How I nearly died on a Himalayan mountain top

At 2700m above sea level, I thought for sure I was going to die. I felt so dizzy and lightheaded that I was absolutely certain I would faint any minute now, bash my head against a rock, and tumble down the mountain into the valley below. Although we had trekked all this way and my body was screaming for me to stop, it wasn't my weary leg muscles that couldn't cope. It was my lungs, which are next-to-useless in normal circumstances, and as thoroughbred Capetonian lungs, are used to the pampered lifestyle of oxygen- and moisture-rich air. What helped immensely was that my trekking companion was a mountain goat born in the hills and with the patience of a saint. On the plus side, stopping every 30 metres or so to catch my breath meant that I could truly enjoy the magnificent view. Far beyond the forest below, McLeod Ganj, Dharamsala, the capital of the Tibetan government-in-exile and our residence for a couple of days, could be seen.

Don't let my smile deceive you. I'm about to freefall into the trees below.

We'd taken an overnight bus from Delhi departing at 6pm, and arrived the next morning at around 5am. We forewent the most luxurious bus, the Volvo, as certain among us *coughmecough* lives in a perpetual state of brokeness. Despite that, the seats were comfortable, the air was breathable, and the stares were minimal. Even the unsubtitled Pujabi movie they screened was so overdramatic as to be understandable. Sleep was difficult to attain, however, owing to the extreme bumpiness of the twisty-windy mountain roads. I'm sure if it had been daylight and I was able to fully experience the speed of the bus and the height of the potential fall, sleep would be the least of my worries.

I struggle to describe my first view of McLeod Ganj. Imagine arriving soon after the sun has risen, when the air is still hazy so as to give all colour a pastel tinge, as if seen through frosted glass. The song of unseen birds greets the dawn. Now imagine a steep mountain slope, full of deep-green cedars, with roads cut into the cliff-face, and houses that seem to cling to the verdant incline as if for dear life. "Impossible!" you might think. "This goes against all laws of gravity!" Yet there it is. Now imagine snow-capped peaks in the distance, framing the picture in front of you, and a valley below as far as the eye can see. This is Dharamsala, a holy place for Hindus and Buddhists alike. And who can blame them? Every viewpoint delivers a postcard-worthy scene.

After a few hours' nap filled with gratitude for an immobile bed, we had breakfast in the sky, that is to say, on the top floor of a restaurant overlooking the valley below. I'm not exaggerating when I say, the breakfast itself, though slow in coming, was the best I've ever had. This is probably due to the fact that I haven't had bacon and sausages in close to 3 months, and certainly not in combination with fried egg, mash potato, toast, jam and coffee. That breakfast may have changed my life.

Breakfast in the sky. 

The breakfast was symptomatic of one of the downsides of McLeod Ganj, though. Everywhere you looked, there were gore, foreigners like me with pale skin, sun hats and cameras. Some were unclean-trippy-hippy-backpacker types, others retired-oldies-out-to-see-the-world types (dressed in khaki-and-white, of course!), and others were the same kind you'd find at Khan Market on any day of the week. In fact, I saw more foreigners in that little town than at Khan Market, Connaught Place or even Humayun's Tomb. Although McLeod Ganj was clearly picturesque and remote, in no way could it be described as an "undiscovered gem". I'm pretty sure the number one contributor to the Tibetan GDP is tourism.

And we, too, were tourists, although my companion had been here before. On our first day, we walked up to Bhagsu waterfall, which, although pretty, was not unlike many other waterfalls I'd seen before. The real fun part came when we decided to follow the stream downhill by climbing the rocks instead of following the man-made steps we had taken to get there. Slipping, sliding and leaping from one rock to the next, my problem-solving mind enjoyed figuring out the safety:efficiency ratio of each potential path, while my limbs just focused on keeping my weight on my feet and my backside pain-free. I would advise, if you are planning on doing the same, not to wear the well-worn leather pumps you got from Woolies five years ago, because those don't really offer the optimum level of grip. I found myself taking the safe route more often than I'd have liked.

