The cold at Kausani (India)

Thursday 28 November 2019

   Mr Singh sells tea and spices from the Uttam Tea Centre, a little shop at the chowk (junction) in the middle of Main Bazaar. I met him on my first journey in India and have visited him on every journey since. As I approach his shop I see him sitting in the shadows inside; he looks up, recognises me instantly even though I’m still a long way off, and waves a greeting. He stands, comes out smiling, and shakes my hand before ushering me into the back of his shop, which is tiny and redolent with the aromatic scent of fenugreek being packaged into 100-gram lots by the woman he always refers to as his friend. Steep, narrow, iron stairs ascend into the darkness of a loft. What’s up there? It looks like a haunt of goblins, and the shop, with the compartments that cover its walls crammed with all manner of packages, some looking untouched for decades, has an almost mediaeval atmosphere. Around fourteen years ago, on my first visit, it looked the same.

   Our conversations are necessarily stilted because of our limited common language: in other words, Mr Singh’s basic English and my stumbling attempts to simplify my basic English enough for him to understand. Even the content tends to be the same: tea, the weather in Delhi, the medicinal uses of spices — fenugreek, he tells me, is good for diabetes. Inevitably, age crops up. How old am I? I tell him.
   ‘You look younger!’ he says, with immediate enthusiasm, and I want to believe him.
   He’s hardly likely to tell me I look older, but his quick response and (perhaps expertly-feigned) delight make me think perhaps I’m not going downhill as fast as I feared. In fact, my health on this trip has so far been good, with no trace of the gut problems for which Delhi is infamous, and no difficulty handling a full day on steep mountainsides at altitude looking for Himalayan monal with Sally and Prem. Long may that continue.

   Mr Singh wants to know if I’ve been to the Golden Temple. Yes, I say, and tell him, truthfully, that I had a good feeling there, that the place felt welcoming. I ask if he’s from Amritsar.
   He nods and says, ‘Yes, I am from Amritsar.’
   ‘You must have been to the Golden Temple many times?’
   ‘Once a month!’ he says, with even more enthusiasm. He’s proud of his record.

   He buys me chai, as he always does, and I buy second flush Darjeeling from him. Even though my visits are so infrequent, they have something of the feel of ritual. These are the quiet, genuine interactions that I love so much about travelling repeatedly in India — these and so much more, like writing by hand on the rooftop of the Smyle Inn, listening to the 5.30 azan, watching black kites soaring in the dusk and crows flying to roost and late lost pigeons unable to decide on which ledge to spend the night. An evening breeze shivers the ivy leaves along the white-painted split cane wall, and the fact that it’s artificial, not real, ivy doesn’t matter.

Tuesday 3 December 2019

   At Bhowali I arrived just as the bus for Almora (70/-) was about to leave.
   ‘Almora?’ I said to the man I assumed was the conductor, and I pointed at the bus, which was just starting to move.
   I climbed aboard, couldn’t fit my big bag in the luggage rack, so had to leave it leaning against my legs as I braced myself for several hours of standing in a moving bus.

   But after the conductor had boarded, he tapped my shoulder and pointed to his seat. I couldn’t believe my luck but wasted no time in seating myself with the small bag on my lap. I wondered how long I’d get to sit there, but he was in no hurry and only shifted me when another seat became available. Comfortable seats the entire way — amazing. If he hadn’t looked so much like Masterchef Australia judge George Calombaris, I’d have liked him anyway.

   Parakeets — ringnecks, I assume, although I couldn’t see them well enough — perched in a tree above the river. At first I took them for some kind of large fruit, then for odd leaves. They looked out-of-place and at-home at the same time and filled me with that strange, inchoate sense of mingled joy and sadness that I don’t understand but which somehow gives meaning to a life.

   Huge birds are circling low down in the narrow valley — so low I can look down on them as they turn. Several look like lammergeiers, and I assume the others are too, but I can’t be sure. I swivel in my seat to stare at them for as long as possible and I’m sure the other passengers must be doing likewise, except at me.

