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So, there we were, in the last two seats on the very back row of a seemingly normal bus. The sun was setting as we inched northward out of Delhi in late rush hour traffic, and a cool breeze signaled that the heat of the day had finally abated. It seemed all the ingredients for a pleasant ride were in place.

After awhile, though, our speed picked up, and pavement gave way to very rough “pavement” …and we found ourselves in what felt like a human popcorn popper. In the back of the bus, the ride was so rough and so bumpy we were flailing around in our seats like rag dolls, whacking our heads senseless at times on the overhead compartment. And this went on for hours and hours and hours through the Indian countryside. All we could do was laugh at the incessant rattling and banging (and our own gullibility in our seat selection) and just trying to make the best of it.

But as evening evolved into way-past-bedtime, we rumbled into mountainous altitudes, and with the new terrain came two new complications – bumpy AND curvy roads, and plummeting temperatures. We had been the first two boarding the bus earlier that day, and naively asked our bus driver if we needed our jackets. He’d barked back a gruff “NO,” so our warm apparel was stuffed away in the luggage area underneath the bus. Yet, as our fellow travelers boarded, we couldn’t help but notice that each of them seemed to be carrying (and some already wearing) a jacket or a blanket, or both. And as the bus strained high into the mountains late that night, we quickly knew why.

We wondered aloud if the bus driver simply didn’t understand our earlier question about needing jackets, or if he had made it a personal mission at some point during our 10-second encounter to torture us. So somewhere around Hour Nine of the ride, we were absolutely freezing to death, in addition to holding on for dear life as our now-madman driver two-wheeled it around 90-degree turns. Jennifer put socks on her hands and I contorted myself into a ball as we shivered our way through those delirious last few hours. “Awful” could be one assessment of the situation, but if you add to that “ridiculously" awful it somehow becomes laughable… and so that’s what we did, until 6:00 a.m. when we finally rolled into Mcleoad Ganj.

“Little Tibet” as the city’s sometimes known, was still sleeping as we swaggered toward our guest house. Most of the “hotels” there are small, family-owned modified residences with 5 to 20 rooms to rent out cheaply to an international array of travelers. Many Westerns come seeking situational enlightenment, others come to research the culture of Tibetan refugees, while for wisdom-seekers of all kinds, the Dalai Lama is a well-spring of instruction and insight, and an unyielding activist for Good.

Nestled in the shadows of the Himalayas, the small community of Mcleoad Ganj sits just up the mountainside from bustling Dharamsala, and both are sweet-smelling melting pots of soul-searchers and peace-seekers from far and near. Buddhist monks in flowing maroon and orange robes stroll the narrow streets alongside Tibetan and Kashmir refugees, regional India natives, and a few anomalies like us. Apparently (and thankfully), we were there “off-season” so were among only a handful of non-locals roaming through the interesting shops and quaint restaurants and up and down the mountain trails.

The snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas offered a dramatic backdrop to the mostly two-story dwellings, with the largest structure in the area being a yellow, modest hill-side residence resembling a dormitory – the home of the Dalai Lama, and many of his fellow Tibetan Buddhists. “Dali” as began to call him (though not to be confused, of course, with the great Dolly Parton) wasn’t in town when we first arrived, but did return during our three-day stay – perhaps because he heard we there? Just kidding. He does hold public teachings, as do other esteemed wise men, but unfortunately nothing was happening while we were there to attend. We did stroll through many temples and took walks along sacred hillside paths designed especially for pilgrims.

People were warm and friendly, and it was approaching Tibetan New Year, so festivity was in the air. One morning we even took a Tibetan cooking class and helped prepare special traditional sweets for the upcoming celebrations. Other than an unfortunate incident involving a goat with an uncontrollable bladder, our time there was serene, relaxing and well-worth the excruciating bus ride! No longer naïve to strategic bus-seating, we booked our tickets back to Delhi in the very front seats, and boarded for the return nighttime journey already bundled up to combat the chilly air.