A FUCKING WATERFALL!! YAAAAY!!

To get back to where we began, the only reason I found myself close to death (I believed) on a mountain face, was because this was the primary reason for the trip. My friend had been to McLeod Ganj several times before, but had never trekked to Triund. I, in my ignorance, when invited to come along, said, "Yeah! Sure!" knowing full well that my lungs are worse than a chain-smoker's and always have been, and hoping that this time would be different. And it was, for the most part. I complained minimally, mostly because I believed "It has to end soon, right?"

Wrong. It doesn't end. It doesn't end till you find yourself struggling not to slip on the ice on the steepest part of the mountain, or on the mud that inevitably forms around it. It doesn't end till you realise your totally inappropriate footwear (running shoes, this time) have given you a blister in the flatness of your arch that is threatening to pop and unleash its world of pain. It doesn't end till the quite literal hand-holding of your friend is the only thing that keeps you moving. It doesn't end till you think you cannot possibly go any further, and yet you can. It doesn't end till the words to the song you've made up and sing to yourself in your head are "Just one foot in front of the other" over and over again.

And then it ends. Shaking the temptation to collapse to the ground, you are drawn to the opposite edge of the plateau, where you are rewarded with a panorama like no other. Snow-capped Himalayan peaks lie beneath heavy clouds of matching white and grey, and you find yourself wondering about the centuries-old depth of collective human experience. Who was the first person to climb these mountains? How many have attempted it, how many succeeded? Did anyone ever climb these mountains for any other reason than to test the limits of personal achievement? I imagine fur-clad cavemen stalking saber-toothed tigers. These mountains are ancient, and inspire thoughts of how life was in ages gone by.

Made it!

The next day, your body will stubbornly refuse to move. The electrical signals passing from grey matter through nerves over synapses will be ineffectual. When you do move, you will groan like a slave beneath a yolk every time you get to your feet. But unlike a slave, you have already received your reward. You did something you never would have believed you could, and saw a sight few have ever seen. You have deepened the trust in a friendship you never knew you needed. And you have faced your fears, the distrust of your body that you've carried since childhood, and to your surprise and delight your body has delivered.

Your only disappointment will be, that after all that physical exertion, you didn't lose more weight.

My crappy little companion

I loved my camera when I first got it in August 2012. My dad had given me a much bulkier one and I begged my mom to swap for the one she got, which had cool filter features and other tricks that I knew my mom would never use. And use them I did. Throughout my year in Brighton, my camera went everywhere. At every beach party, every pub crawl, every impromptu pancake making plan, I was clicking away. I must have taken over a thousand pictures in that year. So clearly, it's been through a lot. It's been dropped on hard surfaces, dropped in sand, gotten wet in rain, and, most recently, braved the coloured powders of Holi.

It comes as no surprise then that it's dying a slow death. It switches off at random times. It never selects the right function when I turn its little function dial. (No, I do NOT want to take a panorama shot!) Everything, everything, is delayed. It never focuses when I need it to. Half the time I want to throw it against the wall in frustration. It's particularly embarrassing in moments when I've asked someone else to take a picture so I can be in the shot. My camera has let me down, let the photographic moment of opportunity pass, many, many times in its old age.

But. It can still deliver the goods better than most, for a shitty little point-and-click. Sometimes I view a photo on my laptop, and a little spark of pride flickers for what me and my camera made. Which is why I won't replace her till the day she dies. And then I'm getting an SLR and photography lessons, because hopefully by then I'll be less poor. Hold out just a little longer, my crappy little companion!

The sweeper at Humayan's Tomb explaining where the other tombs are.

Taking a break at Humayun's Tomb

Humayun's Tomb

I'm still trying to figure out what happened in February 1945, other than just general Second World War-iness.

Entrance to the Arab Sarai, Humayun's Tomb

On a cycle rickshaw, Old Delhi

India is nothing without colour.

