It is a four-hour bus journey over to Chintapalle. Actually, I planned to stop at Paderu, as several people had suggested that it would have more natural beauty. However, when I stand up to get off the bus, all I see is a sprawling cement village. I just sit back down. Unfortunately, since I purchased a ticket to Paderu, the conductor and driver are determined to get me off the bus. I keep showing them money and saying “Chintapalle,” until they finally get the idea and allow me to continue on the bus.

However, Paderu does have one redeeming faction: huge gulmohar trees line the main road. I love these trees with their lacy leaves and large orange flowers speckled with yellow, like colorful tropical birds. These trees would have to be some fifty or sixty years old, from the days before the democracy, when the local kings personally initiated such public beautification projects. They don't happen now.

When I arrive in Chintapalle, I immediately search out the Forest Guest House, which turns out to be close to the bus stop. None of the officers are in, but the clerk assures me there is no room in the guest house, as they are expecting the Sub-Collector. In spite of the fiasco at Arraku, I remember how helpful the officers were at Maredumalli, so I feel it is best to talk to them directly.
In the meantime, I take off for a stroll to assess the extent of forest in this area. Strolling down the main road, I encounter a very small town. Houses are sprinkled, not squeezed, along the way. It’s definitely not a cement village. When I look up, I spot huge eagles circling overhead, affirming the remoteness of the area. This place looks like the beautiful natural setting I have been looking for, I tell myself with a smile. Sure enough, my stay at Chintapalle turns out to be quite a masaala, spicy mix, of different experiences—including encounters with interesting people, and even India’s politics. I thought that in the outback I would be isolated from the political turmoil that has been sweeping the country, but I am mistaken.

When I return to the Forest Office later in the afternoon, I find Ramalinga Reddy, the officer in charge, has returned. He assures me that there is plenty of room in the Guest House. However, I will have to take the back room, leaving the larger front room available just in case the Sub-Collector does arrive. So I am settled in Chintapalle.

Immediately, I take off down the road toward the forest where I find a trickle of a stream to follow. As I explore, I find a large boulder shaded by a huge mango tree. From its long spreading branches, small ripe fruits are dropping on the ground for me to enjoy. I open one and suck out its juice, as it is too fibrous to eat. When I lie back on the smooth boulder to relax, I hear the gurgling stream, the twittering birds, and the fragrant champak flowers. I feel so wonderful being surrounded by bountiful nature. My body seems to lose itself among the green leaves and chirping birds. My thoughts begin expressing my contentment, There must be a wonderful creator to have conceived of such a beautiful spot. I could have never dreamed up any place so wonderful!

There is another advantage to Chintapalli, the local people are quite friendly. In some rural areas where the British were not really visible, they created a mystic aura about their nobility, their greatness and superior virtues, since they were “carrying the black man’s burden” and all that b.s. The simple folk would not have comprehended that rationalization, they just knew that the British were the rulers: rulers deserve obeisance. The nobility myth must have taken firm root in this area, for even after forty years of Independence, it still survives. I benefit from it daily.

When I walk down the street, villagers step aside. They are thrown into visible raptures of glee if I greet them with a simple “namaste.” They approach me with their babies for a blessing. Then they act as if the baby has been touched by an angel, when I am the one who is truly blessed by these lovely cherubs. The truth is these simple folk love to have human idols. Unfortunately, it has been a continual thorn in the reality of Indian politics.

From the first day, I get a reminder that Chintapalle falls into the territory of the Naxilites, India’s Communist rebels. As I am strolling down the main road, I am stopped by a hefty fellow in plain clothes, traveling in a jeep. After explaining that he is a police officer, he wants to see my papers. I inform him that, for obvious reasons, I do not carry my papers with me on the road. I suggest he accompany me to the guest house. Since he is busy at the moment, he opts to see me tomorrow at the police station. Fortunately, he speaks decent English. During my stay, I am continually surprised that I find more English speakers here than in Maredumalli or Arraku, even though this is the most remote region I have been in.

