That more or less meant we’d skip Haridwar.
We invite a colleague of ours, a Mr. S.L, another one of those misfortunate creatures taken from their original habitat of South India and forced to ride a unicycle in the cruel circus that is New Okhla Industrial Development Authority. S.L flatly refused to come initially but changed his mind when we he realized that he’d be able to take a bath in the Ganges thereby washing away his sins but more on that later.
Come Friday night and the cabbie arrives- a short, pot-bellied man with long hair slick with generous tablespoons of oil, or whatever it is they measure oil in. I, like most uppity middle class men with pretensions of class, don’t bother remembering his name but in keeping with my previous analogy we shall call him Charon. He tells me that he hasn’t been to Rishikesh but has prayed in Haridwar like all god-fearing scrupulous cab drivers in U.P. As per latest government census there are just 9 left. I have started a T-shirt campaign.
Rishikesh is only 30 kilometers away from Haridwar and besides Charon had come here as a five year old at a time when his mother used only a single teaspoon to wet his scalp. Hence we had nothing to worry.
I nestle in the back seat, jacket on, and window down and we move on the dark, not quite desert, highway (NH-58), cool wind in my hair but sadly no warm smell of Colitas rising up through the air. Other than the huge traffic jam which turned our journey from a five hour trip to a seven hour one it was a largely uneventful ride if you discount the Uttarkhand state police almost shooting at us and searching my bag for drugs, alcohol and/or ammunition.
You see, while I listened to Hootie and the Blowfish on my pod, Charon, in his infinite wisdom, chose to sneak past a police check-post. All the while the police are on the lookout for terrorists who might or might not be visiting the kumbh for a dip in the holy river. Needless to say we were chased and chastised, the cops being a touch disappointed I wasn’t carry anything juicy. Too bad they didn’t catch us on the return trip.
For the parts that I was awake I remember passing by IIT Roorkee. I don’t exactly understand, but have experienced firsthand, the fascination with IIT campuses that all engineers share, while at the same time not forgetting to belittle the specimens they house.
We also pass by Haridwar and other than the lights and razzle-dazzle; I notice a lot of signboards all of which have the picture of at least one holy man. They apparently have been enlightened with the knowledge of which constructor you should buy flats from. Besides real estate the signboard Babas were also of the opinion that the locally housed religion was under threat from all sorts of forces and it was up to the red-blooded youth to protect it. Even though my two co-passengers were asleep I doubt that they’d be inspired by the message, Rafting and Sin-washing being the only things on their respective minds.
To be continued
P.S: I know not how to use a comma
I’ve never been a big fan of water. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy the occasional bath or two. A Single Malt Whiskey with said liquid and a dash of soda is beyond description. The beach too is one of my favorite places but only the sandy part not the saline.
Nonetheless being surrounded by water, with land more than just a stones throw away is not my idea of a good time. Besides I throw like a girl, girls with pigtails and not 15” biceped more-testosterone-than-me javelin throwing she-men. Add to that the fact that I can only drink like a fish but not swim like one and you’ll know why I am a land-lover.
Hence when my friend P.B suggested that we take a trip to Rishikesh to white-water raft on the holy Ganges I was more than a little apprehensive. I did try to make up some excuse about work, which worked the first weekend, but then he postpones his flight so that we could do this trip the next. If he was so intent on drowning in the holy river, far be it from me to stop him. Besides I’ll try anything at least once and I’ll eat anything at least twice but that’s a story for another day.
So I book a cab and wait for Friday midnight for it to ferry me to my watery grave. Greek souls had to pay a single gold coin to boatman Charon to carry them across the River Styx to the underworld; I get a deal for 6 bucks a kilometer. In the meantime we talk to a few people who suggest that we should go to Haridwar since its on the way and it happens to be the time of the Mahakumbh, which takes place only once in 12 years. By suggested I mean- “Don’t cross any old Babas or they’ll put an eternal curse on you and your progeny.” I don’t give two nuts about my progeny but my health and general well being is important to me. That more or less meant we’d skip Haridwar.
We invite a colleague of ours, a Mr. S.L, another one of those misfortunate creatures taken from their original habitat of South India and forced to ride a unicycle in the cruel circus that is New Okhla Industrial Development Authority. S.L flatly refused to come initially but changed his mind when we he realized that he’d be able to take a bath in the Ganges thereby washing away his sins but more on that later.
Come Friday night and the cabbie arrives- a short, pot-bellied man with long hair slick with generous tablespoons of oil, or whatever it is they measure oil in. I, like most uppity middle class men with pretensions of class, don’t bother remembering his name but in keeping with my previous analogy we shall call him Charon. He tells me that he hasn’t been to Rishikesh but has prayed in Haridwar like all god-fearing scrupulous cab drivers in U.P. As per latest government census there are just 9 left. I have started a T-shirt campaign.
Rishikesh is only 30 kilometers away from Haridwar and besides Charon had come here as a five year old at a time when his mother used only a single teaspoon to wet his scalp. Hence we had nothing to worry.
I nestle in the back seat, jacket on, and window down and we move on the dark, not quite desert, highway (NH-58), cool wind in my hair but sadly no warm smell of Colitas rising up through the air. Other than the huge traffic jam which turned our journey from a five hour trip to a seven hour one it was a largely uneventful ride if you discount the Uttarkhand state police almost shooting at us and searching my bag for drugs, alcohol and/or ammunition.
You see, while I listened to Hootie and the Blowfish on my pod, Charon, in his infinite wisdom, chose to sneak past a police check-post. All the while the police are on the lookout for terrorists who might or might not be visiting the kumbh for a dip in the holy river. Needless to say we were chased and chastised, the cops being a touch disappointed I wasn’t carry anything juicy. Too bad they didn’t catch us on the return trip.
For the parts that I was awake I remember passing by IIT Roorkee. I don’t exactly understand, but have experienced firsthand, the fascination with IIT campuses that all engineers share, while at the same time not forgetting to belittle the specimens they house.
We also pass by Haridwar and other than the lights and razzle-dazzle; I notice a lot of signboards all of which have the picture of at least one holy man. They apparently have been enlightened with the knowledge of which constructor you should buy flats from. Besides real estate the signboard Babas were also of the opinion that the locally housed religion was under threat from all sorts of forces and it was up to the red-blooded youth to protect it. Even though my two co-passengers were asleep I doubt that they’d be inspired by the message, Rafting and Sin-washing being the only things on their respective minds.
To be continued
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