At the spice market, Khari Boali.

My camera, like me, has trouble focusing. 

Dog in a spice market. Maybe he likes the paprika?

Tomb at Lodhi Gardens.

Famous coffee house in Calcutta where all the intellectuals used to gather and have intense debates. Now mostly frequented by students.

Women do much of the construction and restoration work in India, thanks to government quotas.

Holi daze.

No such thing as too much colour. 

Accidentally discovering a tomb at Deer Park, Hauz Khas.

Blessed by a 30 metre tall Hanuman at Chattarpur temple complex.

Sneaky lion tamer, Chattarpur temple complex.

A long overdue update

Soooo...yeah. Sorry for leaving you hanging, folks. That first week after Holi was really rather stressful, looking back on it. There's a lot of energy that goes into staying strong on your own and trying to just get on with your life. It was made somewhat easier by the tsunami wave of support and encouragement from friends from all over the world, empathising with what I experienced and in some cases sharing their own stories with me. Thank you, friends. Nevertheless, I missed out on a lot of work hours that week. A lot. I just wasn't in a good headspace to produce creative work. Which means I'll be broke again next month, seeing as I get paid by the hour. Yeah. The unexpected outcomes of sexual harassment.

Anyways, so the 8 guys were arrested and have been chargesheeted, which is an Indian legal term. A chargesheet is "a formal document of accusation prepared by law-enforcement agencies in India...Once the chargesheet has been submitted to a court of law, the court decides as to who among the accused has sufficient prima facie evidence against him to be put on trial. After the court pronounces its order on framing of charges, prosecution proceedings against the accused begin in the judicial system." (Thank you Wikipedia!) I know they had a bail hearing last week, but I don't know the outcome of the hearing. I don't really care enough to call and find out.

How did we find out they were chargesheeted? Through the media. Not just one newspaper, all of them. Apparently every FIR (First Information Report) gets uploaded to the internet for anyone to access. Greeeeeat system, India! Fortunately each account differs drastically in the total inaccuracies they've decided to fabricate in order to fill in the blanks. Thank Kali* for small blessings.

Anna and I were struggling for a long time with the idea that these guys could spend years in an Indian jail (not like a German jail at all!) for what they did. It seemed disproportional, and will be on our consciences for the rest of our lives. But the way I've managed to clear my conscience is thus: it is out of my hands. It is now in the hands of the law to decide what is proportional punishment for the crime. This outlook of mine is strengthened by the fact that molestation is a non-compoundable offence -- which means it's no longer me (the complainant) against them, it's now the state against them. We wouldn't be able to drop the case even if we wanted to.

So I've made my peace with it. I'm not pushing for justice or any particular outcome. The way I see it is I go to the trial, give my testimony as best I can, and then step away. I'm not getting emotionally invested in the outcome of the trial. If the trial ever happens, that is. At this point in time, even though Anna and her boyfriend wrote to the court to tell them they'll be leaving the country soon, we've yet to receive a summons.

I'm a little afraid that they will leave the country and then the date will be set once they're gone and I'll have to go through everything all on my own. But I made a decision when I was 15 not to be afraid of anything, which is a philosophy that's served me well thus far. If that happens, it happens, and I will survive and bounce back like I usually do. No point in worrying about it now.

Oh, and the embassy eventually emailed me, after a good friend in South Africa spammed every email address available on the DIRCO website. Did I mention that I have really great friends?

So, that's the state of things. I will let everyone know if and when we eventually do receive a summons, and what happens at the trial. I hope you don't mind if, until then, I write about other, more normal aspects of life in India -- like how apparently mops are a technology that have not reached this country. Every day I see our maid (a perfectly acceptable term here!) clean the tiled floors by bending down and wiping them with a wet cloth. The whole flat. Every. day. Same goes for brooms, actually. They're short little bundles of long reed-like things tied together with no long handle. What the hell, India? Don't you care for the backs of your women? As much as I love this country, there are some things I'll never understand.