   On the shaded side of the mountain, a man by the cold roadside slowly lifts soup to his mouth. He looks as if he’s been cold his entire life and must do everything in slow motion to conserve energy. How far during his life has he travelled from his home? What does he believe about foreign places? Why am I the lucky one, or at least the privileged one, and would he envy me and wish to change places? To feel sorry for him would be patronising, but I acknowledge my good fortune. The jeep drives on.

   Even before I’d reached Almora, I’d decided to try for Kausani. The Hotel Uttarakhand had become a goal, almost a grail, and the memories of the significant times I’d had there on the previous journeys pulled me onwards. I almost changed my mind when I kept getting incomprehensible directions to the shared jeeps in Almora, but eventually someone with good English pointed down a set of steep steps and said go right at the bottom. I’d only just started towards the first jeep when a tall, beaming man called out ‘Kausani?’
  ‘Yes.’
  ‘This one,’ he said, pointing, and he escorted me to the jeep, hoisted my bag onto the roof rack, and ushered me into the back of the jeep, saying, ‘Please sit.’
   I sit. An animated argument bordering on a fight breaks out in front of a dhaba, and a tiny lizard skips through limp weeds and broken glass on top of a rock-&-cement retaining wall next to the jeep.

   Nothing happens and no more passengers get into the jeep. I get out and go to the dhaba, order a paratha and get served two, both of which I manage to eat. One of the staff, gentle and slow, shows me how to use the arcane tap to wash my fingers. He gets a jug of water and pours it over my hands as I wash them, and I’m touched by his quiet willingness to help. The cook whets his knife on the concrete floor, right in the main thoroughfare of the dhaba, then pops it straight back into the cutlery cup.

   More waiting, then suddenly I’m transferred in haste to a different jeep and we’re on our way. From time to time I share the back with one or two people but have plenty of room. A mother and daughter get in, and the mother returns my smile. The daughter doesn’t travel well, though, and eventually she leans out the window, and when she’s finished vomiting she wipes tears from her eyes. Out of respect, I’ve looked away, but I catch a glimpse of her mother rubbing her back. They stop the jeep, pay the driver, and cross the road to a small collection of shacks. I don’t know if that was their destination or whether the mother decided to take a break and let her daughter recover.

   About two-thirds of the way to Kausani, I’m transferred to another jeep, which suits me fine because I have the back to myself and a more careful driver. It’s a straightforward, winding drive the rest of the way, and when I’m dropped off I look for the manager of the Hotel Uttarakhand, who seems to live at the chowk waiting for clients. Rob from Louisiana, who’d been living near Kausani for six years when I visited last time. We’d had an excellent conversation over breakfast at the restaurant, and I’d been hoping to renew our acquaintance. But time moves on; the world changes; everything eventually becomes memory and is finally lost. I have two full days here to relax and think and enjoy the birds and the spectacular mountains and, with luck, get rid of the sore throat that arrived last night and which I hope is not a symptom of something worse.

But he’s not there, and the hotel’s apparently deserted, although the reception’s open. I rearrange my gear and leave my larger bag out of sight in the office, and I’m about to go looking when someone calls out and walks up. It’s the new manager, and the slight sense of disappointment I’d felt at not being greeted by the man who’d looked after me on all three previous visits strengthens. The new manager gives me an excellent room for half the advertised price and I pay for three nights. It’s good to be back, even though the former manager’s gone and the restaurant’s closed for extensive renovations, so I have no chance of meeting him.