Just when we thought we’d totally out-smarted the gods of Greyhounds everywhere, we were no less than 15 minutes into the journey and an elderly woman directly behind us started throwing up… and she puked, and puked, and puked until it was inconceivable that she had anything left to puke. Once we finally stopped for the lone bathroom-break about four hours into the ride back, we noticed also, from the tell-tell splatters down the other side of the bus, that someone just across the aisle from us had been throwing up, too. No wonder the sounds and smells had become almost unbearable! By this point, our “let’s just make the best of it” tolerant attitudes had long since been projected out the bus window as well, and we plugged our ears with the headphones, covered our noses with the blanket and tried desperately to sleep and dream of the lovely, luxurious hotel awaiting us in Mumbai…

Stay tuned, one more india.entry to come...

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I’ve only been back from India a few days, but I’m already reflecting much more on the revelations of the journey than the (dare I say) “touristy” details. The Taj Mahal was breath-taking; the Himalayas, pristine; Mumbai, fantastically cosmopolitan; the food, divine. But, as with many things in life, it was the experience of the journey – the people, the sounds, the tenacious spirituality, the energy of a place so incredibly invigorating – that is still mesmerizing.

I arrived equipped – my Indian friends here readied me with a list of places to go, numbers of people to call, a list of foods to eat, and foods to buy and bring back to Banda. Jennifer brought the guide book, and with a general idea of where we were going and staying, we set off.

After landing in Delhi and spending two days there with a friend, we traveled south by car about four hours to Agra, the “small town” (according to our guide) of 2 million people and home of the Taj Mahal. Even from a distance, you could begin to see why it’s the eighth wonder of the world. In a country with a disproportionate amount of architectural marvels compared to the rest of the world (in my opinion at least), The Taj stood in gleaming white brilliance above them all.

Our first look through the gateway, Jennifer and I both gasped aloud. “Breath-taking” took on the literal definition at the sight of something so incredibly beautiful… and that was from hundreds of meters away! The real beauty emerged the closer we moved, and saw and felt the hand-laid jewels meticulously placed in flower patterns and designs across the entire surface of the colossal structure. And the symmetry of the building, built hundreds and hundreds of years ago, personified perfection and balance down to the centimeter.

So, yes, it was incredible, and I could probably write this entire post about its brilliance, but before I drone on, I will share one little interesting tid-bit that I learned. Most of you probably know that The Taj is a “monument of love” of sorts, that Shah Jehan built for his favorite wife after she died giving birth to their 14th child (the other wives gave him no kids, no wonder she was favorite). Anyway, his plan all along was to build a matching Taj for himself that was black marble instead of white marble within sight, just across the river. But he died before realizing his vision, or there would be two Taj Mahals instead of one! Interesting, eh?

In the evening, we made the bumpy, four-hour trek west to Jaipur, or “the Pink City.” Years ago, the facades of buildings there were all “washed” with a pink-ish coating that lingers still today, giving the city a unique and lovely ambiance. It was Saturday night as we traveled, too – the day of weddings in the season of weddings, so mile after mile we saw wedding parties celebrating along the roadways. Ensembles that looked like marching bands played traditional Hindi songs, revelers danced, and grooms adorned like sultans sat atop bedecked horses. (Watch the movie Monsoon Wedding when you get a chance and you’ll get a glimpse into Indian weddings and many of the characters and personalities common in that part of the world. And, it has a great soundtrack that I’m listening to right now!)

After touring the palaces and sights in “the Pink City” the next day, we returned to Delhi (on a much less bumpy highway) and returned in time dine with our friend and secure our bus tickets for the next day… a booking which turned out to be a grave error and unforgettable adventure at the same time.

Dharamsala – the destination, near Mcleoad Ganj, the home of the Dalai Lama. An estimated 12 hours overnight bus ride north into the Himalayas from Delhi. Were we crazy? Perhaps, but it was the shortest/cheapest way to get there so we figured it couldn’t be so bad. UNTIL the bus started rolling and we instantly realized why no one else had bought the last two tickets for the last two seats in the bus…

To be continued...