When I show up the next morning, the officer is not present. No officers are present, only some motley clerks who are hanging around. However, even they know enough English to communicate to me that there has been an emergency: the candidate for Prime Minister has been assassinated. As I was walking over, I kept hearing “Rajiv Gandhi” repeated along the way, but I thought it was due to the general election fervor. Now I find out that Rajiv has been killed by Tamil extremists, so I will not find any officer today. The underlings want to see my papers, but I decline to waste my time. I ask them to tell the Officer that I will return later.

After leaving the police station, I go to a forest officer’s home who has promised me a unique excursion today. Naidu has work to do in a local coffee plantation and has invited me to come along—since it is in a great jungle area. When I arrive, he has just received the news of Rajiv’s assassination and is quite distraught.

“He’s the only leader we had, and certainly the only one who had any respect on the international scene. I have not been able to do a thing since I heard the news. It is hard to imagine what India is coming to. How bad does it have to get before everyone wakes up to what they are doing to themselves by keep this country in such a turmoil?”

All we know at this point is that Rajiv was shot in a small town outside of Madras in a last minute campaign stop. He had been on a whirlwind tour for weeks trying to allay his former elitist technocrat image. When he was in power from 1985 through 1989, he, or rather his technocrat buddies, had alienated the common folk. The young men had analyzed that after forty years of Independence India was still a century behind in industrialization. They decided to skip that phase and go straight for the technical, or computer, age. Perhaps, a sound idea in theory, but not workable in a country where the extremes of illiterates and know-it-all leaders predominate. Besides, how can you have a computer age with intermittent electrical power in the major cities?

After his defeat two years ago, Rajiv stated that somewhere along the way he had lost communication with the people. So during this campaign his main theme was contacting the people of the villages and small towns. He felt confident that he was transforming his aloof image to one depicting him as concerned for the people. However, at the time of his death, a leading magazine was on the news stands predicting his failure in the election.

Since Naidu had already contracted a vehicle for the day, he feels he has to complete his work. There are very few cars in this area, so the only transport available was a big lorry—definitely a new experience for me. From the high cab, I get a good view of the stately forests along the way—miles and miles of it. I am ecstatic seeing these uncut, unpeopled forests. I was not so satisfied when I traveled in many regiong of the Himalayas.

Thinking that the Naxlites may take advantage of the turmoil, everyone is expecting trouble, even Naidu. Nevertheless, we see nothing out of the ordinary until we are almost at the plantation. There we find the road blocked in compliance with the nationwide bandh, strike, to honor Rajiv who is being cremated today. The roadblock consists of a wall of framed photos strung on ropes. The most outstanding ones are large 16" x 20" shots of Indira Gandhi and her son in various poses. Giant fluorescent photos of Lord Ganesha and Sri Lakshmi are thrown in for good measure. The Elephant God that removes obstacles and the Goddess of Wealth are brought out for all sorts of occasions. Since we would have to move the whole set-up to pass through, Naidu suggests that we get out and walk the remaining distance.

The coffee plantation is incredibly beautiful. I am so happy to find out that they do not have to destroy trees to plant coffee as they do for tea plants. Coffee likes dappled shade, so all the big trees are preserved; only the underbrush is removed. Besides they have to fill in any sunny gaps with trees, usually with white oak, which grows faster than trees native to this area.

We make a wide circuit of the plantation of several hundred acres. Crossing several hillsides, we come across a natural spring with a lovely pool. The officer who lives on site tells us that there is a tiger who visits this watering hole regularly. Usually, they can find distinct tracks, but today the only ones he finds look a little dubious to me. But what do I know about tiger tracks?

We are in the middle of May—peak mango season. As we walk along, the forest trail is littered with ripe mangoes, wild varieties, too small for market value. Hardly a mouthful each, but one of the varieties is specially good, with a sweet-sour tang. I am glad to see that these ancestors of the modern hybrids still exist.

