Monsoon Madness
by Joanne Lane Heat, dirt, pollution, busy streets, overcrowded buses... is the impression we all have of India. And it is true of some places on the plains. But what of the cool climated beauty of hill stations like Mussoorie, set high in the Himalayan foothills? These hill stations are remnants of British occupation of India and provide stunning views of the snow-capped tips of the worlds highest mountain range, and the red roofed villages seated below them in green hillsides are truly picturesque. Brisbane marathoner Peter Lane took the opportunity to discover some of the history and beauties of this region while living in Mussoorie for six months. In this second article he runs from the Mussoorie hill station to Rajpur and Dehra Dun in the Doon Valley, a mainly downhill distance of 35km. His daughter, Joanne Lane, has been living in India for 12 months. She reports. Out of the eerie morning monsoon mist comes Brisbane Marathoner Peter Lane. Visibility is poor and he is alert for traffic. He narrowly avoids running into a cow that emerges suddenly out of the hazy whiteness. It had been picking through some rubbish and its soft bell had not penetrated the thick air to give any warning. A coolie (employed to carry things) heavily laden with boxes appears almost ghostlike in the fog like a soul damned to wander in eternal penance. Then he is gone - swallowed up by the mist. It is early and the sun has failed to break through yet again, leaving only a dull grey light. Peter`s clothes hang damp and limply from his body. The air is so thick with moisture they did not dry although he hung them up three days ago. This is monsoon. For three months the heavens open and provide enough nourishment for India to last the rest of the year. Water sources replenish, fields become green and everywhere spurts new life. Even inside the houses new life begins as walls blacken with mold and beds remain clammy even though sleeping bodies try to dry the sheets all night. In the high altitude of the Mussoorie hills monsoon strikes even harder. Peter runs from Sister`s Bazaar (8,000 feet) to Landour bazaar, a of 1,000 feet that takes only 10 minutes. India is still asleep as he makes his way through Landour. Families of marauding monkeys and packs of scavenging dogs fight over scraps of food from overflowing bins. They control the bazaar in the early morning. He runs past them quickly and the mist and silence surrounds him again. The silence is broken by a bell, rung by a Hindu devotee doing puja (prayer) outside the temple. Seconds later donkeys carrying cement clomp past, their bells jangling. Mussoorie was founded by the British Captain Young. In 1827 he went on a hunting trip and spotted Landour 1000 ft above him. It was later developed as a military station but gradually became part of the Mussoorie hill resort. The British developed hill stations as an escape from the heat of the plains. The cooler climate was healthier but infected foreigners with nostalgia and they made the hill stations into little corners of England with Elizabethan architecture, balls, theatre and endless dinner parties. Hill stations, like Mussoorie, are now holiday resorts for hordes of middle class Indian tourists who come in the hot season. Establishments catering for dancing, horseriding, theatre, roller skating and other sports were built for the new pleasure going society and now more than 100 hotels jostle for views across the Dun Valley. Peter passes Mullingar Hotel, the first summer premises built in the Landour area, which once catered for British visitors. It is now a condemned, ramshackle building but is filled with hundreds of families and squatters. Prayer flags adorn the shabby roofs and windows and life there is a constant hubbub of activitiy with frolicking dogs and small children playing cricket. The Landour bazaar stretches from the top of Mullingar hill down past old Mr Abinanden`s cloth shop and the Post Office to the Landour Clock Tower. This section is also the Indian bazaar where rent of houses is cheaper. The streets are dark and empty except for the monkeys, dogs and rubbish lined gutters, and Peter makes good progress. At the clock tower he leaves the bazaar behind and passes the gates to the Indian private school Wynberg Allen. Running further down now past Barlowganj, another commercial centre, the mist suddenly lifts and the early morning sun breaks through the clouds. From here the lush, green valley opens up before him down to the sweltering plains below. Already the temperature has changed with the in altitude. In the early days the only access to Mussoorie was an 11km trek from Rajpur on horseback or "dandi". In 1920 the first car arrived from Dehra Dun. The road rises from 640 metres (2,100 ft) to 2,0005 metres (6,6000ft) within an hour and a half. The British developed the old motor road and from Dehra Dun railway station it winds first through Rajpur, known for its many ashrams (religious monasteries) then climbs by the terraced field of Bhatta and into the mountains where red roofed houses cling to the wooded hills. Peter takes this road as the new road is busy with traffic. Two hours after leaving Mussoorie he reaches Rajpur. The road flattens and widens, and trees line the sides giving a vast canopy of shade. Flapping Tibetan prayer flags from the homes of refugees greet him as he runs through