That cough came with a prize

It has to be said: India's national past-time is regurgitation. Anywhere we traveled while in that beautiful country any conversation was usually stopped short by the sound of somebody attempting to 'hock' up a seemingly unmovable lump of phlegm, lodged deep and firm within this struggling throat.

Unlike a lot of things in India this activity is not reserved for the male population; men, women, children and even Buddist monks feel the need to hock and spit at any given moment.

When taking into consideration the heavily polluted atmosphere of some Indian towns and cities it is easy to understand how smoke and fumes can build up an excess of phlegm and other forms of mucus in throats of inhabitants and passers through. Initially, however, these trachea scraping sounds are met with a grimace and a swallow from foreigners, unfamiliar with the necessities of spitting anywhere and everywhere at any time.

After having spent some time in India, one quickly adjusts to the reguritary habits of its inhabitants. Occasionally a particularly violent 'hock' might catch one's attention; "Is this person dying?" or "Is he perhaps planning on providing sustenance for a small group of nested birds?" One boy in particular caught my attention.

For a while in India I was working with a charity organisation based in Maharashtra. Here I helped out in a small rural development programme which provided accommodation and education for about fifty children aged up to about 15 years. Every morning a group of lads would come over to the taps to wash and prepare for school; taps which were just outside my bedroom window.

Every morning, without fail, I was woken by a noise I can only describe as that of a turkey being slowly strangled. It was an epic struggle, no less than a minute of unadulterated, stomach-clenched coughing, spluttering, hocking: summoning phlegm from the depths of his intestines. Luckily I never bore witness to the fruits of Prakash's labour. Needless to say I soon became desensitised to the abhorrent practise.

Usually the majority of spitting goes unnoticed, what with the number urinating and defecating in public: can't see the wood from the trees I guess. It is strange to say, however, that I may have almost died due to spitting.

The main road from Kasurdi village to Pune is wide, well built and very busy. While traveling on the 50+ minute journey on the back of his motorbike, Prashant would converse with me shouting questions back, punctuating his sentences with this patented Indian spit. First, a healthy hock then, as we were driving at 80/90mph, a twist of the head, the leaning of his whole body to one side and the glorious finishing spit.

On these occasions however Prashant would lean so far to one side, with his head and torso twisted back so as to avoid wind resistance, that the whole bike would veer across the busy main road, seemingly unbeknownst to him. With my heart in my mouth, and God knows what in his, we crept towards the heavy stream of on coming traffic consisting of bikes, rickshaws, taxis, jeeps and illuminous trucks. Each time, at the last second, Prashant would quickly rev the bike back onto our allocated West-bound section of road, away from certain death, and continue as if nothing had happened.

Admittedly, I don't always praise our public transport system in Ireland. I may occasionally moan about the inconvenience of CIE, the sporadic Dublin Bus service or the leviathan Irish Rail rates. Any of these methods of transport however translate to a sandal wood scented palanquin compared to the speedboat ride down the River Styx that was my trip to Pune.

My favourite Indian spitters are, without a doubt, the rickshaw drivers: probably the most prolific regurgitation experts in the country. Exposed to the elements day and night, many Rickshaw drivers cruise about the city taking in all the street smog and polluted provisions on offer. Nitrogen Dioxide, Sulpher Dioxide, Carbon Monoxide etc. With limited vehicle covering in many towns (rickshaws vary depending on state/city) this daily routine builds up a hefty hock sure to catch your attention!

The source of such expertise is not solely rooted in Indian air pollution however. Beedies and Paan each have their respective role to play.

Beedies are small hand-rolled cigarettes consisting of tobacco, sometimes flavoured, wrapped in a tendu leaf. Although they contain no chemicals they have higher levels of nicotine and tar than regular cigarettes. They are available in packets or singularly, depending on one's funds, and, according to sources, up to 850 billion are smoked in India per anum.