As we are circling around back to the valley where we started, we spot colored streamers across the trail ahead. Naidu asks me to wait with one of his flunkies while he and the other officer go ahead to investigate. All seems clear, so they signal us to come on. The site is, as they suspected, evidence of a recent ritual done by the Naxlites. I see the flowers, paan leaves and bilva grass: all the trappings of a Hindu ritual.

“But the Naxilites are supposed to be Communists, that is, atheists,” I ponder aloud.

“Yes, but remember, they are Indians first,” Naidu replies.

“That’s right. They did have the Hindu gods in their roadblock too,” I suddenly get the significance.

That evening, I drop by the police station before dinner. The officer who asked for my papers is present, sitting out in front of the police guest house with a group of officers, including a visiting Police Sub-Inspector. The title threw me off for a moment, but the gentleman’s demeanor quickly tells me that he is in charge.

He informs me that Chintalpalle has a reputation as a trouble spot. Even back in 1922, the local king, Allui Sita Ram Raju, started his own freedom movement. With carefully coordinated raids on four police stations in four villages at the very same moment, he hoped to remove the British from his territory. The Brits had operations in this remote area because of lumber, particularly the prized rosewood. The coupe was only a temporary success, but the Raju remains a hero in this area. The stone prison where the native rebels were incarcerated is still part of the police complex.

“This is a very black day for India,” the Sub-Inspector concludes.

“Yes, whether you were for Gandhi or not, it is a black day for India,” I agree.

As we are talking, another Officer takes down some numbers from my passport and visa, so I am only indisposed for a pleasant thirty minute chat. Afterward, I walk over to the local thatched hut for a supper of chapatis and dal. This whole wheat bread, made just like the Mexican tortilla, is common in North India, but not in Andhra. I am glad to find them as an alternative to the usual white rice.

The next morning, Naidu tells me that one of his friends had been among the police officers present when I was speaking with the Sub-Inspector. After I left them, he told the officers not to bother me. I was simply there to enjoy and appreciate their country and should be treated as their guest, the friend reported to Naidu.

Now free to come and go as I please, I finish breakfast and am off by to the forest by 6:00 in the morning. Afterwards, I take off for a walk up a dry streambed in a forest area that has some dappled sunlight where I find several varieties of wild flowers, including some lovely white lilies. Soon I hear the cries of peacocks in the nearby hills. By the time I reach the top, where I discover a small spring, the cries have ceased. When I am nearly back down the slope, I hear the peacocks again. No peacocks for me today, I lament.

To compensate, I find a tiny bird nest, built on a branch over the stream. Three large leaves are intertwined in the grass of the nest to make it almost invisible. I encounter so many lovely treasures in the forest; every area is full of diverse tress and flowers to admire. Then I plop on a grassing knoll to admire my world in silence. No matter who created it, I am just here to enjoy it.
Before long, my contemplation is disturbed when the sun invades my spot, so I have to move on.

On my route, due to sheer curiosity, I stop at a small temple perched on a hillock, enclosed by a wrought iron fence. I am surprised to encounter a swami there; one of the swamis who is running a temple as a business. It is definitely not the dharma of a renunciate. This swami is quite a sight to behold with a beehive hairdo standing at least two feet high. However, he does speak some English, enough to express his curiosity about who I am and what I am doing here. After I give him a concise version, he takes my left palm and look at it, “Nice palm, live to be 90 years.”

Hardly impressed by that information, I comment, “That’s a good prognosis for the palm, but what about the rest of me?” But he misses my humor. He explains that his English is too limited to explain anything else.

After a short discussion, I get up to leave, but the swami insists that I stay for lunch. I tell him that it is too early for lunch. “No,” he assures me that he eats at 10:30 a.m. daily. Lunch will be ready in ten minutes. While we were talking a pleasant young woman has passed through the room several times. He tells me she is staying with him for a month for guru seva [service].