   I keep thinking about an incident on the final jeep ride. When I’d been transferred to the second jeept, an exuberantly cheerful man who looked to be in his sixties kept proclaiming the price of the trip, apparently in an attempt to make sure I was charged the correct price. I thanked him, although the price he was calling out was exactly what I’d already been quoted. Later, partway to our destination, he turned in the seat he shared with several others and grinned at me as I relaxed on my own in the back of the jeep. He stretched out his arm, his fist closed, and nodded vigorously, beaming. He did this several times, then slowly opened his fist to reveal what looked like a small licorice twist. He nodded again, offering it to me.
   ‘Danyavad, but no,’ I said, and shook my head and waved it away while smiling my thanks. I neither needed nor wanted a small licorice twist.
   He took it well, nodding and withdrawing his hand. Later, I thought about what he’d offered me. I think it might have been a small piece of hashish.

Wednesday 4 December 2019

   Outside my window the early morning sunlight gleams pale and white on the great peaks — Trisul, Nanda Devi, Panchachuli, and others — and thin cirrus hangs over the skyline. I sip Mr Singh’s Darjeeling tea, made illicitly using my mini immersion heater in a metal cup, and try to recover from the coldest night I’ve endured for many years. A man who looks just similar enough to the former manager to make me wonder if he’s related asks if I would like breakfast. Yes, I say, asking for milk coffee and banana porridge (it doesn’t take long to get used to menu terminology in India). Milk coffee is OK, but he looks worried at the request for porridge, even though it’s on the menu. He goes away, checks, comes back and tells me it’s not an option.
   ‘Porridge is not possible,’ he says (more terminology). ‘Butter toast? Omelette slice?’
   I choose omelette slice, assuming it’s some kind of variation on an omelette. A short time later the coffee and omelette slice arrive, the latter comprising a kind of unfolded omelette with a piece of toast embedded in the middle — like a cross between French toast and an omelette. It’s good, and it’s a reasonable alternative to banana porridge, but tomorrow I might see if banana porridge is possible at the Yogi restaurant.

   In the morning sun I’m warm, and enjoying the feeling, but my left leg’s in shade and feels chilled; the contrast between sun and shade is astounding. A crow circles, cawing, and I’m again struck by the way their big wings flex when they fly. Their flight seems so deliberate, so intentional, that it’s hard not to believe these birds always have a plan.

   A small Indian fly has taken a liking to me, but the feeling isn’t mutual, and I’d be just as happy if it found someone or something else to pester. Maybe it’s attracted by my hair, which is still damp from the bucket shower I survived this morning. The shower head did no more than dribble hot water from a great height, so I resorted to the widespread practice of pouring mugs of warm water over myself. It works, but while one body part warms up briefly, the rest freezes. In the cavernous bathroom, which felt like the interior of a crevasse, I began shivering so much I started to wonder whether I was becoming hypothermic. At least I ended up thoroughly clean, though, and once I’d towelled myself dry and dressed, I felt warm for the first time since the previous day.

   In the evening I walked the short distance to the chowk and, instead of the Yogi, which has prices in line with the tourist orientation of the Hotel Uttarakhand’s restaurant, tried a restaurant that looked more geared for locals: the Aditya. The prices were only two thirds of those at the hotel and the Yogi, and I ordered aloo gobi (80/-) and plain rice (70/-). The waiter, his head wrapped in a chequered cloth, mustered his best English, checked carefully, and pointed to the two items.
   ‘Aloo gobi; plain rice. Aloo gobi dry,’ he said. ‘Dry?’
   He seemed to be checking that I wanted rice with my aloo gobi, as if rice was unusual for a dry dish like aloo gobi. Rice would be the usual accompaniment for a wet dish like dahl. I confirmed I wanted rice with my dry aloo gobi and he nodded and shouted the order to the cook. Soon after, a good serving of aloo gobi and a plate of hot rice (lukewarm or even cold rice is always a possibility) arrived. Whether the cook had adjusted the recipe on seeing his client, I don’t know, but unlike the fiery equivalent at the Capital dhaba in Delhi, this was comfortably spicy. I hadn’t realised I was so hungry until I began eating and had no trouble finishing it all. Anyone knowing how little I usually eat would immediately recognise that as a sign of the quality of the food. I returned the following night, asked for the same order, and found it just as satisfying. The menu was consistently two-thirds of the price of the same items at the hotel and at the Yogi.

