Hiking, but not Hitching with Dad
Thirty-nine years ago my dad meandered from Ethiopia to Sudan, into Egypt, and flew to Iran. Then he stuck out his thumb and hitchhiked into Afghanistan, took a bus to Pakistan and walked across the border to India.
This is all pre-backpacker era so imagine a twenty-something Leave-it-to-Beaver roaming the Middle East and South East Asia toting a suit case.
But the man who said he stayed in some sort of youth hostel where the hole in the corner of the room was the toilet, decided he would upgrade on his trip to visit me.
So there was no hitchhiking involved. There was, however, a night train, a car with a NASCAR wannabe driver and an over-sized helicopter.
It all sounded very orderly and planned on the trip itinerary. All cushy, all the way, for my dad. But this is India. And you can’t control anything in this country.
So my poor dad slugged it out on a night train that was supposed to be first class, but was actually second. People, these are no Amtrak trains. Well, they don’t run on time either, but the standard sleeper seating is just a dirty board, some blankets, and lots of loud noises through the night.
To add a little color I'm inserting an excerpt from "Holy Cow," a book I was reading at the time:
"As we eat and play cards we are constantly interrupted by a parade of men carrying trays filled with deep fried goodies. They scream: 'Miloooooo,chhaaaaiiieee, carfeeeee,paratttthha, somossaaaaaaa, omeeeeelllllettte. You like, yes?'
.... We rock to sleep to a soundtrack of snores, farts and burbs. But we wake in fright in the early hours when the carriage fills with a bloodcurdling cry.
'AhhhhhhhhhhhhHHHHHeeeeeeee!'
I sit bolt upright and bang my head on the ceiling. Below me, a new passenger is screaming in his sleep. He's an elderly man wearing his hair back in a John McEnroe headband and it appears he's playing dream tennis and losing. He doesn't wake up when we hit him."
Our drive through the Himalaya foothills included one-day or two-day stops in Chomba, Dalhousie, Dharamsala, and Manali. Each time we got back in the car for a windy, speedy drive, Dad got car sick.
Just a little bit. And not enough to keep us from some excellent activities.
There were a few hikes, with some excellent views, and a few visits to Tibetan monasteries, mainly in Dharamsala, home to more than 8,000 Tibetan refugees and the Tibetan government in exile.Learn more about Tibet here.
The best part of all: we saw the Dalai Lama, and His Holiness (HH) saw us. Well, he looked in our general direction and flashed that warm smile of his before scurrying up to the temple for his teachings. We were not allowed in. We were not enlightened enough for this week’s lesson.
After my dad’s stomach acclimated to the spicy foods and roads we had a nice chat with Nick, the owner of a very good Italian restaurant in Dharamsala. Nick is no Italian. He tells my dad, that his father fled Tibet when the Chinese invaded. Nick boasted about his successful restaurant and listed off the celebrity Buddhists who walked through his doors…Uma Thurman, Richard Gere, and Keanu Reeves. Then he points to a photo of his dad in a suit next to the Dalai Lama. Nick’s dad is one of HH’s bodyguards.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the Himalayas, my mom was traveling in China controlled Tibet on an all woman trip hearing a similar story of persecution and escape from her guide.
We returned to Delhi in style. In a plane that was more like an over-sized helicopter. We hovered over the Himalayas and took in one last look.
Dad returned to New York safe and sound, but not without one last bout of stomach problems. Just the country’s way of saying goodbye.
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