I am sitting in a big blue plastic tent. It is called 'Munchies' and it is my favourite restaurant. Munchies is owned by a Nepali women called 'Rita' and ran by her Nepali staff who work the season in Bhagsu before traveling down to Goa next month. I keep meaning to write about the seasonal work of the Nepalis – half the year in the north and the other half in the south – when do they spend time in 'their' country? When do they see their families? Do they like India? Do they like tourists? Superficial questions you may think, but I think not. Anyway, I am sitting in a big blue plastic tent, in upper Bhagsu, unable to hear anything apart from the thud thud thud drippppp thud of the incessant rain. It has been raining in India for many months now. The monsoon in Kolkata officially started on the 16th of June, but the dates were staggered around the country. Here in Bhagsu/ Mcleod Ganj, the monsoon officially ended on the 9th of September. The end of the summer rains were celebrated by an Indian fair.
For the week of the 9th of September, the streets of Mcleod Ganj were taken over by tiny wooden stalls, filled up with plastic this and plastic thats: plastic plates, plastic cups, plastic trays, plastic bangles, plastic hair accessories, plastic toys. Between this wide array of plastics were interjections of cheap underwear for Him and for Her: Large pink thermal boxershorts (for him) and Calvin Klein high rise extra elasticated knickers (for her). There was (as there always is during any crowd gathering event, be it Tibetan or Indian) the Mute Ballon Woman, inflating the balloons with her heavy old pressurised tank of air which she pushes around the vicinity all day, everyday. There was also the Bindi Man, trying to tempt women of all ages and colours towards his pile of red dust by sticking out his finger and blessing your unblessed forehead. For the week of the 9th of September, the original Tibetan stalls selling their pearls, corals, turquoise stones and woolly Free Tibet attire, seemed overran, hidden behind the wares of plastic and bright blessing dust and sweet sweet sweeeeeet Indian treats.
The narrow streets shrunk further still, so to reach anywhere in a hurry was meant arriving late. I also found my own source of enjoyment/ revenge. The congested streets and influx of domestic tourists meant that there were far too many young Indian men sauntering around, who in my opinion were spending, far too much time observing foreign tourists – most notably young women. After two consecutive times of feeling a grasping hand on my unsuspecting behind, I began to innocently stick out my closet foot, and ooops, “so sorry to trip you over but you really should watch where your going rather than grabbing my bum!”
In between all of these colours, plastics, shoppers and Gropers sat the Man in the Box. Head sticking out of his box, feet dangling, shoulders hunched, eyes diverted. If I were him, I think I would be a little peeved at having so many more uninvited people wandering around my concrete garden.
After a few days of observing the fair, I realised I had left half of it completely unobserved. What had looked like a building site (either in a state of repair of disrepair) had been transformed into a temporary Amusement Park. The road leading to the park was lined with Indian food stalls: Wooden tables filled with bowls, and each bowl filled with a pile of different brightly coloured food; sending out a combined warning sign to foreign tourists and tempting 'eat me' signs to domestic tourist. Customers lined up waiting to be given a plate, on top of which was piled a spoonful of colour from across the spread.
Set apart from the food stalls were stall after stall of 'India Games': A row of multicoloured mini balloons waiting to be shot and suspended swinging plastic dolls also waiting to be shot; and then to add to the confusion, there stood a stall blaring out Indian pop music, filled with young and witty Indian men and facing a eager clientle of robed monks. The stall was actually a fishing stall; the robed monks where fishing with a wooden stick for large Bottles of Beer. The young and witty Indian men were shouting out tips, and giving 'free trials' and then when everyone was ready and the 20 rupees had been exchanged, the fishing race would begin, and the first to hook a beer was the winner.
Amidst this jumble of assumptions, street children dashed around, looking for tourists to provide the necessary ten rupees, while their schooled, fed, parented counterparts screamed with delight and/or fear as they rode the local rides.
Indeed, from no where there was a small Big Wheel, a Swinging Ship and even a rotating Carousel of Horses. The mechanics of the amusement rides where as simple as they were baffling. The Big Wheel was spun by a group of (once again) young and witty Indian men, who caught a box of people and swung it over to the next waiting pair of hands, and somehow the small Big Wheel keep rising to the sky, and then falling again. Across the muddy lane, the Swinging Ship was reaching heights causing one chubby uniformed school boy to cry out in horror. When a certain height had been reached,(or maybe when the cries were deemed loud enough) a bored looking guy, seated under the boat peddled a peddle, which lifted a rubber tire, which touched the bottom of the Swinging Boat and slowed the waves of air which it appeared to be riding. As for the rotating Carousel of Horses: A worn and withered old man, topi on his head and cigarette dangling from his mouth, walked around and around and around and around, stepping over the wooden planks he had laid to solve the mud problem, and on his dizzy walk, he took with him the Carousel of Horses, on top of which sat young children, facings beaming, unaware of the toil exchanged for their smiles.
A Little Gentleman – who roams the streets, speaking perfect English, and looking like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth found us. He smiles and tells me that today he was bitten by a dog. We begin our usual exchange of silly conversation: “Did you bite the dog back?” I asked. “Yes, and then I ate him for lunch.” The Little Gentleman replied. “Ah so today you don't need food from me?” I say as I raise a doubting eyebrow. “No only ten rupees for the boat!” Between Bruno and I we find seven rupees. The bored looking boat peddle waves the Little Gentleman on anyway. He doesn't sit, but just stands at the back - next to the chubby crying boy. He smiles back at us, pointing to how high they are going. He couldn't look scared if he tried. The street hardened Little Gentleman.
Anyway, as I sit here listening to the rain splash against the blue plastic tent, and sip my hot glass of chai, I remember the point of recalling the crazy and colourful celebration of the end of the Monsoon. And the point is that somebody forgot to tell the Rains...
No comments:
Post a Comment