Back to Hell again, then on to Almora

After Dharamsala and our trip to see the Dali Lama, we returned to Delhi (on another 13 hour bus ride) and stayed at the same hotel in the Tibetan refugee colony. We saw the red fort (huge and red) and bought our ticket to Almora. The overnight sleeper train only had one ticket in 2nd class AC (the prefered mode), which I let Uncle Alan have. The train terminal is torturous especially with a duffel bag as heavy and cumbersome as mine. It proved even more difficult when I got onto the train and had to carry it on my head in order to squeeze through the aisle. It didn't help that all these Indian men either stared at me or gave me a look of utter disdain. I am trying to get used to it but it's hard when they are staring at me like I have tits the size of Pamela Anderson (God help Jess).
Despite all this I was lucky enough to find a nice Indian gentleman that spoke English. He had a doctorate and is the director of the Central Himalya Environmental Association. He told me about his vacation to the States and I told him about my hopes of working in a Indian Restaurant. He started writing down a contact for the secretary of the Nainital Hotel and Restaurant Association. After our chat I squeezed into the top bunk of the sleeper and nuzzled up tightly next to my guitar. If the uncomfortable bed wasn't bad enough, there was the loud screaming and laughing from half the cabin, if that wasn't bad enough there was the obnoxious snoring from the guy right next to me, if that wasn't bad enough I kept having to shit and the consistency and color hasn't been anything but the soupy mixture of dal and curry I keep eating. My neck is killing me from holding this duffel bag on my head and my back from the awful nights sleep.
After the desperatly long train ride, I have to sit in this shit train station for two hours repeatedly telling the same cab driver we're not interested in their over-priced fares, while we wait for Uncle Alan's contact who wants to sell him a jeep. Two shady looking guys show up with a car the size of a playschool toy. We squeezed the duffel bag in the trunk in such a way that my head couldn't go back. We then proceeded to drive around in circles looking for some Joe Baba character who is supposed to be the missing link for this car deal. I guess we need him cause their English is about as good as my Hindi.
We finally find Joe Baba and a place for chai. Joe is Uncle Alan's neighbor who is doing Uncle Alan "a favor" by pawning off this shitty 1972 Indian made jeep for a ridiculously inflated price-tag. The fumes from the kitchen of the restaurant smelled like burning rubber and the egg sandwich they brought out (after 30 minutes mind you) tasted bout as good as my train shit. I was starving and completely fed-up with this back and forth bullshit. This Joe Baba guy has long slicked back hair, sleek glasses, motorcycle gloves and teeth-stained from years of Indian chewing tobacco and hand rolled hash cigarettes. He has the overly friendly vibe of someone trying to screw you or Fuck you. I was not in the mood for either.
Of course the negotiations aren't over and we had to squeeze back into the clown car for a trip to the mechanic. Stepping over dead rats, we have some mechanic tell us this 40 year old piece of junk is decent. He has about as much smoke coming out of his ass as there was smoke coming form the exhaust. Uncle Alan is finally satisfied and actually considering buying the car (to my astonishment) and we are ready to make the trip to his house in Almora (Kasar Devi to be exact).
The wild driving taxi is taking the narrow turns with no regard for whats around each bend. Instead he just lays on the horn and hopes for the best. The mixture of my already aching body, the billows of exhaust fumes, and this wanna-be rally car driver, makes my head spin. Since Joe Baba lives near Uncle Alan he is leading the way in his little bike. My head hurt so bad that when we stopped for some food and he offered me a ride on the back of his bike, I accepted without a thought. Anything would be better than that cab. It turned out to be a great decision. If I wasn't feeling so miserable I might have enjoyed the beautiful ride along this winding shallow river. Or maybe the breath-taking panoramic view of the Himalayas would have inspired more than a wow. Actually, that first glimpse of the snow-peaked mountain, the quaint hill-side town, and terraced mountain fields was pretty awesome.
Unfortunately the streets and people are exactly the opposite of the beautiful view. I'm not sure why but my white skin inspires contempt from almost everyone except some women and children. I almost got killed for using a bathroom after I apologized profusely and offered money. Then as I desperately searched for a place to wash my hands I got nothing but blank stares and wide smirks. Thankfully a hotel let me use their sink before I killed one of these Indians.
The town of Almora is just as dirty and almost as noisy as Delhi but a hour and half walk outside, in Kasar Devi, you can find some peace of mind. Unfortunatley life without modern amenities is more annoying than I would have thought. Bucket showers suck, especially when the electricity goes out half-way through heating it up. Washing clothes in buckets also are not fun, especially when my new scarf bled and ruined my whites. It seems like all my clothes where just as dirty except now they are stiff from the detergent that I was unable to ring out. There is something to be said about the simple life but modern convienence is definitely nice. The beauty of these hills and view of the Himalayas are definitely everything and more, but my troubles with Uncle Alan and my unhappiness with the people are telling me that my time here might not last long. O yea, the tiny room that I share with Uncle Alan is poorly insulated and has mice, plus spiders that are literally the size of my hand. I am not kidding, the size of my FUCKING HAND!!!