Thursday 5 December 2019

   Banana porridge is possible at the Yogi this morning, and I’m grateful to be able to sit here and scribble, a little before eight in the morning, while I wait for my possible porridge and milk coffee. The sky is white, dull, and cold. My cold is developing slowly, with a slight cough, some soreness at the back of the throat, and enough post-nasal drip to be occasionally annoying. Otherwise, it’s not yet causing significant problems, but I’m torn between staying here where fresh air as well as banana porridge is possible (although anywhere, particularly in or near town, smoke can fill the air quickly and without warning), and returning to lower altitudes where warmth makes life easier but the air is unavoidably filthy.

   The banana porridge is excellent, with a grainy, chewy texture and good flavour. Topped with sliced banana and accompanied by a milk coffee, it makes a filling breakfast that keeps me going until I return for the final time around midday for lunch. Then, knowing this will be the last time I’ll eat there (I’ve already decided to eat at the Aditya for dinner), I explain to the proprietor that I’ll be leaving for Naini Tal and Delhi in the morning, and I ask if I might photograph him. He agrees, and stands formally for the portrait, replacing his usual beaming smile with an expression that only just manages to look slightly pleased.

   A man in a turquoise jersey with sparkly thread woven into the yarn (typical in Uttarakhand) comes into the Yogi and stands next to me, peering at my writing. I look up and greet him with a namaste. He grins and leans over to look a little more closely at the cahier, the open page three-quarters full of handwriting.
   ‘Very comfortable writing,’ he says.
   ‘Danyavad’ — thank you.
   ‘Very comfortable writing,’ he says again and strolls out of the café, smiling. I think he came in just to check me out.

   After breakfast I go for a long walk along the upper road, during which I see a red-vented bulbul — the first of the trip — and a pair of infuriating woodpeckers that almost but not quite allow good photographs. Yet, more sightings of these distinctive birds, always busy, somehow makes them more familiar, and the compulsion to photograph them decreases.

   By the time I get back to my room, the morning’s almost gone. I make Darjeeling tea and drink it on my tiny balcony in the cold shade. The plastic stacka chairs, once white, have pitted and turned grime-grey with age, as has the matching plastic coffee table, but I’m comfortable sitting on the blue foam pad that insulates my arse from the cold plastic and provides padding I don’t naturally possess. The Himalayas shine, hazy in in the midday light, and although this is not the spectacular, colourful, sunset view for which Kausani is famous, I never tire of the sight, nor of the sense of great height as the steep foothills fall away below the hotel into the huge basin between Kausani and the eventual rise of the great peaks.
   But a young man lights a rubbish fire just beyond the hotel, sending clouds of filthy, stinking, dark smoke into the air, and it drifts across the hotel as if drawn to me. All the fires I’ve seen in India have been like this: smouldering rather than burning strongly, with little flame but much foul smoke. The few exceptions include the fires lit by Prem and Dina, who seem to understand the true purpose of a fire. Not doubt other, robust fires happen in India, but so far not when I’m around.

   This morning as I ate my excellent porridge in the Yogi, I looked up to see a tall man walking past, looking in. He smiled and waved, and I did likewise — the former manager of the Hotel Uttarakhand! He was waiting just up the road on some steps in the sun when I left and waved me over. We chatted for a while — easier than most conversations here because his English was the best I’d encountered in Kausani. He’d recognised me and wanted to know how long I’d been here, how long I was travelling, whether I was interested in visiting a nearby temple (I wasn’t, but I liked the reminder of how he’d always tried to sell me some kind of activity), and other usual things. We shook hands and I told him it was good to see him, and I meant it. For me, he was an essential part of the character of Kausani, and without him, the Hotel Uttarakhand was just another hotel, significant mostly for my memories of how it had been.