Love to you all,

M.xx

*Kali is an awesome Hindu goddess whose temple I visited in Calcutta. She is dark and fierce and angry and destroys evil, the embodiment of empowerment. She carries a sickle and wears a necklace of human heads around her neck, stepping on her husband Shiva to calm her fury. "To be a child of Kāli...is to be denied of earthly delights and pleasures. Kāli is said to refrain from giving that which is expected. To the devotee, it is perhaps her very refusal to do so that enables her devotees to reflect on dimensions of themselves and of reality that go beyond the material world." (Again, thanks Wikipedia!) I am in awe. 

Dear SA Embassy: Why don't you pick up the phone?

This is the email I sent to the South African embassy in Delhi earlier today, after they were of zero help yesterday when we went to court to make our statements, due to the fact that they have no one answering their phones. Yeah.

Dear Sirs,

I am a South African citizen staying in Delhi. This is to inform you that on Monday 17 March I was sexually harassed in Saket, New Delhi and registered an FIR with the Saket Police Station (FIR No. XXX). Yesterday the culprits were apprehended and my 2 friends and I went to the courthouse to give our statements. We will likely have a court date soon as my friends, a German national and a Colombian national, are leaving the country at the end of the month.

I tried to call the embassy in Vasant Vihar multiple times throughout the day yesterday, on the first two numbers provided on the DIRCO website. I was disappointed that out of the seven times I tried calling, the calls went unanswered 6 times. The one time I managed to get someone on the line, I explained what had happened and was asked to hold. After waiting on hold for some time the line went dead. My calls went unanswered thereafter.

As you can imagine, I'm disappointed by the embassy's service. My two friends' embassies, the German embassy and the Colombian embassy, were helpful and responsive throughout the day yesterday. It was an embarrassment that my embassy could not be contacted and could not be of assistance.

I will not go into further details about what happened in this email, as it is of a sensitive nature. I sincerely hope someone from the embassy will call me on +91XXXXXXXXX so that I can explain in further detail what happened and what the further proceedings will be.

Regards,

Melissa Nefdt
Passport number XXXXXXXX

Yeah. I'm pretty pissed. Will let y'all know if they ever call. 

My (not so happy) Holi

Outside my flatemate Anna's boyfriend's house, there were colours and waterballoons and music and dancing. There were about twelve of us in total, of various nationalities (although none of us were Indian), joining in the neighbourhood festivities in the park. I was wearing a white tank top and blue jeans cut off at the knees, and was a little self-conscious. This is a bit more revealing than I would normally dress in Delhi, but these were the only clothes I was willing to get destroyed by the colourful powders that I was soon covered in. I took pictures, to hide the fact that I knew no one there other than those who invited me. And anyway, I wanted to document what would most probably be my only Holi in India.

We decided to all go to the Garden of the Five Senses, where there was apparently a big party that we could enter for free. We took 3 autos, 4 of us in each. In my auto was Anna, her boyfriend and some guy I hadn't met. Along the way, kids threw water balloons at us and on top of the auto. It was cute. I took pictures. 

Somewhere along the way, a big white car drove in front of us, blocked off the auto's way, and stopped. Six or seven big Sikh guys got out the car. "Happy Holi!" they shouted, and threw paint and water balloons at us. It was irritating, but so far harmless. Then they came over to my side, the left side, the open side. It became obvious they were drunk. They smashed an egg on my head. They reached into the auto to throw paint at my friends. They started smearing colours all over me, in my hair, in my neck, and the next thing I knew a hand was down my top, in my cleavage and groping my breasts. "What the fuck?" I thought, but there was nothing I could do, squashed in the back of the auto. Another guy came, and did the same thing. Then another. They kept groping and pinching, all the while smiling and saying, "Don't be scared" and "Give me a kiss!" I told them to go away. But they came back for more gropes, more pinches. Eventually they left, and the auto could proceed. 

