The leaving of Liverpool
The leaving of Liverpool and arriving in Mussoorie was easy in some ways, hard in others. In emotional terms it was very hard. For me it took the form of what I can only describe as hypertension - pulse rate up, gasping for breath, chest pains. A visit to the local mission hospital in Mussoorie after four days of these symptoms convinced me that I wasn't going to die, and I began to calm down. The sense of God's presence helped, too!
In practical terms everything was straightforward. The flights were good, we had far too much luggage but only had to pay excess on part of it, we were met at Delhi airport on Saturday morning by the hotel we had booked into - within no time we were ensconced in an A/C room in a reasonably luxurious hotel for our two night enforced holiday in Delhi, waiting for Monday morning to reclaim the crates we had shipped across. It was hot - touching 40C - so we managed only limited wanders around the environs; but enough to convince ourselves that we were in India. Monkey enjoyed the chance to relax in a cactus tree!
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Our hotel in Delhi |
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Monkey goes native |
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Welcome to new staff |
Monday was the true India experience. A flow chart painted on the wall in the waiting room of the airport baggage hall carefully delineates the 15 steps necessary to leave the compound with your shipment of goods. A number of these extremely vital steps simply involved carrying a piece of paper from room to room to obtain signatures and watch the official press a single computer key. Our crates were reclaimed and carried to join a jumbled mass in the inspection area, where they were all opened, cursorily examined, and resealed. Having a detailed list of contents was obviously helpful, since just a couple of items were marked for attention, and with only a small charge for duty and handling we were allowed to load up our truck for the journey to Mussoorie. By now, however, it was 5.00 p.m., and the strictures of those we had spoken to had been against travelling in the dark.
But the agent and the truck driver were doing just that, and we didn't want to be too far separated from our worldy goods, so we decided to go for it. In any case, we were ready to get to Mussoorie: after four years wait, another night seemed just silly. What a good choice! It might have been scary in places, but "night ride to Mussoorie" was as poetic as it sounds, and full of things to see and think about. Bear in mind that the drive to Mussoorie is six - seven hours in the daylight, we didn't finally get away until 7.00 p.m., and by 8.00 p.m. it is pitch black.
For a start there's the whole process of driving at night. Indian vehicles seem to have two choices as far as lights are concerned: full on or full off. Approaching cars generally demonstrated the force of their main beams right up to the moment of passing, when they would politely dip their lights as if in salutation. With no road lighting at all, judging distances and avoiding the myriad unlit cycles, scooters, rickshaws and pedestrians was a work of art - luckily, our driver was just such an artist, and we never for a moment felt under threat. Mind you, whenever he rubbed his eyes I did watch him closely for a while.
The road consists of sections of less inhabited country areas, with frequent busy villages and towns. Every few miles there was a dhaba - a roadside café with a black and white TV and mostly empty tables and chairs, lit by a fence of vertical strip lights. Trucks parked for the night lined certain parts of the road. Many had dayglow designs on the front in a variety of colours, and in the lights of our taxi they loomed out of the darkness like monstrous dead-eyed faces.
Did I say no road lighting? Bizarrely, in one place there was. After over a hundred miles of narrow roads, one town had a dual carriageway for a section of maybe a mile, with street lamps lining the central reservation. Most were unlit, and many leaned at crazy angles. Which local politician had decided that this was the priority for his town?
Dehradun is the gateway to the foothills of the Garhwal Himalaya. It is a large, noisy and prosperous place with all the bustle and confusion of an Indian city. Except not at 1.00 a.m. You could believe the population had been spirited away. Our baggage truck caught up with us again and in eerie silence we commenced the long climb to Mussoorie - 20 miles and around 5,500'. The air became cooler and cooler as we ascended, but fortunately, despite the monsoon season, there was no rain.
Finally - Woodstock. The chowkidars at the gate were expecting us, and willingly helped hump our very heavy baggage into the safety of the main building before leading the way up the hill to our accommodation. A bed ready made, basic food on the table, furniture in place - a really welcome sight at the end of a long day. And a good five hours to sleep before Woodstock's induction day began on the Tuesday morning.