This epic and torrid tale of surviving Covid alone in India goes back to Vipassana. Like every privileged white girl graduating from her recent 'spiritual' quest I had vowed to save the world through my righteous deeds and sworn off the devils of booze, sex, and all the other things I love. I would finish my sober tour of India and move to Madagascar where I was in final negotiations for a small beach resort.
As Woody Allen once said, if you want to make God laugh tell him of your plans.
Rajasthan took my training wheels off. Once I got somewhat accustomed to the constant sea of black eyes that bored into my soul, the incessant noise and smells no olfactometer can measure, and become one with the idea logic and reason as I know it no longer applied; then my new life opened up. A kaleidoscopic wonderland filled with every magical and terrifying thing that ever existed. Equal parts dazzling and darkness.
Not since my innocent Japanese exchange student days did so much feel so alien all at once. Yet India was the complete polar opposite to organized, clean, Bladerunner Japan. India was falling apart in front of my eyes, an apocalyptic Max Mad. India scared the shit out of me as it was by far the most chaotic, confusing, crazy place I'd ever been. Made NYC feel like disneyland. Cairo elegant. Morocco honest. Mexico safe.
Exiting the hotel was like running a physical and emotional gauntlet with no promise of safe return. You find yourself going for coffee and then jumping illegally off the top of ancient step-wells trying to avoid the police; walking by a temple and end up bathing with monkeys fully dressed; following the trail and end up sleeping under stars with strangers, scorpions, and snakes; and ultimately trying to leave yet end up orbiting closer to danger unable to stop yourself due to a gravitational pull you had never experienced before.
It was in the Jailsmere Thar desert on a camel that I got the tip for a place high in the Himalayas with snow-capped mountains. Spiti Valley. The longest single journey of my life. A flight from the desert to Jaipur, train to Delhi, bus to Manali, tok-tok to Vashist, and the most deadly drive to Kaza. One of the reasons not to over think, if you knew how intense it would get you might think twice. Spiti Valley closes for six months of the year, unpassable. Ancient and still untouched by tech heads and hoards of tourists.
It is here amongst the clouds and pure air that all good thinking happens. I felt far from the all too human brain I seemingly left at the bottom. The most peaceful I've ever felt was in the little villages as I took the public bus around with a backpack and hand written map. Climbed mountains to find hidden caves used by ancients to meditate, stumbled into festivals of dance and food I'd never experienced, spent a day smoking hash with a 23 year old South-Korean programmer come philosopher getting ready to go into Afghanistan. No two experiences alike. Spiti Valley.
From the peaceful monastery dotted Himalayas I snaked back down the treacherous path to hot springs and hash fields. The overnight bus filled with Israeli hippies and no bathroom. To jump out at dawn to get a flight to my 'final' destination, Varanassi. Kashi. The monsoons had flooded the ghats and steps. Rain and dangerous monkies kept me inside allot. Trapped inside with my fears and incessant view of the burning bodies directly from my hotel balcony. I was horned by a cow in the cobbled streets. Drank too much pong and ate too much pann. I was not graduating from here. I was failing to even grasp how this India place was impenetrable to even the more seasoned traveler who inevitably fell to their knees. Never had the word foreigner felt more apt. With 23 official languages, 9 major religions, and 5 castes, that sub-divide, and infinitely fractile beyond most natives comprehension, I had no chance. That was ok. I wasn't here to crack a code, obtain enlightenment, or find myself. I just brought a ticket and took the ride. Not knowing I may never get off.
I needed to get away from the monsoon after months of torrential madness. I ventured to Kerela. After the heavy culture and often harsh ways of the north, I thought this tourist triangle would be just the antidote. Things went south. But not in the way I expected. I narrowly avoided being arrested after defending myself against a bunch of Indians at night who became physical. Luckily I know how to defend myself, unlike the guy who ended up in the hospital with stitches. How this place of beaches, tea fields, and animal parks turned bad was too much for me to handle. I once again packed my over-size suitcase and felt failed. I started to resent India and felt foolish for my optimism that turned into ash. Embarrassed by my fellow Gori who stay in Gori run yoga and meditation hot spots such as Rishikesh and Dharamshala. Equally disgusted by the hoards of high end hippies who travel in droves to Manali and Goa. Despite going my own way I felt equally cliche. The ex NY'er who goes on the road to find herself through Ayawascha and Vipassana. All the spiritual bit suddenly felt like one big business run by equally mad people. The exotic locations and cultures all a universal studios backdrop. I wasn't getting anywhere beyond skin deep. As though an invisible veil hid all things of meaning behind it. Access denied.
Out witted and exhausted by my futile efforts I went back to what I know best. It had been over 120 days and I needed five star luxury. The Taj became my home. Became my NY lobby lizzard self. Expensive lunches, liquid dinners, nights out on the town. Way down we go. The week culminated in me being kicked out by the Taj president following an altercation in the hotel bar with an obese Saudi prince who had a child bride. One day I'll learn to keep my playboy mouth shut but on this night with one too many saffron martinis it was not to be. The police came to get me to go the Bombay station. I slammed the door shut and came back half naked and fully drunk with two passports that I pushed in their face demanding a representative from either the USA or Australia or I'm going no where. My bluff worked but time was ticking and I had to get the hell outta there and India. Certain the spice road had come to its bitter end.
In last night's attire with wrecked nerves I managed to get a car to the airport. I had one hour to plan my future. Something happened on that drive. I booked the very place I never imagined going to. The Russian whore, techno madness, imitation spirituality, capital of India. Goa. How, why... Still not sure. But moments from the airport I booked that one way ticket that was about to change everything.
After shaking like a leaf through security, praying to god they didn't have me on a list I made it with an hour before the flight. That's when I stopped by that Irish bar. Not looking right or left, and the bartender asked me how I was. "Surviving. Just surviving." Little did I know it was a Bond reference. I was sitting right in front of the vintage Bond poster and my own movie had just begun when I thought it was over… I guess I’ll die another day.