Sexy Chicken

Enough of this fooling about at the bottom of the Himalayas: it's time to get up them bitches.

Girlface and I caught a morning bus for the epic 250-kilometer ride to the mountain town of Joshimath, a military and religious outpost that spends half of its year being home to thousands of people who live even deeper in the mountains, where winter gets too desperately cold even for strange Himalayan mountain people. All 250 of those kilometers were on a narrow, twisting road pushing ever further uphill through the Alakananda river valley, one of several places referred to as "The Valley of the Gods".

As the hours wore on, we almost became tired just by looking at the height and steepness of the slopes we were constantly about 10 inches from falling off of. There is just no horizontality in these mountains. It's so goddamn steep the children here don't even play cricket. They barely have enough ground for a half-court game of thumb wars. There is no 'missionary position' in the Garhwal Himalayas; sexual intercourse is instead referred to as 'getting belaid' because you can only do it while dangling in a harness. It's so steep you have to walk uphill to tie your shoes. I don't even know how that works. Logic ends at 10,000 feet.

We finally got to Joshimath and it was everything we hoed for: high, steep, and not quite as fucking cold as it could be. After weeks of over-100 degree heat in lower India, however, I was willing to deal with a spot of freezing rain here and there. It's really no prob...IS THAT FUCKING SNOW??? Friends, weeks after these events first unfolded, I can tell you that much of my reporting for the month of May is going to concern getting snowed on.

Arising early in the morning, we stretched and I donned my prize new possession: a ridiculous "hip" Indian sweater covered in nonsensical Hinglish-isms, mutually incompatible brand labels, and best of all, a prominent tag that reads something to the effect of "GIORGIO ARMANI. PURE ORIGINAL LEATHER". It's a wool sweater.

After our morning tea, we went to speak to the manager. I could hardly contain my glee when the combination of my stupid Indian sweater, stupid Indian haircut, and not-stupid Indian companion made the manager refuse to accept I was an American. He repeatedly accused me of faking my ignorance of Hindi, to which Girlface testified "Oh no, he really is quite ignorant." Leaving Girlface to do the talking, as the manager was now insulted by my ongoing "refusal" to converse with him intelligibly, we inquired as to the easiest way to get to the holy village of Badrinath, for which reason we had dragged ourselves hundreds of miles to this frigid hilltop.

"Badrinath is closed for another ten days" he said (in Hindi).

Well, that put a bit of a spin on things. It turns out that thanks to the Kumbh Mela, which had interrupted the various cosmic cycles of the year, the temples of Garwhal were still remaining closed several weeks after the clearing of the snows. We were left essentially with ten days in Joshimath, of all damn places, with nothing to do. "I know!" I said, "Let's find a crazy, perverted old man and go on an adventure with him!"

Well, that's not quite how it happened, but by that afternoon we were in a jeep with a crazy old pervert who was taking the time out of his busy schedule of criticizing the cooks at the town's main breakfast joint to show us around some village we had never heard of. It soon came out that the village, which was called Tapovan, was notable chiefly for its hot spring, and our new friend was making quite frequent reccomendations that we strip to our undergarments and splash hot water on our bodies. In retrospect, it was quite a mystery why we subsequently followed him a mile out of town to peer into another hot spring, which was little more than a violently foaming, sulphurous puddle of such suspect composition that he didn't suggest we disrobe there at all. Instead, he merely suggested that Girlface boil some eggs within, so that we might enjoy a hearty snack whilst frolicking in the hot springs back in town. He also wanted us to buy a chicken. I suppose he thought we should cook it, but by this point I didn't dare ask what else two young people and an old man could do with a chicken in a hot spring.

Nobody ever goes to Tapovan. Well, nobody except weird old Nepali men with hot spring fetishes, so we were stuck there for several hours before catching another jeep back. "What do we do for nine more days?" Girlface asked, visibly concerned that we had exhausted the touristic possibilities around Joshimath in a single creepy afternoon. Moreover, she seemed worried that though the attractions had run out, the creepiness hadn't. Pervo interrupted "Oh don't worry! There are many good things. You see me in morning. I will be at restaurant. There I can see your hotel."

Nine days... The afternoon was ony just drawing to a close and we were getting a little bored. Girlface was peering out the window and took me by the arm. "The old man is still sitting at that restaurant..." she whispered, "...what are we going to do? I don't want to go out..." She was right. There was something weird about it, and nine days under pervo-siege was a prospect not even Ghostface Buddha felt like having to deal with. I scanned the street carefully. If worst came to worst and the boredom were to start eating us from the inside... well... from the window I could see at least two places to buy chickens.