Mountain People

In case my last post made no sense, I was trying to convey my previous few days in the style of Dominique's speech pattern when he talks excitedly. Because when he is not excited he will just sit and stare with some seriously old eyes. The guy's only thirty but imagine the big black beard, long dark hair and well, Frenchness and maybe you can understand his intensity.

A thought I wrote down yesterday:

You learn the most about yourself by spending time with people you don’t like.

Is this true?

I spent a long hour yesterday with Joseph, a Croatian man that I found is staying at the same small guesthouse as myself and Dom. I hazard to make a guess at his age. He looks about sixty – but something harrowing tells me he is in his early forties. I tried to ask him a couple of times, but he evaded the subject. Like all subjects. In fact everything he said, and for a quiet man he spoke a lot, revolved around some impossibly long-winded and repetitive story about a motorbike. I swear for at least an hour I was fully trapped in the company of a man who made no sense at all to me.

Please, try to understand, when you sit alone on a mountain drinking tea it is difficult to think of a good reason to leave. "I, umm, have to go do something, in a bit. Soon."

From what I could gather from his dodgy English and free associating, schizophrenic mind was that he has "no land" which I took to mean he has no house and no official country of residence. I asked what he did for a living – he said coach. Football coach. He later told Dom something about fixing old washing machines. And then on to the story about a motorbike which he saved up for twenty years to buy (!?) only for "they" to crash it. Twice.

"Sometimes time. Sometimes no time."

He said that a lot.

When he saw my guitar he immediately tried to sell me the harmonica he had just bought. I kept protesting that I wasn’t interested in buying an expensive harmonica – at least not without trying it. He wouldn’t let me try it. Or give me a demonstration. He then told me he was a drummer. Professional. "Bring rupees. I bring instrument."

Man, this cat is crazy.

Eventually, desperate to get away from this weirdo who wouldn’t let me speak and yet baffled my mind, I had to get up and leave. He was mid-way through the third dramatic rendition of the eternal motorbike epic, and he kept talking the whole time that I was collecting my stuff to get away from him. I don’t know if he was offended. I don’t know if he is capable of taking offence.

So I’m living in a hut on the side of a mountain with an eccentric French Buddhist and a schizophrenic Croatian hermit. And of course the owner, a very nice Indian man called Gian. So, could be worse.

And what have I learned about myself? By spending time with this man who at worst bored me and at best frightened me I learned that I like to spend time with sane, sociable, balanced people. You know, most of the time.

Wow, India is so educational.

No, ignore the sarcasm. It really is, I just haven't quite managed to properly convey anything I've actually learned. Maybe I fear it would bore you, or make you groan.

The nights here are freezing. Really cold. Last night I had seven blankets and I was fully dressed. Hmm. This is not normal. However the days are lovely – in our hut we have sunshine till about midday and then it is worth bombing around the main touristy town a couple of km further down the hill.

Very few Israeli girls. It is an horrific shame. It’s too cold for their wild ways.

However, The Buddhist monks around here are very chilled. I have chatted to a couple of them. As far as I can gather they have dedicated their lives to basically living a simple existence. No work, no drugs, no sex, no murder, no theft. Stuff like that. Ahh, sounds ok. They just look so happy! Despite the suffering that many will have faced with China claiming Tibet as its own and forcing many Tibetens into exile, every one of them looks happy. Genuine peace. Shanti. Their eyes crease up at the sides – a promising sign of a life spent smiling and laughing. Not a jowl in sight.

So I like this place. Very good feeling.

I bought a beautiful huge red shawl yesterday. I’ve been dragging it round ever since to keep me warm when I hit the shade. Here it is not so cheap to buy things but there is no haggling. Everything is fixed price. When I bought my shawl I was shocked. Every place I went.

Me: How much?

Shopkeeper: 200 rupees.

Me in different shop: How much?

Different shopkeeper: 200 rupees.

Me starting to get the impression that big shawls cost 200 rupees: How much?

Again, a new shopkeeper: 150 rupees.

Me, amazed: Huh? Really? Oh, it’s a smaller one.

So no haggling. The first price, everytime, was that little more than you wanted to pay, but try some tricks and you get nowhere!

Me, trying something filthy: I’ll give you 150 for it.

Shopkeeper, probably sick of fucking tourists, but doesn’t let it show: Sorry, 200. It’s a fixed price.

Me, desperate for some fun: 195?

Shopkeeper, patient: Sorry. 200 is the price.

Me, in a Hollywood hack comedy universe: 199?

Me, actually missing the thrill of the chase, beaten into the middle of the road, submitting to the simplicity of mountain folk: Ok, 200, it’s a deal.

Add to the fact that it is usually women running these shops, and you can see her kids running around, and she’s really friendly - man, you don’t feel like getting the best price.

So, tomorrow, there starts an introduction to Buddhism course for a week. Two hours a day. Costs practically nothing. Maybe I go. Sounds good. And in the evening there is an open mic night in a café. Hehe. Time to make some friends…