Just when I think ten minutes have passed, the young woman appears to put out two clean banana leaves. Surprisingly, at that moment, the swami gets up and disappears behind closed doors over to the side. Instead of just sitting there, I go into the room that serves as the temple to look around. I place 10 Rps. on the altar to cover the expense of my lunch. While I am wandering about looking over the premises, I hear a couple of coughs coming from behind the closed doors. After some ten minutes, the swami materializes, followed by a cloud of smoke with the distinct odor of ganja [native hash]. I should have realized when I saw the hairdo; he must be a Siva devotee. His hairdo is an imitation of Lord Siva’s locks.

Once when I spent three months in the Himalayas, I watched the sadhus there prepare their ganja. Marijuana—tall and robust—grew wild throughout the hills. To make it as strong as possible, they would roll the leaves in their hands to deposit the resin on their palms. Then holding them to the sunlight, the resin would turn black. Using a knife blade, they would scrape the thick resin, or homemade hash, off their palms and smoke it in a pipe.

This ganja tradition is quite prevalent among a group of sadhus in the Himalayas. Its consumption is considered important in the worship of Siva. I have never seen any evidence of even the slightest social disdain over this practice.

On Siva Ratri (Shiva’s night), an annual celebration when Siva appears to the devotees at midnight, everyone used to drink a special punch (five), made of five ingredients, which included marijuana leaves. When Mr. Nambiar told me of this custom, my obvious question was “You and your mother and father drank marijuana punch?” Next question, “But where did you get marijuana in Madras?”

“Oh, you could just but it fresh in the market at festival time,” he replied with a chuckle. “But we don’t have it available now-a-days. We never thought there was anything wrong with it. We just considered it a specialty for Siva Ratri.”

In the present situation, I suppose the ganja heightens the swami’s taste buds, for the food is exceptionally good, and very plentiful. While we are eating, the swami invites me to come stay at his “ashram” to study with him. He offers that the young woman will care for all my needs. I politely suggest that this is simply not what I am looking for at this point in my life. Now I am quite content with enjoying nature.

One afternoon, I happen to run into a young man who is here to monitor the elections, which have been postponed because of Rajiv’s assassination. Interestingly, he tells me that he had been in the café yesterday evening when I had a disagreement with the proprietor over the price he was charging me for a couple of chapatis. I had told him that I was a writer; therefore, it would be too bad to have Chintapalle’s name smeared in print for charging double prices to an innocent foreigner. When confronted, he was very apologetic, then charged me a fair price. The observer expresses admiration for my moxy, and mentions that all the men eating there got a kick out of my reprisal of the owner. He also verified that I was correct; I was being cheated. Since I have been here so long, I know what prices to expect, yet I rarely have to use the information—with the exception of taxi and rickshaw drivers in the cities.

Taking the opportunity of speaking with an authority on Indian elections, I ask the young man a few questions about their electoral system and his role as an overseer. The elections had been called because of mishandling of the Mandal Report situation by the Prime Minister, V.P. Singh. The ten-year-old report had been ignored by the Congress Party when they were in power. But V.P. was a man of the masses, he was the one who promised to cancel out bank loans to certain groups of farmers. He was in office just long enough to fulfill that promise. He also was determined to resurrect the Mandal Report.

The principal issue was that it gave even more reservations in the universities and government jobs to the lower classes, based only on percentages of population. Ideally, it sounds good, but in a country with few job opportunities, it means no positions at all for intelligent young people of the higher castes.

Increasingly, the Indian government is using caste to divide the people, just as the British used religion to divide the Moslems and Hindus. In this case, nearly thirty teenagers, all higher caste Brahmans, committed suicide publicly by immolation. Layer, a psychologist, paid by the government, came up with a theory that all of the victims had been “mentally imbalanced.” There was no further inquiry as to why they were unbalanced. Could it be because they did not have chance no matter how hard they tried? The few upper caste teenagers who do attend colleges have wealthy families who are able to pay exorbitant bribes required to matriculate in private universities. That just might be enough to cause a teenager to feel hopeless and frustrated to the point of being “mentally imbalanced.” Surprisingly, V.P. showed no remorse over the deaths of these young people.