Friday 6 December 2019

   This morning the foothills between Kausani and the gleaming Himalaya appear more prominent than at any time since I’ve been here. It’s steep, dissected country, even though it appears lower than Kausani. Yet, here and there, small villages shine in the morning sun, and I’m conscious of how, in this tremendously populated country, so many people inhabit the mountains in a way we don’t in New Zealand. The reasons are obvious: apart from our tiny population — at just short of five million, New Zealand’s population is only the same as a medium-sized Indian city — and low population density, distances are short and roads good, and in most places, visiting the mountains need never be more than a day’s excursion there and back. Getting out of the city often takes much of the travelling time. Here, just the drive in a shared jeep from Almora to Kausani takes several hours, and by Indian standards that road’s in good condition. To get from Naini Tal to one of those small villages on the slopes of the Himalayan foothills would take the better part of a day, even in a nimble taxi.
   A black kite flies past, setting off on the day’s rounds. Earlier, I’d heard the monotonous call of a Great barbet and liked the fact that I now knew what made that sound. Vision is so easily an hegemony, overpowering the other senses, but paying attention to birds can lessen that dominance.


   At Domino’s in Naini Tal — a relief from yet another aloo gobi or dal and rice and naan, all of which I nevertheless enjoy — a man with good English acknowledges I was in the queue before him and explains to the confused young man behind the till that it’s pointless asking for my phone number. He shakes his head in solidarity with me, exasperated at the senselessness of the Domino’s standard operating procedures. It’s those kinds of small kindnesses that make travelling a joy.

   Like this morning, for example, when, as I waited for the bus to Almora, the former manager of the Hotel Uttarakhand again saw me and came over, smiling and holding his hand out. I told him I’d try for Almora and perhaps Bhowali and Naini Tal, and he nodded. We tried to hold a conversation but, although his English was good, I struggled to understand him. I asked if the hotel was under new management and he explained something about something (prices perhaps?) going up, then coming down. Eventually we shook hands again.
   ‘Next time,’ he said.
   ‘Next time.’
   I didn’t try again to say I doubted there would be a next time. He wandered down the road and I continued waiting for the bus. When it arrived, a small band of people rushed over. The conductor leaned out the window, harangued them, then the bus moved on. I didn’t get a chance to ask if the bus was going to Almora but presumed it wasn’t because I guessed most of the crowd were headed that way. However, I’ve never understood the apparently arbitrary way local buses stop for some people who wave them down but ignore others, and I had no idea what the conductor was saying other than from his grumpy tone.

   Then I heard someone calling.
   ‘Come!’
   I looked and saw the former hotel manager beckoning.
   ‘Come!’ he said. ‘Bus to Bhowali. Come quickly.’
   He’d stopped the bus, checked, and learned it was going not just to Almora but all the way to Haldwani, meaning I could get off at Bhowali and catch a jeep to Naini Tal.
   We shook hands again and I climbed aboard, the conductor pointing me to the front of the bus in the driver’s area. The journey to Bhowali wasn’t as comfortable as it had been in the opposite direction, travelling to Kausani several days earlier, but I’ve had far worse, and if not for the former manager’s help I wouldn’t have had the trip at all, or not until much later and as a probably more complicated, expensive, and time-consuming series of shorter trips.
   If there is a next time, another visit to Kausani, which I doubt, I’d be worried I wouldn’t get to meet the manager again and try once more to hold a conversation that would probably fail. But conversation is just one part of communication, and in this case it wasn’t what was important.

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Photos (keep an eye on my Instagram account for more from India): 

1.  Streaked laughing thrush, Kausani.
2.  Barred tree creeper, Kausani.
3.  Indian Himalaya from Kausani. Nanda Devi is the slightly less luminous peak in the middle (it's much further back).
4.  The main patio of the Hotel Uttarakhand in Kausani.
5.  The manager of the Yogi Cafe at Kausani.

Photos and original text © 2019 Pete McGregor