campout recon no. 02

I just donned a fresh pair of socks, at 11:02 on Friday night. My feet are tired from standing all day, and they are cold, because we have to keep the windows open in Tipperary to ventilate the fumes from fresh paint (even though the painting ceased a week ago). I had a beautiful day at work today, but I have to hold off on writing about it tonight because I need to document Campout Recon No. 02. Now, I realize that Campout Recon No. 01 was not that earth-shattering, and yet, it all plays into No. 02, because without the failure to find a suitable spot in No. 01, there never would have been a need to have No. 02. Make sense? The bigger, hopefully deeper story is in No. 02. This goes kinda long, so settle in…
I met Parmesh on the road below Tipperary again, this time on Friday morning, at 6:30am. I was wearing several layers because at this hour, it was considerably colder than last time (yesterday), and the bike was fixed and running well, so we would be winding through the Himalayan foothills in the pre-sunrise chill on our way back to Dhanaulti. The drive at that hour of the morning was beautiful and quiet, no near-death experiences from oncoming buses or decrepit and seriously over-loaded jeeps coming from Chamoli. We reached our intended destination, on the road just before the first buildings of Dhanaulti without mechanical failure, and with renewed expectation to find the perfect spot before the team’s departure later in the afternoon.
Parmesh and I had a description from Edwin of where to find the camping spot—apparently a place Edwin had seen or been to sometime previously? Anyway, we had a description: the top of the hillside before Dhanaulti, a wide open field and a single house where there lives a farmer and his family. It was supposed to be about a 10-15 minute hike up the hill. That’s it. So, we reached the spot on the road that we thought was correct, and saw a trail leading through the jungle upward toward the top of the hill. We hustled up and up, slipping frequently on the slimy mud created by the recently departed monsoon rains. We reached the top of the hill. Trees. All around trees, trees and more trees. No wide open field. We looked right, we looked left and together decided to pick our way along the ridgeline goat-trails to the right, looking for a wide open flat spot where we could pitch some tents. After several minutes we arrived at a glen. All the trees were covered in bright green moss and the turf was absolutely glistening with dew in the sun that was peeking over the edge of the ridge and sparkling across the clearing. Amazing. This must be it. Wonderful—what a relief! We could easily hike to this spot with the team and have a great time for two days.
But there was an inkling immediately among both of us. This spot was nice, but did not match Edwin’s description. Was he wrong? Were we wrong? It did not match—no farmer’s house, and not that wide of an open field, just a nice glen. So we kept going. We climbed to a higher vantage point and looked out across the ridgeline. No open fields in sight. We looked back to where we had come up to the top and decided there was plenty of unseen ground over there, we needed to go back and take a look. At one point along the way back, Parmesh stopped me and asked: Why are WE out here trying to find this? If Edwin knows where it is and could describe it to us so well, then why do we need to go running through the jungle in the morning trying to find it. (He said all of this in Hindi, of course, and I actually understood him. My reply was more difficult to come by. My brain has yet to connect in the Hindi reply department, it only understands at this point). I fumbled through broken Hindi saying something to the affect: he’s just testing us! And truly, it felt like a test, because there were such specific instructions, and yet just enough left as a mystery to cause us to have to search a little and try to find such a place—if it even existed. I think at some point in this, Parmesh and I began to question whether Edwin actually knew of this place at all. Yet, on we went, scrambling and climbing along the ridgeline, all the while I was thinking: the morning is wearing on and we really should have found it by now, we need to be getting back! At last, we reached a high point on an outcropping of rocks. We looked out toward the east. There was a brighter green patch than the surrounding jungle green. A field, it seemed. It was far away from us. Then we spied a small village house with a slate roof below the field. Bingo.
We scrambled down off the rocks, trying to keep from falling to our deaths and jogged along the trail until we reached an opening in the trees above a great many terraced fields with pea-plants growing in them. There, down in the saddle below us was the farmer’s house—just one house, and above it a wide open field. The dog guarding the pea fields from monkey infiltration began barking immediately upon our emergence from the jungle and several members of the farmer’s family looked our way from their perches in the early morning sunshine.
Following a conversation I did not understand between Parmesh and the farmer (in Garhwali), we were led across the pea fields up to the bigger open field that was left fallow this season. The whole time I was walking up to the field behind Parmesh and the farmer, I kept thinking of Joshua and Caleb spying out the land and finding it to be “exceedingly good”. This was it, we had actually found it, we had passed the test! Looking out to the north from the field, we could see the greater, snowcapped Himalayas gleaming in the morning sun and to the south, the plains of Dehradun still in shadow, but clearly visible. What a spot!
While I was marveling, the conversation in Garhwali between Parmesh and the farmer continued. I could tell the tone of the conversation was growing more agitated by both men and tried to figure out what was going on. It became clear rather quickly that a negotiation had begun with the farmer for the price of our group’s stay in the field. I expected this, and was not very concerned, but actually relieved that Parmesh was there to speak to the farmer in Garhwali and breeze through the negotiation, Garhwali man to Garhwali man, not some outsider from the plains who spoke Hindi rudely to the farmer. But then I caught a few words spoken by the farmer that caused me to be concerned: “American”, “Angrezi” (English), “panch hazaar”. And in a moment I realized there was no way we would be staying in this beautiful field tonight, because the farmer had seen my white face, my foreign clothes and had made a presumption about who I was (wealthy), who Parmesh was (my well-paid guide) and had decided he needed to be in on the action. He was asking five-thousand rupees for us to camp in the field. That’s about 145 dollars. No way. I scoffed and walked briskly down, out of the field, past the farmer’s house, down a different, nicer, wider trail to the road as fast as my legs could take me. All the while, Parmesh and the farmer kept talking—he followed us all the way to the road below, all the way back to the bike, sticking firm to his 5000 rupee demand.
I refused to speak. I was fuming. I despised being perceived so in India. I rejected the assumption made about me, about Parmesh. And I was SO disappointed that my presence with Parmesh in the field caused such a situation. Why couldn’t have Edwin sent Parmesh and one of the other Indian guys to seek out the camping spot? Why cannot I just simply be friends with an Indian guy with no ulterior motives, no agenda and no strings attached, no money attached? Parmesh is not my trekking guide who scored big with the well-paying foreigner. He is my friend, truly, and I enjoy so much the way that has developed. Parmesh felt terribly awkward as we drove silently on the bike toward Dhanaulti to have some breakfast. I wanted to paint my face brown and to know Hindi fluently. I wanted to disappear and wished I had not agreed to make the visit with Parmesh to look for the spot this particular morning.
Maybe you read this and it looks like a terrible over-reaction on my part. Maybe. Unfortunately, this is not the first time something such as this has happened during my experiences in India. In fact, it happens too often, and that is partly why I recognized so quickly what was happening in the field with the farmer. Can I blame him? Who knows how many white faces have come through before I did and are paying a guide Rs. 20,000 and they do throw around rupees like it grows on trees? No, I cannot blame him, but it did feel incredibly awkward and caused me to question why I was there. How I could undo the perception(s)? Did I even want to still go camping?
As we drove back to Mussoorie in the late morning sun after a delicious breakfast of mulli parathas and village chai, I prayed about all these questions and the feelings I was wrestling with. Who could say where we were going to end up in the afternoon for our camping trip—the glen at the top of the ridge or the wide open, 5000-rupee field? Parmesh joked with me about it on the drive back and assured me that it was no problem, that he and Edwin would figure it out when we arrived there later in the afternoon.