In our discussions about calling for elections and the need for an overseer, the young man mentions “booth-capturing” several times. I had heard the term before, but I never could quite figure out just what it meant. So I ask him just what is “booth-capturing?”

“Why, that’s when someone goes in and just carries off the ballot-box, so the votes can’t be counted.”

“That’s booth-capturing? Well, I never would have figured that out. They just carry off the ballot box? . . . Obviously, it’s the ones who think they are going to lose.”

“Yes, if they feel like that they have one area that is a loser, they will take the box. Or they may stuff it, or they may put a lot of gundas (thugs) outside the polling place to keep their opponents from entering and voting.”

“I see. Well, it sure sounds like a democracy—Indian-style-to me. Self-government is bound to evolve distinctly in different cultures.”

Every political party here declares itself to be the party of the poor and downtrodden, since they are the clear majority of voters. Further, the poor are more likely to vote, for they are the only ones who have the leisure to stand in the long lines for up to half a day. The engineer from Hyderabad told me he had never voted, nor had any of his associates. What happens when a nation is run by its most unintelligent people? India’s history will tell that story—not that the same phenomenon does not exist elsewhere. We could probably dig up several great cradles of democracy that have been ruled by the mediocrity for several centuries. Surely, no one can deny that their rule has done a lot for mediocrity.

A good example is here in Andhra. Undaunted by his defeat in 1989, N.T.R. Rama Rao returned to his old job on the silver screen in the leading role of Lord Vishnu. The film was released just in time for his 1991 campaign. He has been hot and heavy on the campaign trail and clearly expects to be returned to office. I have seen his face plaster all over the billboards throughout my journey here. He is certainly not a handsome man, movie star or not.

On the day I am planning to leave on the noon bus, I decide to take a walk to Vangasara, supposedly a nice forested area. I would have preferred to stay here longer, but I need to return to Pondicherry for banking. My term savings account is due, and I have to withdraw money for the next six months. All bank records are still kept in handwritten ledgers, so the process of having money transferred around the country is lengthy and precarious, so I do not risk it. I have my suitcase packed so I am ready to head out after I return. . . but it will not be at the proposed hour.

The Vangasara sign along the main road is misleading. I end up in the Vangasara forest planting, not the village. Before I figure out my mistake, I follow a path across a grassy meadow that leads to a river where three young girls are washing clothes. As I look down upon them for a high bank, I say “namaste” to them. The oldest one takes one look at me, grabs her bucket, and runs like hell up the opposite embankment. When she reaches the top, she stops to look back to see that the two small girls are still playing in the stream. She yells one word to them. It must have been “ghost” or “witch,” something really awesome, because they turn white, shriek and run like hell after the older girl.

I follow the path they took, assuming I will find some help in that direction. Sure enough, before I reach the village, here comes a man to investigate. I explain that I am looking for the Forest Office in Vangasara. He hears Post Office, but I figure, what’s the difference, the Forest Office can’t be far from the Post Office. We enter the village and he directs me to a hut with a shady verandah, so I can present my plight to a group of elderly men sitting there.

It must be a very poor village; they do not even offer me tea. This has never happened before, even in isolated Himalayan villages. After discussing the matter among themselves for a few minutes, they come up with a solution. They give instructions to a young man who takes me to a road behind their village. He motions for me to wait. After five minutes, a teenager comes riding by on a bicycle and he flags him down. Then I understand, he is negotiating with the cycler to carry me to Vangasara. So away I go, smiling as I take in an overview of the landscape. With fresh air blowing through my hair, we roll by gigantic trees with orchids hanging from their limbs, beautiful groves of mangoes, and gigantic gray boulders with ferns growing out of dark cracks. He takes me straight to the Post Office. When I offer him 10 Rps. for his trouble, he refuses to take it. I am glad I insisted when I see him turn around, so he had gone out of his way to help me.

