After a successful Old Delhi bus tour the day before, we thought it would be appropriate to see the new as well. At 8 o’clock we met Gupta, later known as Gupta the Guide Nazi. He wanted our undivided attention at every moment, and would yell “Stay with me!” or “Come here, here please!” when Chris and I ventured away from his side to look around or take a photograph. Furthermore, after our first stop at Jantar Mantar, it was apparent that GGN had no clue what he was talking about (despite his boasts of 42 years as a tour guide). We left Jantar Mantar knowing that its buildings were astrological and mathematical tools, and that somehow you can tell time or your birthday or when the shortest day of the year is using the sun. Or the moon. At Humayun’s Tomb, an enormous structure that inspired the Taj Mahal, and the Qutub Minar, a bunch of ancient pillars and arches, we left with the same ambiguity. We stopped by the gate of India, but he wouldn’t let Chris and I walk up to it and see the 80,000 Indian names inscribed from WWII. The only place we left with satisfaction was the Lotus Temple, thanks to the informative pamphlet handed to us at the door. Constructed with no beams or pillars from Greek white marble (though polished in Italy), it is a Baha’i temple, a (hippy) religion that “is an independent world religion, divine in origin, all-embracing in scope, broad in its outlook, scientific in its method, humanitarian in its principles and dynamic in the influence it exerts on the hearts and minds of men.” They forgot to add “…and vague in its explanation.” From there we headed to Indira Gandhi’s house/museum, including a memorial by the spot where she was murdered. Due to the gaggles of short and stout Indian ladies shoving through the exhibition, GGN was especially stringent. To make matters worse, GGN took us to a carpet emporium at the end of the tour. A spot where he most definitely got commission for bringing wide-eyed tourists with deep pockets. We were served tea while the owner demonstrated how the carpets are made. Once he finished and we showed signs of leaving, he (along with a few others) aggressively repeated “Looking is free, young boy, which would your mother like?” and “There’s no obligation to buy.” To which I responded in my head, “Oh great, you mean you won’t lock us in here and force us to purchase a carpet? How sweet of you.” When we were set free from the grip of the Guide Nazi, Chris and I headed to the train station. We discovered that the Taj Mahal is closed on Fridays, so we decided to go up north a day early and catch the Taj on our return. I woke up at 5:30 the next morning to find a new guy sleeping in the room. It took me a few seconds, but then I remembered that Chris went to pick up Bear, Rustic’s new India staff member, late the night before. When we told Ashby of a third member named Bear, she questioned nervously, “Is he bigger than Chris?” (Chris is a huge guy, football player). Bear unfortunately never got to meet Babu, though we were given a loaf of his famous banana bread to take on our journey. After saying “goodbye” for now to Ashby (and “hello,” in Bear’s case), we took a taxi to the train station and hopped on the 6:50 from Delhi to Amritsar. It was hectic trying to find our seats on the never-ending train bloated with people, and, when we finally did, we had to relocate the 3 people hanging out in them. The first-class cars have individual seats, padded and separate from one another. The third-class cars have benches, and it’s survival of the fittest. The second-class cars have “seat numbers and a window,” as the station officer told me after I inquired about second-class conditions (first was full). And it was fine: uncomfortable restaurant-like booths awkwardly close to the strangers opposite, with a window and fans that looked like they were just glued all over the ceiling. Chris, Bear, and I squeezed our luggage onto racks and our bodies onto the hard booth. Every five minutes (and at stops) I did the 1, 2, 3 belongings check – backpack on the opposite rack, computer bag over my head, and my little day-pack beside me. I was borderline paranoid. The train was quite an experience, inside and out. Inside there were the musicians practically in your lap, the disabled beggars sliding down the rows, the surplus passengers crammed wherever, and, my personal favorite, the vendors screaming so fast it all turned into gibberish: “Chai, Chai, Chai!” and “Coffee, Coffee, Coffee!!” and “Tandoori, Tandoori, Tandoori!!!” …as they lugged their large pots and overflowing baskets up and down the aisle. Chris and I drank about 7 cups of chai tea, debating the probability of Delhi belly a few hours later. (In India, the 3-feet rule replaces the 10-second rule: If it comes within 3 feet of the ground, it’s no good.) Outside there were the people bathing over the tracks, the boys with painted moustaches beating a drum, the small girls doing backbends and other acrobatic performances, the vendors and beggars at our windows, the people shitting on the platform – from babies to grandmas, along with your occasional sheep. I had to navigate my way through flocks of beggars the way you would through neighboring racks of clothes, hands brushing my arms like shirts. The bathroom on the train is an experience I won't go into. Fiver hours later, we arrived in the shady town of Amritsar, just miles away from the Pakistan border. We hired a driver with a truck to take us to McLeod (pronounced Mecloud) Ganj, our final destination at the foothills of the Himalayas. The narrow roads winding through the mountains made for an interesting ride at night. They were perhaps even more shabby due to the earthquake. I was frequently woken up from any brief napping attempts by the loud honking and bright lights of a bus coming directly towards us. Good times. Side note: India is the only place I know of where it’s relieving to discover an STD. I don’t know what the letters stand for exactly, but they mark local telephone booths all over the country. The total trek from Delhi to McLeod Ganj lasted roughly 15 hours. We checked into the last room at the Om Guesthouse and enjoyed some pie and tea. At breakfast this morning, we ran into Steve, another Rustic dude who had been sent to India to travel around and scope out sights for next summer. Both Bear and Steve have spent time here before, so they pointed out the great restaurants, shops, hikes, etc. to Chris and I as we walked around. After only one day, I can confidently state that MG is an unbelievable place. Home to His Holiness the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government in exile, it is a fascinating blend of Tibetan and Indian cultures, sprinkled with a bit of Israeli as well. The Tibetan influence is most prominent - in the food, the people, the spirit, and the souvenirs. It’s easy to forget that this is northern India and not a niche in Tibet.

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