Shillong, October 1

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Thus my mobile phone made me aware of having crossed another state border. Outside the train, a landscape of banana and mango trees and small, sharp hills drifted along. Inside the class 3AC wagon, I had the interesting experience of meeting a different sort of people from the hundreds of dalits that are scrammed into the lower class part of the train. The people I shared a compartment with were discussing the delay. They were a young couple. The wife was a small little thing, dressed in western style and wearing expensive jewelry. She called her husband either "bebi" or "hanni". Ugh, how revolting. About 25 years old, his most striking characteristic was that his legs were about the same width as length. He was big in every way, except for his length. He had a big, square face with curly hair and a flat nose, like many Assamese people. They look different from the people in Nepal or Bengal here, more Southeast-Asian actually. They were friendly enough but I was too tired from the night's journey to start a conversation. The conversations were forced onto me when I arrived at my destination, Guwahati. Conversations that start like the following:
'Hello Sir. Can I ask you an important question?'
'Goodmorning. Well, go ahead then.'
'From which country are you?'

Guwahati, the capital of Assam, is a typical tropical provincial city, situated along the mighty Brahmaputra river. The river is vast, swollen by the monsoon rains, and the current is strong. Ferries have not yet started operating again and looking at the several km wide expanse of swirling and flowing water, I can imagine it is too dangerous. Whole uprooted trees flow past now and then. The city contains some interesting temples and laid-back parks, although the streets are, like everywhere in India, lined with piles of garbage. There is a worthwhile museum too, where a huge collection of old sculpture is exhibited. On the top floor is a reconstruction of a 'real' Assamese rural village and an exposition of tribal artifacts. You can stroll through the house of the village chief, granary, bakery, etc. Unfortunately neither the cleaning personnel nor the electrician like to climb stairs, so everything is covered in dust and the lights are not all working.

I don't blame them actually. At noon, the temperature rises to 35 degrees and the humidity is dreadful. I start recognizing the physical effects the heat has on my body. Especially the whining pain in my legs, caused by dehydration. A similar dizzying feeling in the head. It makes me want to sit or lie down. It stops my brain from functioning properly. You just want to sleep or lay in bed all day, and drink liters of water. Even eating seems unnecessary. I forced myself to visit a couple of temples on the river side. There is also one temple on a small island in the river, but due to the mentioned absence of boats that one is off-limits at the moment. The others were interesting enough though. A priest knotted holy threads around my wrist and said the prayers for me, then served me holy water. You are supposed to drink a few drops and throw the rest over your head, then give the man a couple of rupees.

I actually had dinner in a pizza restaurant in Guwahati - yuch. But it was one of the few places in town with air-co. Walking outside was like being wrapped in a warm, moldy, stinky and moist blanket.

In the morning, the temperature had slightly dropped. I thought to take advantage by making a small walk around town. Unfortunately, that was when the rain started. It was a total downpoor. In a few minutes, the streets had become rivers and the gardens ponds. I fled into the museum again...

...and took a jeep to Shillong later that day. Shillong, at around 1500 m altitude, has a blessed cool climate compared to the Assamese plains. The hills are grown with jungle or planted with tea or spices. The people here seem even less hospitable than in Guwahati though. Not used to foreign tourists, I was met with mistrust when searching for a hotel room. Nobody is able to understand why I am not married at 32, or why I didn't produce any offspring yet. The sad fact of traditional Indian culture is that the family is still cornerstone of the society. You see it in the advertisements on the streets, you see it in the families of Bengali tourists that flock to Shillong. 'Babies' take a central role in life here. At least a third of the advertisements is for baby fodder, cremes and other stuff to smear the little suckers with or hideously coloured toys. And the word baby is not reserved for sucklings alone, as I found out when talking to one of the mothers (almost all of Indian women older than 20 seem to be mothers).

After the usual bit about which country and what age I thought of returning the curiosity a little:
'Do you have children?'
'Yes I have two babies.'
'How old are they?'
'Five and two.'
'You mean they are five and two months old?' I imagined some strange family configuration.
'No years.'
In fact Indians keep calling their children babies until they are about 12 years of age. And, in that one example, even their oversized husbands are babies. It explained the strange name of the school next to my hotel in Guwahati: 'Babyland Primary School'.

I don't object to the fact that people love their families, but as soon as it got to the point of being refused a hotel room because I don't share the Indian aptness for reproduction, I got a bit annoyed. No, we Europeans don't reproduce like rabbits, I'm sorry. In the past, we had religious authorities that stimulated us to make big families, just like you have still. But luckily, our ancestors had the insight to reject that push and banish its proponents to the margins of our society. We don't like to have our piece of the world seriously overcrowded (or over-littered) and we think self-development is about more than finding a suitable partner and caring for as many infants as possible. Thank you. Grrrrr.