campout recon no. 01

My mobile phone rang at 09:30 on Thursday while I was in the middle of painting the ceiling of our bathroom at Tipperary. (Yes, renovation is still going on, but more on that in a different entry.) My friend, Parmesh was on the phone telling me to meet him in 10 minutes on the road below our house. Apparently, we had been nominated by the team from church to do a little campsite reconnaissance prior to our planned camping trip for the weekend. I scrambled to wash out my paintbrush and trade out my painting shirt for some cleaner, warmer clothes. (It is the end of September and it seems like we have just skipped right from monsoon to winter). A few minutes later, I met parmesh on the road, jumped on the back of the 100cc motorbike and we were off, motoring east out of mussoorie on the way toward Dhanaulti, about an hour drive through the mountains.
As we drove along, Parmesh would have to continually downshift to make it up the slightest incline and I chuckled at the realization that my added weight on the back of the bike was giving the motor a workout. Somewhere on the road just past a small village, we downshifted again to help the little motorbike climb the slight incline and there was a “snap” and the engine raced but we did not pick up any speed. After a few seconds of trying the gears, we realized something in the transmission had snapped and none of the gears on the bike would engage. I climbed off and Parmesh pulled out the tools to see if we could figure out the problem. After a few minutes of trying a ridiculous screwdriver on stripped screw heads, I realized we weren’t going to make it out to check out the camping sites and my heart sank. Parmesh continued to tinker, banging with a wrench here, stripping more of the screw head off there, and muttering in Garhwali. We were probably an hour walk away from Mussoorie.
After I convinced Parmesh that the bike was officially broken beyond our ability to fix it, we rolled the bike back down the hill to the village we had passed earlier and caught a jeep going back out the mountains toward Dhanaulti. If we couldn’t take the bike, we would just have to get there by jeep instead. Two jeeps and about 2 hours later, we arrived at our intended destination to begin looking around for a campsite for the team.
Unfortunately, trying to accomplish this task on foot was much less effective than with a motorbike, since we had to walk along the road until we found a possible place, then hike up the side of the mountain, only to discover the land was privately owned, or there was not suitable space for four tents and twenty five people to camp for two days. After a few failed attempts, we decided to walk back toward Mussoorie on the road until a bus came by to transport us the rest of the way. Later, on the crowded bus, I wondered what we would tell the team who were eagerly expecting that Parmesh and I had picked out the perfect spot. Why did it have to be so difficult to simply pick out a place to camp? I marveled at the difference between what I expected our reconnaissance trip to be and what it had actually turned out to be. When I jumped on the bike in the morning, I was excited and full of hope for a quick trip out to the jungle to pick out a good site for the team and be back before noon to continue helping with the painting at Tipperary. But by the time I got back to the house at 3:30 in the afternoon, I was tired and sapped of hope for where we were going to camp for the weekend. Thankfully, Edwin took the news well about his broken motorbike; we got it fixed for 20 rupees (about 50 cents) and planned to try again very early Friday morning. We were planning to leave town on Friday afternoon by 2:00 for the weekend campout.