I enter the Post Office to get general directions. The only other place of business in town is a tiny government store where the tribals can buy rice at cut-rate prices, plus a few other necessities. The manger there has noted my arrival and sent his teenage son to invite me for tea. Afterwards, the boy takes me on a tour of the local cascades and springs.

Just as I start to leave, the wife of one family sends an emissary to insist that I have lunch with them. News of the stranger has obviously traveled. The family must be the owners of the mango plantations that I passed as they have the only large house in town. The most outstanding feature of their abode is a pet jungle myna. It loves to imitate whistles, but he is struggling with the Telegu vocabulary. Lunch turns out to be quite an elaborate affair. However, it must be their normal fare because they did not have enough notice to prepare anything special for me. After a long delicious Indian lunch, they want me to stay and “rest,” but I insist that I need to get back to Chintapalle.

I do take the opportunity to ask them about a TV program I had seen in Pondy concerning a group of tribals, living in this general area. By accident, one of them discovered a leaf that repairs broken bones practically overnight. A hunter had bagged a large deer. In order to pack it back home, he had to slice it up. To protect it, he wrapped it in some leaves from a nearby tree. Lo and behold, when he got back to the village, all the meat and bones had knit back into one piece. They experimented and found the leaves work on broken human bones too. In the TV program, the tribals were insisting that they were not going to give the exact information to anyone because others would make money on it, while they would receive no benefit. When asked why they did not commercialize it themselves, they replied that they were hunters and bonesetters, not businessmen. Now there is a poignant example of the caste system in action.

My hosts do know of the bonesetters and inform me that the Government has come up with unique compromise. Through the Andhra Pradesh state government, treatment with the leaves has been made available to the public for a low fee of 2 rupees.

I also inquire about the more scenic forest path back, but no on can give me any details. They say they avoid it like the plague due to the Naxilites. So I head back along the road for an easy return. When I came here, I should have taken the second left, instead of the first left.

Walking along the road, I am soon attracted by the wonderful spreading mango trees. Finally, I cannot resist. I climb over the gully, pick a tree, spread out the towel from my backpack, and sit down to enjoy the beautiful spot. As I lie back to feel the warm earth supporting me, I take in the trees towering overhead framing the blue sky with splotches of green and rusty brown. Anyone who could feel what I do now could never cut another tree, for they are the columns of our wonderful earth cathedral. I know not everyone sees what I see; not everyone feels what I feel. It is like that wonderful scene from Star Wars when all the distinctive characters are gathered at the galactic bar. We are all from different planets— with totally different sensory equipment. The Creator’s greatest joke was making us look enough alike that we can fool ourselves into assuming that we feel and think alike too.

Wouldn’t you know it? It is really rare to be alone in India, although I do manage it. After some fifteen minutes, some village-types come along. I think they must be mango pickers. However, they are not picking; they are watching me. It must be quite a shock to see me lying under a tree. Anyway, having been disturbed, I get up to start back again. Due to getting lost and having a long lunch, I have given up on getting back for today’s bus, so I start piddling along. I even stop to explore a stream for any interesting ferns or flowers. When I continue on, a few sprinkles of rain begin to fall. Since it has not been raining much, I did not even carry an umbrella with me. I figure it will be just another light afternoon shower. . . wrong.

On the road, several village women are running to get out of the storm. They motion for me to follow them. I probably would have, except I am perplexed because there was no village on this stretch of road when I came by on the bicycle. So I do not hurry because I do not think there is any shelter ahead anyway. . . wrong.

Then the storm breaks; a serious monsoon storm. Then hailstones start flying. I am able to find a tree with a large low branch that sort of protects me from the hail, at least my head and face. Then the water begins to slow down the trunk. Oh, my God, I’m getting seriously drenched. Will this storm ever stop? No, it goes on and on and on. I just keep breathing deeply. It can’t last forever, that would be impossible, I console myself. It lasts what seems like a very long time, probably only some thirty minutes, but thirty minutes under these conditions is a long time. Finally, the downpour slows to a sprinkle, so I emerge from my tree shelter to attempt to get out of here. Problem is that the gully is now a raging torrent, so I cannot get back over to the road. Finally, I find a narrow spot where I can jump across.