Now, I'm no mathematician but if there are approximately 1.2 billion people living in India that's 708 beedies for every man woman and child per year. It is rare to see an Indian woman smoking beedies much like particularly young boys (under the age of 12 or so). The market therefore falls mainly with men. Favoured by Rickshaw drivers beedies give an extra chesty rattle for your Rupee.

Paan is essentially a wrapped Betel leaf containing a mix of different seeds, nuts, flavours and/or tobacco. In Indian tradition Paan is predominately used to clean, freshen or wash out one's mouth with a variety of different ingredients. It is chewed thoroughly before being spat out. Tobacco is often used as is Mukhwas, a combination of fennel, anise and sesame seeds with traces of coconut, all of which are usually sugar-coated and come in an assortment of colours. Peppermint too is a popular addition. Listerine? No thanks, I'll have Paan.

Not all adhere to the pleasures of Paan but those who do produce an array of colourful prizes on completion. It varies depending on the maker, region and desired taste but the end result, a beautifully red stained mouth, seems to be a foregone conclusion. Initially one might be taken aback when greeted by a Rickshaw driver sporting a blood red grin from ear to ear, as if something from an Anne Rice novel, but it certainly makes the spitting habit more interesting.

India's spitting habit is taken very seriously by many of its inhabitants. It is not uncommon when on a train or in a public place to see 'No Spitting' signs plastered about. Although it has been customary for years there are measures in place, including signs and a hefty fine, to prevent the practice from continuing.

While writing this piece I find I have an acute awareness of my trachea and am swallowing every minute just thinking of the formation of phlegm and mucus so I think I'll end it here.

If you'd like to know more about spitting and phlegm etc (I know I would) you can visit these other blogs I've just found. Yummy...

Spitting etc:

http://mutiny.in/2007/12/27/spit-zone-india/

http://helloji.wordpress.com/2008/03/01/spitting-image-of-india/

Air Pollution:

http://www.indiastat.com/India/ShowData.asp?secid=11&ptid=0&level=1

Rishikesh to McLeod Ganges

Jumping off the 16:20 from Rishikesh to Chakki Bank we cast our gaze up and down the lazy platform, littered with resting bodies, strewn about benches like dusty carpets, to make sure she knew to get off the train. It is roughly 03:00. Specifics are immaterial. My bag is soaked from rain having cascaded through a window half open below me during the night and now, as an obvious result, my back is also soaked.

Sleeper Class, though for me on this occasion lacking the 'sleeping' part for any great length, is quite a comfortable way to travel. The upper berths in particular. If one acquires an upper berth, and it is my advise to do so intentionally, many ground level inconveniences can be avoided. You remain as a mere spectator for the daylight musical chairs, you retain your own personal space (a concept with which most Indians struggle) and you are no longer privy to Sadhus, beggars and the occasional transvestite seeking funds into the wee small hours. Middle berth is rendered virtually inaccessible during the day. It isn't until some arbitrary time when it is deemed acceptable to lower the berth that you actually get the space you've paid for.

From the security of the upper berth we were witness to a family carrying out their daily domestic habits. Wet clothes were strategically placed beneath the cool air flow of the cabin's dust ridden fans. They each took turns washing one another, completing the final stage within a cloud of talcum power. Once hair was combed and oiled, aerosol applied with the precision of a bat and clean clothes were donned, Grandad, Granny, Mother, Father, son and daughter sat down to a hearty lunch of bananas and bread.

Without warning we reach Chakki Bank, a common backpacker stop on the road to Dharmsala or McLeod Ganges. Then begins the rush to get everything off the train before it starts up again. Where are my shoes? Have they been stolen?! No, there they are. But my bag.. OK, there. That man is sleeping on my '1984'! Maybe I can get it without waking him... off the train! Quick!
We jump off with probably a good 3 or 4 minutes to spare but once that disorientating panic hits, its better to be safe than sorry. Not everyone makes it off in time, we soon find out.