Thirty seconds later, when I realised what had happened, I started to cry. Trust me, no one was more surprised at my emotional response than me. Someone had asked what had happened, and I couldn't even get the words out. I couldn't stop the tears. I felt so violated! Why did they think it was ok to do that to me? I tried to pull it together. I realised that this was not the time to break down. 

We reached the Garden of Five Senses, and there were the guys. I knew it was them because I saw the look of recognition in their eyes when they saw me. They walked away, but we found their car and confirmed the licence plate number and called the police. I couldn't do anything. I just sat on a cement block, not looking at anyone. I called a close friend and told him what happened, more to get the opportunity to speak the words and make them true and have all the tears come out than for any other reason. The guys came back, and Anna's boyfriend and the guy I hadn't met got up in their faces. "What makes you think you can treat my friend that way, huh?" said the guy whose name I didn't know. "Who do you think you are?" The Sikh guys said it wasn't them, it was people who looked like them, and when Anna's boyfriend stood in front of the car to stop them, they drove anyway, leaving him sprawling across the bonnet of the car. 

The police eventually arrived. We told the same story a million times to a million different people. I say "we" but actually nobody ever spoke to me, the main victim in the situation. I was excluded from the entire proceedings. I watched it, like I was watching a show. Bystanders who had nothing to do with anything were talking to the police. The event organisers pitched, and spoke to the police. But the police didn't want to speak to me. 

They put us in the back of a police van with 3 other male police officers, and I couldn't help but think, what if I'd been raped? Is this how you treat victims of sexual violence, by putting them in close proximity with men so soon after the fact? 

It became obvious that the police were woefully untrained for this sort of crime. Everyone kept asking us if we were enjoying our Holi. No. No, I am not enjoying my Holi, that is why I am at a police station. They laughed, as if this was some kind of joke. "Many foreigners are enjoying Holi!" they say. I got the distinct impression that some of these guys thought the facts that it was Holi and the guys were drunk made their actions excusable, like they were just playing. 

Five hours later, we were still at the police station, with no better idea of what was happening. No one had offered us water, although when we asked for it, it arrived, and soon after tea and biscuits. My other flatmate started warning about intimidation, that if these were wealthy guys from well-connected families, which it had seemed they were, that we should be careful. All the while I sat and waited, turning it over and over in my head. Was I making too big a deal of this? Was this really just the sort of thing that happens during Holi, and I should go home and forget about it? After all, I hadn't been hurt, as one police officer kept asking me, and made me sign a statement to the effect. Was this worth all the admin, the long proceedings that will start with a court case and end up who knows where? People were telling me to call my embassy. That seemed like a big step to take. Like many victims of sexual harassment, I questioned whether my complaint was legitimate, whether I was making too big a fuss and should just go home and get over it. 

But no. I had no doubt in my mind that had I been walking instead of in the back of an auto, those guys would have gone further than groping my breasts. They thought they could act with impunity, because they are the men who own the world. They deserved to be told, in the severest way possible, that this sort of action was not ok. The very fact that I felt violated and could not control my tears meant that they had taken advantage of me in a way that was out of line. I thought about my male friends, especially the Indian ones, and knew they would never do such things, even if they were drunk, even if it was Holi. What they did was wrong, and they deserved to face the consequences of their actions. 

As I'm writing this, the culprits have not been found. Despite my big words, I don't have much hope that they will be. In a system in which the police only wanted to speak to the male in our group, despite the fact that the females were the victims, how can you expect the patriarchy to be fought? The sad thing is, I've been defending Delhi to everyone. I've been saying, "I've only been stared at, never touched, never harassed, yes I've been hit on, but it's not as bad as back home." I was wrong. And now I'm aware of how quickly a situation can turn from harmless to irritating to violating. 

I stood in the shower once I'd gotten home, washing out the colours from my hair and off my body. Most of it came out. But the one colour that refused to wash away is a big red stain, starting between my breasts and going right down to my belly. I don't need to wonder where it came from. 

