November 19 - Sikkim, India

One reason we saved India for our last stop in Asia was to give ourselves the option of taking a boat from Southern India to Africa and winding our way south. We fantasized about finishing our trip in South Africa for the 2010 World Cup.

We didn’t then know how much the value of the dollar would decrease, how difficult it would be to find simple stretches of trash-free grass to play on, how much Johnny would miss skateboarding, how dreadful the pollution would be and how much we would miss our friends and family.

We also saved India for last because, though excited, I was a bit anxious about visiting this country. I’d heard tales about how overwhelming India could be - the poverty, crowds, pollution, mechanics of travel and society - and figured that our introduction would be easier after having traveled through Southeast Asia.

We arrived in Kolkata on November 1st, with a connecting flight to northern India. So, our first, brief glimpse of India, as we transferred from the international terminal to the domestic terminal, was rows of yellow, vintage taxi cabs and clusters of frangipani trees. The mingled scent of incense, spices and urine in the air. The snack counters at the airport selling samosas, fried flat breads and Coke and Fanta in glass bottles.

It faintly reminds me of Africa - the scents and sounds, British accents and large Indian population. It’s exactly as I hoped it would be.

***

We are in North India, in the state of Sikkim, bordered by Nepal, Bhutan and Tibet and in the foothills of the Himalayas. Early in the mornings, when the air is coldest and clearest, Johnny goes up on the roof and stares longingly at the snow-covered mountains. Unfortunately, they will have to wait for another trip. The altitude, cold and arduousness of the trek would just be too much for Willa.

No trains or planes run up here, so unless one can afford to charter a helicopter, transportation is by landrover taxis called ‘share jeeps’ that depart when full. On average, it takes about one hour to cover 30 kilometers, as the roads are dreadful, filled with gaping potholes (we can sometimes see the ravine hundreds of feet below) and the single lanes are shared with military jeeps and trucks, tarted up with colorfully painted flowers and heavily made up eyes. Golden tassels and tinsel fringe hang above the windshields.

The concrete block guesthouses we stay in are so cold we sleep with all of our clothes on. We have no hot water and sometimes no cold water and our first bath comes after a week when we get a bucket of hot water from our guesthouse manager. Electricity frequently goes out and every town has at least one dog that barks non-stop through the night. The towns are built on steep mountainsides, meaning every venture outside holds a challenge, either coming or going.

We take hikes every day, starting out early in the morning bundled up against the cold and returning hours later in the heat of the afternoon sun, hats and jackets removed and down to our T-shirts. The air is free from pollution, clear and thin. Puffy, cotton ball clouds drift in the startlingly blue sky. I wish we could lift the roof from our guesthouse during the day and let the warm sun shine in.

We walk along mountain ridges and through tall forests. Follow barely there dirt paths through dense thickets of plant overgrowth and emerge in villages. Willa calls out, “Moo,” to the cows and hairy yaks, “Bok, bok,” to the chickens and, “Daw!,” whenever she sees one of the many mangy dogs that roam the streets.

In a large field of grass, a man in uniform sits in a chair at a large wooden desk. The desk is bare save for what looks like a large stamp and a stack of papers that the man is rifling through.

Men walk on the muddy roads in cream slacks, somehow managing to keep them clean and free of splatters from passing vehicles. Women wear saris of rich colors - pink, green, yellow, orange - vibrant and beautiful in the setting of dusty roads and woods.

A procession of about twenty men walk down the road, singing and carrying a dead man above their heads, headed for his cremation. The dead man is dark skinned and dressed in white with yellow flower petals scattered on his head and chest.
We squeeze through the crowded market where stalls display tin boxes and gunny sacks filled with colorful spices, fresh produce, soaps and incense, sari cloths and plastic shoes. ‘Fast Food’ shops offering samosas, meat patties, chow mein and momos, steamed dumplings filled with vegetables or meat. Sweet shops with bright orange, yellow, pink and green confections made from sweetened condensed milk, almonds and cardamom.

Mountaintop monasteries are restful with their smooth, worn wooden floors and lit candles. Buddhist prayer flags flap in the wind and we spin the prayer wheels when we leave. Though a different form of Buddhism is practiced here from that throughout Southeast Asia, I am happy to see that the same offerings are made to the figures of Buddha: packages of cookies and chocolates, bottles of Fanta (thoughtfully opened with a straw inserted), cigarettes, plates with donuts and bread rolls. Items that would certainly make me feel benevolent.

There is always music in the air. The garbage man banging the side of his truck to announce his arrival every morning at 5AM. The propane man singing. Cell phones are everywhere and songs played on them like transistor radios (Linkin Park and Avril Lavigne are especially popular.)

One afternoon, we run into a group of Nigerian men wearing jackets with ‘Nigerian Eagles’ printed across the back. They are the Nigerian soccer team, here for the 29th All India Governor’s Gold Cup Football Tournament.

The next day, the stadium is full and the decks of the surrounding tall buildings crowded with people. These are the Semi-Finals and the Eagles are playing against N.R.T. Nepal. It is so wonderfully bizarre to be in India watching a soccer match between Nigeria and Nepal and I can’t believe our luck. We cheer like crazy for Nigeria and Johnny teases me about my continental patriotism for Africa. Unfortunately, it is not enough to carry the team and Nigeria loses.

We’re back the following day for the championship, N.R.T. Nepal vs. Three Stars Nepal. Local students have been given the afternoon off to attend and they sit together according to school, rows of red uniforms, pale blue uniforms and rows of dark blue. Clusters of monks are easily spotted in in their dark burgundy robes.

At half time, young boys and girls run up and down the stands carrying trays of sweet, milky masala tea in Dixie cups and banana leaf bowls of fried spicy potatoes. Indian pop music blares from the sound system and Willa wiggles her body and head, clapping her hands and dancing to the music. She is a charmer and everyone wants to pat her head, pinch her cheeks, touch her.

A young girl, about 11, and her younger brother sit with us and take turns holding Willa on their laps. They share roasted peanuts with us and we share tangerines with them. Like many Indians we talk with here, the young girl’s English is so formal it sounds almost foreign. Offering us more peanuts, “Don’t you find them pleasing?” Indeed.

The sky is clear and blue and the bright sun warms us. Willa is happy and laughing with her new friends. The crowd is in high-spirits, cheering, yelling and singing. N.R.T. Nepal takes home the cup, again winning 2:1.

I can’t imagine the Word Cup being any sweeter.