Bus from Rishikesh, 9 May 2007

We traveled through the night to Rishikesh and when we arrive disheveled, crumpled up and with clogged internal plumbing, it’s in the wee hours of the morn. We have to change and get on to the bus to Loha Jung. The driver Dev looks like the Hindi film villain Danny Denzongopa and we quickly freshen up for a photoshoot. We board the bus. I brace myself as we pass the picturesque Lakshman Jula. I am famed among the circles I move for throwing up in the UK, USA and the UAE and I do not understand why my own country should be an exception. Our bus driver Danny obligingly stops the bus before the holy Dev Prayag as I get off to throw up. Woe is me—what a way to pay my respect! Surprisingly, Liz joins me—just adopted as aunt and already showing family solidarity?! There are others too, unrelated, and we continue to dispense our bile thru the ghats till we reach the Base Camp—the only consolation for me was a compliment from Preeti which is very rare indeed, “That was very dignified throwing up.”

So for 12 hours, we suffered the rain, the cramped seats, the sudden jolts and turns (of the bus and the stomach) and great advice on the billboards “If married, divorce speed”, “Better to be Mr Late than Late Mr”, till we got to Base Camp. The sight on the way was literally for sore eyes—amazing views of the Ganga, Alaknanda, Bhagirathi, meandering around playing tag with the mountains. We took in the shores of white sand, avid river rafters braving the rain and the aggressive currents, and the awesome mountains—with sensible advice from the government, “You have the license to drive, not to fly”. And flying was what we wanted to do rather than be crumpled up into our little seats.

After the rigorous, seemingly never-ending hours of the bump and grind in the bus we reached Loha Jung, our Base Camp at 7,200ft. We got off with dampened spirits and clothes—the rain has soaked our clothes and us with disappointment. The Base Camp was gloomy, wet and cold. As Preeti and Aparna set out to dry whatever they could, we all began unpacking what we could carry in the rucksacks given out to us. The tents were far from being cosy and the sleeping bags did not keep us warm enough. The makeshift toilets were apologies to basic hygiene. The dinner warmed our souls with delicious hot jalebis along with the Rajma and rice. When we slept, it was probably with one thought bubble over our heads, “What have we got into?” But we trusted Baz Luhrman on the sunscreen—we had plenty between us.