Day 3: Lazy Friday

The best things in the world is good people, wine and momos on the balcony on a Friday evening. Ahana (Indian flatmate) brought over a friend from work and the three of us relaxed and spoke about everything and nothing and watched videos of Shakira and Beyonce and Rihanna and not-so-secretly wished we had their bodies, and more importantly, their sex appeal sensuality.

Shout out to the friend on whatsapp who wanted me to write about drunk development workers today. Well, in a way, I did, didn't I?

Tomorrow (and by tomorrow I mean in 2 hours at 2am) we leave for Rishikesh, which is a beautiful place in the mountains through which the river Ganga flows. Ahana, her friend and I are taking a roadtrip. I'm so excited I could pee! My camera is beyond terrible, but I will try and take a few decent pictures to share with you guys (thanks all two of you who actually read this drivel!).

Woop woop! Cannot wait!

M.xx

Day 2: Sarojini Market

I didn't go on a run this morning. I couldn't get out of bed, and when I did, I realised that my legs were aching because I'd overdid it on yesterday's run. So I took a rest day.

On days when I don't run, I'm like a hyperactive child. I have this restless energy that usually gets burnt off when I run and I can't sit still. Eventually, I sat down to start work at around midday and then stared at the google front page. The little voices in my head said, "The sun was shining outside! You're in India! What are you doing indoors?" The little voices had a point, the buggers.

So I decided to go to Sarojini Market to buy towels, seeing as I'd been using the same one since leaving South Africa at the end of January (yeah, I know, it's gross!). Sarojini Market is huge, and almost always full of people. Although most of the stalls are for clothes, you can find almost anything there. Anything, that is, except towels. I walked round and round the market, checking stalls with kitchen appliances and tupperwares and bed linen and other bedroom paraphernalia (no, not that kind! Indian society is very conservative, I'll have you know! Get your mind out the gutter!) but there were no towels in sight. Exhausted and hungry, I whatsapped my flatmate Anna:

Mel: Question: do towels not look like towels in India?
Mel: Or do Indians not use towels? How do they dry themselves?
Mel: WHERE ARE THE TOWELS?
Anna: :D :D :D :D :D
Anna: I think they do look like towels.
Mel: I can't find them anywhere!
Mel: Started to think maybe it was something like the bedsheets thing, where I just wasn't used to how they look.
Anna: Hahahahaha
Anna: Yeah, the bedsheets were alien for me as well

I have to explain a bit here. Most people reading this will be from South Africa, Europe or the Americas, and will be used to bedsheets that are either white, or some other solid colour, probably of some pastel shade. Bedsheets in India are multicoloured, intricately patterned and look something like this:

The day after I arrived and had to buy a sheet for my bed was the first time I went to Sarojini Market. Although Anna (who is German) warned me about the Sarojini experience, I felt less overwhelmed and confused by the market, the constantly invasive hawkers and their cries and the total disregard for personal space than what I was seeing displayed in front of me as bedsheets. It makes perfect sense in India, actually. Why have plain when you can have colour? Along with the rock-hard beds which are essentially two single bed frames pushed together to make a double, the sleeping experience is wholly different in India than it is in many other parts of the world, I think.

Anyway, back to the towels.

I did eventually spy a handtowel peeping at me from behind a myriad of bedsheets. I asked whether they had any full-sized ones, and they sent me upstairs. Up narrow windy stairs, in what was essentially a kiosk. The upstairs turned out to be more spacious (and stable) than I had imagined, and had many many towels of many recognisable shades (and many that were also just WTF? But this is India, after all). So my hunt was thankfully complete.

What's the moral of the story? I'm not sure. Mostly I just wanted to get a Day 2 post out before it's tomorrow in South Africa, as it's already tomorrow here. I guess the moral is that while India, and life in general, will present to you many things you find utterly unfamiliar and bewildering, it will also occasionally reward you with comforting sameness when you need it most, if you look hard enough. Like soft, thick, full-sized, 100% cotton towels, for R26.50 (£1.50). I love India.