As I start down the saner surface of the asphalt road, I look up and see three children running toward me carrying an umbrella. I have no idea that they are coming to find me. Nevertheless, I figure it out after they insist that I take the umbrella, then turn around to go along with me.
As we return, the going is rough. In several places, the road is covered with over a foot of water. All of a sudden, the kids holler and run like hell. Oh, no, not the ghost thing again, I moan. No, it is an approaching bus. The kids know that the bus is going to splash all the water in the road all over them as it whizzes by. Now I also know that the sensible thing to do, when I am standing in a foot of water when a bus approaches, is to scream and run like hell. But you are not any wetter no than you were before, I remind myself.

We soon reach a small village—right beside the road. This doesn’t make sense; why didn’t I see it when I came by on the bicycle? Then I realize, since I was riding side-saddle, I was facing the opposite direction. Most villages sprawl down both sides of a road, but this one is the exception. In the direction I was look there was nothing but trees.

The children take me to a mud hut where a woman is obviously awaiting me. A cup of hot tea is pushed in my hands before I reach the top step. On a covered and walled porch is a fireplace, no chimney, but a hole in the wall to let out the smoke. Several other people, both women and children, are huddled around the fire. They all push me to the front, so I can dry out.

Soon a group of men arrive to check out the situation. They seem to be interested in what “we” eat. “Bread,” declares one of them. They all agree that my brethren are bread-eaters. To them there are only two human species: rice-eaters and chapati-eaters. They do not know about potato or corn eaters. I am sure they will forgive me for not trying to explain, under the circumstances. Of course, I could never explain anything to them in Telegu anyway. These lovely, although folksy, people are considered villagers, not tribals, because they were not the original inhabitants of this area. Because of the pressure of population and lack of land, several groups have moved here from the lowlands to farm in the hills during the past century. They have prospered with their mango groves and crops of safflower seed, which are extracted for cooking oil.

They quickly change the subject because one of them suddenly realizes that a bus is due soon that will stop in Chintapalle. Everyone decides I better get on it because there may not be another one for hours. Two men accompany me to the bus and give the driver instructions on my behalf. I am content to board the bus and drag myself back to the dry guest house to put on dry clothes, for I remain soaked.


The next morning the ride downhill is something to behold: thick green forests with maximum hairpin curves. Most of the trees are beautiful broad-leaved types that throw shade across the highway. Aside from enjoying their beauty, I am elated to see so much natural forest still standing.

At the bottom of the mountain is the small town of Tuni. I find the train station office and purchase a ticket—no reservations available. But the usual hospitality is. When I ask for a recommendation for a decent hotel for lunch, the clerk informs me, “Oh, Madam, you can’t eat in a hotel—not in Tuni.”

When I eat in Indian cafes in small town, I have noticed that all the diners are men. The men are not necessarily single, but away from home because of their jobs. I suppose that is the reason for the clerk’s reaction: “madams” do not eat in restaurants. Anyway, I end up sharing the lunches that the clerk and janitor have brought from home. They absolutely insist. I just eat a little white rice with yogurt and a banana. They cannot believe that I can subsist on so little, but I assure them that their food is very delicious and adequate.

The “no reservation available” turns out to be significant; there is standing room only. A railway attorney, who was just in Tuni to prosecute several cases of persons traveling without tickets, tries to help me find a seat. He has no luck, so I am doomed to stand all the way to Rajamundry. It is reminiscent of the New York subway at rush hour, except there are no bars to hang on to. The only thing that saves me is that we are packed so tightly that I cannot possibly fall. At the Rajamundry station, I happen to spot the attorney. I take the opportunity to tell him, “No wonder people don’t pay for tickets for this journey on a cattle car. If I ever ride this train again, I won’t buy a ticket either.” Fortunately, I am able to get a first-class ticket with reservation in Rajamundry for the overnight train to Madras.