Spotting Charlotte further up the platform having exited one of the higher class cabins and now conversing with an Italian couple, we make our way past the ubiquitous mass of bodies and towards a plan of action. Various rickshaw offers ranging from 20 to 200 rupees are thrown at us from different directions. We (now two Irish, two Italians and a German) secure one at the lower end of the Rupee scale to bring us to the bus station and hence Dharamsala and McLeod Ganges.

Having loaded our bags atop a slightly larger than normal rickshaw we squeeze in and make our way to the bus station.

In Dublin the only people on the streets between the hours of 3am and 4am are inebriated individuals stumbling home after an intoxicating evening, leaning against cars and in doorways to relieve themselves. Not so in India. While the majority of men I see on our trip from Chakki Bank openly urinate by the side of the road, none have come from an Indian equivalent to Coppers nightclub. These are men either going to work or working; hauling strips of metal or carrying bags of glass and tin; selling chai and fried indecipherable food stuffs to those cycling or walking by. Working in rotas, it isn't uncommon to see a man being woken from his slumber atop a wooden cart to begin his 4am shift as his still warm "bed" is usurped by his predecessor.

The next bus, we're told on arrival, isn't until 5am . That's fine, there is plenty to do in this urine encrusted, rat-infested bus station: a description, not presumption. What with the aforementioned Indian toiletry habits and the rodent Battle Royal I am witness to behind a chai stall, I believe it to be apt. We sit amongst a mountain of backpacks and bags and wait.

After two plastic cups of chai attained from said chai stall, I meet Troy. Troy is a heavily bearded, blond, blue-eyed Californian sporting a cracked acoustic guitar who already possesses some experience with Himachal Pradesh. His girlfriend who had just begun traveling India with him, he tells me, has not gotten off the train. Based in a different cabin she somehow missed the small sign on the train station pillar (viewable only by getting off the actual train) laying claim that the stop was in fact Chakki Bank. He remains unphased however passing it off by saying that she wanted to experience India and this is the way to do it. With e-mail being their sole medium of contact he presumes she will be savvy enough to make it to McLeod and find him. Fair enough.

After about an hour or so our bus pulls up and we pile in. Rickety and rusty, about to tackle a rocky mountainous road, it resembles a large metal coffin with wheels more so than a bus. It really doesn't matter though. You come to learn certain things on the road in India. Here are a few common misconceptions we hold as foreigners on arriving in India:

1. Suspension is a common feature in vehicles.
2. Rear-view mirrors are necessary.
3. Slowing down while approaching corners is advisable.
4. Over-taking on these corners is a definite no.
5. One-way traffic only goes one way.
6. A four hour drive takes four hours.
7. 'Yes' means yes.

Having purchased tickets to McLeod Ganges on the bus it almost brings us there. We are asked to wait one hour while another bus comes to bring us up the final, steep leg of the journey. That, or hire two taxis between the six of us to leave immediately. We choose the latter and after another 15 minutes or so of traveling we make it to the home of the Tibetan Government in exile, His Holiness the Dali Lama's gaf, McLeod Ganges.

Having spent seven weeks in India so far, one would imagine a vague sense of familiarity to kick in, perhaps a comfortable uniformity to the way things operate. Not so. What may have been black in Kerala is unequivocally white in Himachal Pradesh. One has to learn to roll with the punches and eventually come to grips with each State's dramatically different approaches to the banal, everyday tasks. Far from this being a horrible, painful experience however, it very much adds to India's charm. There are times when you are worn down by the obsequious nature of a rickshaw driver, or a ticket taker who refused to learn the word 'no' when studying English, or that fact that what would take two minutes by Western standards takes twenty in India. However, solace can be taken from the fact that this is all part of the experience. It is strangely enjoyable in retrospect. The overwhelming sense of both relief and joy that is experienced once reaching your intended destination is comparable, I would imagine, to Columbus finding land in 1492.

That may be an exaggeration...