Rishikesh

We finally got out of Delhi!
Currently sat at a phenomenally fast cyber cafe on the east bank of Rishikesh. The numerous Ashrams, hippies, students, sadhu's, phsyco-astro-verdi-something healing centers, herbal shops and lack of clean trousers has made me wear the trousers I had made in Delhi. Massive, billowing brown baggy pants, matched with hiking boots (now polished to a shine), technical sweatshirt/fleece gubbins, and now long hair (for me).

God I look a prat.

Before leaving Delhi, I checked with the travel-wallah at reception:
"We get picked up by auto-rickshaw at 8.45, to go to the bus station yeah?"
He wobbles his head from side to side in typical Indian fashion: "Man will come for you, it's ok"
"It's definitely a direct, deluxe bus, from here all the way to the center of Rishikesh?" I ask, for maybe the 5th time since I booked the tickets.
"Oh yes" more head wobbling "you'll be ok, sleep all the way".

8.45 comes, Mrs Grasshopper and I are sweating and swaying under our bags at the reception. Travel-wallah waves me over- "Here's your man!"
The 13 year old boy looked up at me, then motions for us to follow. For 20 bloody minuets through the packed back-streets of Pahagunge, the young lad hops bobs and weaves, with us panting and jostling behind until we get to a back-street outside the cinema.
"Bus will pick you up here" he says.
The cinema opens it's exits, and hundreds of mainly males exit, pushing past us blatantly staring at Mrs Grasshopper. A few walk past a few times to get a really long leer in. Others then congregate next to us and just stare hard at her, powerful in their pack.
The bus comes, and we jump aboard- we stop an hour later, change buses and then settle down for our stop-start journey.
The Travel-wallah wasn't completely honest with the luxury bus bit, or any of it really- we had been on one before from Delhi to Jaipur, and this wasn't it.
The ancient sliding windows rattled in their frames like oversize versions that were on our beloved KSM jeep in Africa. The constant swerving and emergency-breaking made us dance in our seats, a warped disco-jig to the mixed din of the drivers horn, passing trucks and his incessant bollywood music, played at full volume from every speaker on the 30 year old bus. Sleep was impossible, especially after both an auto-rickshaw and a scooter collided with the side of our bus and went careering off into the dark (the driver didn't stop). But sleep didn't matter- we were just glad to get out of Delhi!

We arrived not at the bus stand, but some side street around 6am. It was still dark, and bewildered and lost for bearings, we jumped in an auto-rickshaw to go to the main bus station/town centre, for some chai and map-reading for a hotel. Two corners, 300 metres and 30 rupees later, we were at a bus station.
(Robbing B------!)
The open air bus station was quiet and pitch black, lit by occasional bus-lights, street-vendor carts and burning bomb fires, where shadowy figures gathered round for warmth. Unfortunately nearly everyone around was male.

"Muji doh chai cha he yeh?" I quietly ask the chai-wallah, aware every single one of the men in the bus station was now staring at Mrs Grasshopper. Some were doing it in the typical Indian way that I get looked at- indifferent, but also insistent. Others started moving over to us, forming groups of staring men around us. They were leering, a word I never fully appreciated until I came to India.
We took the chai and made our way to a lit-up shop front. Turned out to be a budget hotel, so we walked to stand outside and sipped our chai, glad for the light and the possibility of getting out the bus-station.
I noticed a few fellas follow us, stopping just a few feet away and just standing there, staring at Mrs Grasshopper. Dressed in traditional, conservative Salwar-Kameez, with additional thick fleece on, there was no reason to stare.

My mind went back to new year, when all the papers were outraged about a group of 70 men, who started "eve-teasing" 2 married women. The newspaper photographers then watched them attack, molest, and then forcibly strip the clothes off the two women, restraining their husbands while they done it.
Unbelievably, it's a fact that the police refuse to even record these events as a crime, as they publicly stated "This sort of thing happens all the time, it is no big deal". Even the euphamism for this sexual harassment makes it sound harmless. "Eve-teasing".
Or sexual harassment and sexual assault, depending on who you are.

I turned my back on the men, trying to watch them instead in the hotel window reflection and keep things non-confrontational. Mrs G was sat on the curb in front of me.
"Grasshopper, that man is stroking his dick through his trousers and staring at me. He's smiling" She says.
I turn around, and true enough, the men are messing about with their groins, but suddenly looking away, aware that I know.
Then they stare at me.
Then at Mrs G.
Other men are still also staring. I know if I kick off, like I would in the UK then the situation may escalate, and I start to fume, aware I can only make things worse.
We hurry into the hotel, where at the formica-topped reception table, a bloke is reading the paper.
"Namaste. Any rooms" I ask grinning like an idiot.
"Uh, no" He replies, seemingly pissed off, and gets back to his paper. On the rack behind him, I see rows of room keys below their numbers. Only a few are missing.
"Can I find another hotel then, sat there please?" I point to the stained and holed brown couch in the corner of the tiny room.
"Uh-huh"

As we sit and try and work out which of the 2 bus stations in the town we are at and where the hotel we want is, a small crowd of men gather at the hotel window. Staring. Occasionally laughing, but always staring.
A few even come into the hotel, and stand in front of us, just staring. I give them a curt nod, and get back to my book, trying to keep cool.

Plan decided, we stride out, straight into the robbing rickshaw driver who took us here. Fast negotiations, where I must have appeared every bit the pissed off bunny I was, and we were hurtling through the cold narrow and deserted streets. The sun just started to lighten the sky as the driver dropped us off at a suspension footbridge over the river Gange, insisting we have to walk now.

Now no-one in this country "seems" to have change for tourists, no matter what shop, bar or service they run and despite the 10, 20 and 50 rupee note being the most often used. As a result I never have any change.
I pass him the 500 note I have for the 150 rupee journey and explain I have no change, even showing him my empty wallet.

"No good, no good, I have no change!" He tells me, and flicks through a small slip of notes from his chest pocket to prove it. He then raises his shoulders and palms, as if indicating only one course of action. "Oh well".

"Ok, we'd better go get some then." I say, and stare across the river. I can feel him stare at me.
"There will be a chai shop somewhere- they will have change" I say, shrugging my shoulders, as if it's not a problem.
A moments pause, and he eventually huffs, bringing out a roll of 100 and 50 rupee notes. I resist making any comments as he silently gives me my correct change. We set off across the bridge to our hotel, just as daylight hits.

For us, the air is fresh again, we're in our favorite enviroment at the foot of the Himalayas, our room has hot water, and I don't care that my trousers look stupid. No more arguing with auto-rickshaw drivers, touts, trying con-men, black-bogies, over-priced rooms and hopefully less sexual harassment for my wife.

India is beautiful, once again.