I realize I have only just delivered Bulletin #5, but that’s because it was stuck in my laptop until I was able to find a WiFi connection, actually let’s  be honest…until I got back to where there was electricity!!…. through which to transmit it.  Between the time I wrote it and finally was able to send it, we visited northeast India and got to Calcutta.  So now it’s time to catch you up with those experiences.

Our time in the northeast was one of the much-anticipated forays of our trip, and it didn’t disappoint.  A short flight from Bagdogra/Shiliguri (south of Darjeeling) to Guwahati (capital of Assam), brought us to  James Perry, our guide for our venture into Nagaland.  James, a 40-ish Canadian born in Shillong (capital of the state of Maghalaya, just south of Assam), has been travelling into the far eastern edge of Nagaland for many years now, and was a wonderful companion for our trip, even if his driving skills had us cringing and wincing, and his old jeep left both of us with shortened spinal columns.

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What a difference one letter can make:  I was standing at one of the typical cookies, sweets, soda and juice stalls in a small village somewhere in the center of India.  As in all such villages we passed, white faces were seldom seen, so I attracted quite a bit of friendly attention. An oldish gentleman wandered over to me.  I could tell from his expression of concentration that he was digging out the few English words he knew, in order to speak to me.  As I always did when we walked around in villages, I turned to him with a smile and said hello.  At this, his face lit up and he asked “Where from?”  To which I replied, “America.”  Well, his smile broadened to enable me to count all the teeth remaining in his mouth, crinkling his face into a myriad of wrinkles, his eyes disappearing into slits of delight.  Oh, he was happy.  He rocked back on his heels, clasped his hands together, thought hard and then came out with one word of huge significance.  Looking at me with great joy, he slowly enunciated “Osama” and then chuckled with glee.  He was consumed with pleasure that he’d been able to say this to me. I, of course, was a little taken aback.  But I was only stunned for the briefest moment.  I waggled my head with shared pleasure and, smiling broadly, queried, “Obama??”  “Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,” he replied and began to cackle joyfully.  “Obama!!”  We nodded happily at each other for a minute, repeating “Obama” and smiling warmly.  And then he wandered off.

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Long time no write, and many miles have we driven since then!  We have now arrived in Mussoorie, thus completing the Great Arc of the Himalayas, driving from the south to the north of India more or less along the 78th meridian the whole way.   Many of the places we camped or stayed at hotels in were too small to be easily findable about normal maps.  Since I last wrote, we’ve passed through the major centers of Mysore, Hyderabad, Bhopal, Bharatpur (just west of Agra, where the Taj Mahal is) and finally north of Delhi to the foothills of the Himalayas.  It’s been an extraordinary journey, though naturally not every day was eventful or beautiful.  

The Saga of Sexy Beast:  Alas, Sexy Beast proved unfit for the arduous driving of the Arc.  Well, to be honest, unfit for any driving, really.  

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Driving in India: Much has been written about the hazards of driving in India.  That vehicles and people go wherever they please, in whichever direction they want, whenever it suits them.  That no one pays attention. That there are no rules. I don’t find that to be true.  In fact, after 14 days on the road,  I’ve discerned a certain lingua franca used to communicate what one’s intentions are to everyone else out there.  The principle means of communication is the horn.  Sexy Beast has a particularly melodious horn, which goes shoo ba loo ba doo, and is a pleasure to use.  Buses have horns that sound like a submarine about to submerge:  ah oooo gah.  And big trucks have tiny, twittering horns that sound very feminine:  tweedle deedle dee.  The rickshaws squawk and bicycles go brrrriiiinnnggg.  When all of this gets going, it’s quite a cacophony of sounds.  Everything moves according to who honks longest.  If you’re coming up behind someone and intend to keep moving into their space, you honk.  If you’re next to someone and are going to go by them, you honk.  If you want someone to move over, you honk.  

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We are on our way!!!  Actually, it’s 5 days since we got underway and much has transpired since I last wrote. 

I arrived in Cochin on a flight from Delhi, carrying with me a good strong dose of Delhi Belly, which laid me low for the first 36 hours in Cochin.  So, whatever happened our first day there, I couldn’t tell you. 

Once I was classified as walking wounded and able to shuffle about, Bernard and I took a tiny  ferry across from the Willingdon Island where the Rally group was staying, to Fort Cochin itself, a passage of 10 minutes.  Along the shore there are tall delicate fishing nets strung up on high poles which are lowered into the water right by the shore using a system of pulleys made up of thick jute ropes and big stones. It’s mesmerizing to watch the blue nets, like lacy trampolines, slowly sinking into the water, and then see them slowly rise dripping and glimmering in the sun.  They catch quite a lot of small fish this way, and the small fish markets along the water’s edge are full of a variety of mullet, giang prawns, king fish and more. 

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