the local bazaar. Here Peter sees a monument built for the 69 Rajpur sepoys (soldiers) who died in World War I. Out of respect he stops for an emotional moment of thanks. Rajpur Road is full of religious buildings - a Christian school for the blind, Bible colleges, Sikh and Hindu temples as well as endless, tea shops and vendors. An open sewer runs outside all these buildings. Hundreds of scooters, trucks and bicycles whiz past him. The local bus however is not so fast and ambles along picking people up every few metres as they wave it down. It is so slow Peter runs past it. Indian buses are always dilapidated and congested and this one is no different. There is always room for someone else and there are usually more people standing and hanging out the doors and off the roof, than there are sitting. He runs another hour amidst increasing heat before he enters the congested heart of Dehra Dun. It has now been three hours since he left Mussoorie and he has covered 35km. The change in altitude becomes suddenly obvious and the temperature is warm and sticky. Here there are even more scooters, bikes, belching trucks, rickshaws and taxi rickshaws (banned in other parts of the country for their high pollution). Cows amble slowly across the busiest of streets avoiding the potholes, sewers and traffic - seemingly deaf to the noise around them. A solitary policeman in a sea of traffic hopelessly tries to direct traffic with a pathetic whistle that can not be heard above the endless blare of horns. People stop and stare as Peter runs sweating past the clock tower, the main landmark in Dehra Dun, and into the main bazaar. Some are more helpful and when he stops for directions a man gives him sweets. Dehra (camp) Dun (valley) is situated in a valley and is bounded by the Himalayas in the north, the Siwalik hills in the south, the holy Ganges river in the east and the Yamuna river in the west. On a clear day Mussoorie is visible high above. Dehra Dun has become an academic and research centre with the Forest Research Institute, Indian Military Academy and many top schools located in the area. Peter asks for directions to the railway station in a small alley where people are setting up for the days market. It is early but it is still a hive of activity. He runs past the Muslim quarters where they sell meat. Carcasses of water buffalo are strung up. Their smell is awful and flies swarm around the offal (animal innards). Peter is hot and tired and the extra effort he expends dodging rickshaws, cyclists and cows in the narrow streets takes its toll. Early morning shoppers are impatient and leave him little room. At the far end of the bazaar, he nips across a whirlwind of traffic on the main road and finally runs into the railway station, the end of the line. Here again he is the centre of attention. Indian railway stations are synonymous with confusion, noise and chaos. At the gates to the station a sea of red-shirted, dirty-turbaned coolies with railway arm bands await like vultures to swoop on passengers. They eye Peter suspiciously but leave him alone when they see he has no luggage for them to carry. The only thing he wants carried is himself! Chai wallahs (tea sellers) line the platforms. Their hot brews leave a cloud of rising steam around their stoves. Peter heads to one of these stalls, stepping over sleeping bodies on the way. Chai in India is cheap at three rupees (27 rupees to $1 AUS) per cup and very sweet. It is made by boiling the water with tea leaves, milk and sugar all at once. The sweetness nourishes Peter and gives him enough energy to queue for an hour, with sweat pouring off him, for a bus ticket back to Mussoorie. The wait is worth it and he gets a seat but even in India no one wants to sit next to a smelly sweaty runner. From Dehra Dun it is 1.5 hours to Mussoorie and a climb to 6,000 feet. Unfortunately the bus s him at the opposite end of the bazaar and to get home it is another 40 minute, 1000ft climb above. He runs back through the bazaar now brimming with tourists eating candy floss and kids with balloons. Others are amusing themselves on horseback or in the pinball parlours. This is the fashionable avenue, the Mall, which starts from the Library and runs through the Kulri Bazaar. At night the lights and signs transform the Mall into a tacky, cheap tourist paradise. He winds up past Jubilee Cinemas and Picture Palace - the best place to get a taxi. But there is no taxi catching for Peter and he continues the steep hike up Mullingar hill. At least the temperature is cool and he enters the guesthouse at 12pm in time for lunch. With a round of applause from the residents he sits down to a steaming plate of rice, vegetables and chapatis (bread).
That night the monsoon mists vanished again to reveal the lights of Haridwar and Rishikesh, holy cities built on the Ganges river, twinkling like some magical fairy land. Todays 35 km run had made Peter hungry for the final run - a pilgrimmage run beside the Ganges, the religious lifeblood of the country, squirming and snaking along the Dun Valley floor. He thought of running by the river banks thronged with Sadhus (holy men) and pilgrims doing penance and pujas (prayer ceremonies). He could already smell the incense offerings and bodies being cremated, and hear the prayer cries to God. Well as they say in India "Cul acha hai Sahib" (tomorrow is good, sir). |
