At this point I have collected three bags of traditional Keralan dried snacks, three hand-dyed silk scarves, five holiday cards, a bag of jackfruit seeds, a cloth-bound journal, a sandalwood mala, a lungi and an assortment of papers, pamphlets and small books for my family. These little treasures filled up the entire extra bag I had bought and although this all fit into Amara’s big, mostly empty backpack, I really wanted to send the stuff home. I had been trying since Bengalaru, but thought Mumbai might be easier. Then Kushboo told us about the great shopping in Rajasthan, so we thought we would buy some more gifts then send the whole package home. Well, as you know not much shopping happened, but we had a bit of time in Agra at the train station. I trudged through the one hundred and twelve degrees, drenched in sweat, to the post office to buy a box and send it out, but all I got was an offer to get in a stranger’s car (mom told me not to do that) so it went back in Amara’s luggage.We boarded the tiny train to Shimla with two tiny cups of tea. We spilled the hot hot stuff on our clothing, the ground, numerous seats and a table where we finally set them as we clumsily dragged our bags and tired bodies around. In the end we still had a few sips of the steaming, heavily sweetened, mostly full-fat milk though, and it renewed our energy. We were dirty, if not delirious, but happy as we settled into our seats across from three foreign boys, one each from France, Germany and South Africa, everyone nicely fitting into our idea of their homeland stereotypes with both accent and demeanor. We all swapped stories, the boys of days since their chance encounter, weeks as volunteers and months travelling, ours being dozens of local characters, hundreds of degrees and thousands of miles. The train seemed to take an eternity; our griminess increasing with every hour, until we finally arrived at the tiptop of a big green mountain. We said goodbye to our new friends and hiked up an incredibly steep hill to our hotel, with one quick, unsuccessful stop at the post office. This brought us to vow to send off the damn package while we were in Shimla – we had a few days until we needed to head down the hill to Satoli, a small village Rajeev had arranged for us to visit. We took a few hours longer nap than expected, then headed into town. Bag of stuff in hand.
It was a pleasant half hour stroll into town, most of the road without any cars but many other walkers on their way to hotels, shops, jobs and schools. We arrived at the main post office and announced we wanted to mail this big ol bag to ‘Merica. The postman said no. Huh? You need to package it. Well, yes, clearly. May I buy a box? No. Where can I buy a box? The tailor. The tailor? Yes, then get it wrapped in cloth. Wrapped in cloth? Ok, ok, joke’s on the white girl. Really, may I mail this? No. End of conversation. We stopped for a drink before we set off to…the tailor. We also found a bookstore on the way where we bought a box for three quarters of a dollar. We meandered through the alleyways of electronics, fruits and vegetables, bottles and pots, toiletries, medicine and of course cloth. We must have asked half a dozen shops if they sewed parcels (we realized no other word was appropriate for the stuff, although it all sounded strange to us) before we found a man behind a sewing machine willing to make a mailing outfit for our box. But he didn’t have any cloth. So we started asking for parcel cloth instead. We found new toothbrushes, small towels (ask us what they are for some time) and a number of other things we had not had time to buy in the past few weeks but not until after sunset did we find cloth. Now to find a tailor again. We had gotten quite lost in the maze of the market, but finally, at the top of the hill we found a man willing to sew up our box. And sew it up he did – it took nearly an hour, measuring and remeasuring, checking every seam and making each corner was even. The sun sank lower and lower and we got anxious, like I really don’t think it matters what the box dress looks like, good sir. We were wrong…then next day we came back to the post office and waited in line for a half hour before an old lady pushed us to the front (ladies line!) and we handed over the box. The postman measured, checked and inspected every seam and corner then handed it back. I almost wouldn’t take it, but he said we just needed to write an address with a name (not just ‘the family’). We handed it back and he took it! Who knows if it will ever arrive in the USA, but at least we don’t have to carry it around any more. With that we were free to roam, we went up to a monkey temple and offered the monkey god a juice box, we went to the tailor again with fifteen meters of fabric and got measured for three long flowered dresses. We ate ice cream and trout from the river, we walked up and down the hills and mountains, sometimes with a stick in hand to keep the monkeys away from us, sometimes with a flashlight in hand to keep us away from the potholes. It is a lovely town.
Somewhere along the way we got word that Satoli was no longer an option. The foreign boys on the train had mentioned it would be the Dalai Lama’s birthday the next week and we both knew immediately we would reroute our trip to the north. You don’t end up a short ten-hour bus ride away from the Dalai Lama’s birthday party, in his hometown, in the Himalayas, every day.
