All Go On The Gompa

By Veronica Forsayeth

All Go On The Gompa is a travel book about a failed tour of Bengal, Sikkim, and of Nepal. I had never wanted to go to India, ever. I refused. I resisted. I wept. I sulked. Karl, a self-obsessed Leo (and now ex), was convinced that the more rigorous and painful the holiday, the better the experience. To me, I am a sensuous, pleasure seeking Taurus with an eye for a chaise longue and a large cake. A holiday is all about indulgence i.e. tongue hanging out, spit dribbling down your chin while napping, picking a bit of fluff from your navel, and feeling tetchy that the pool temperature maybe a little too cool. Note that there is no mention of wild animals, raging rivers, cliffs, slippery rocks, snakes, spiders, or poo – human or animal. They say opposites attract and it provided for a relationship best described as the immutable force meets the irresistible object – me being the irresistible part of course. Karl had turned into a desert storm of nagging and harassing, so eventually I accepted my fate. I caved in. I packed. I wept again. Arriving into a hot and steamy Kolkata late in the night, confirmed for me that it would be tears before bedtime, and in the morning, and the afternoon. In the first five minutes of meeting our guide, Sunni, I developed a pathological instant dislike of him, knowing I was in the hands of a complete fool. To rub salt into that wound, we were also the only ones on the tour. It would be hell. Five weeks. Five weeks of hell. I did the only thing a girl could do: I found a bottle of gin and a long straw, and it went downhill from there. From Bengal to Sikkim and on to Nepal I was a weeping, soggy, wailing bag of misery. You know the look a woman would give if she had been taken to a country that she didn’t want to go to, spent a night in a rat infested hotel, driven for kilometres along dangerous roads and gorges where she constantly shat her pants, went without a flush toilet, peed into a variety of smelly cesspits, drains and containers, almost drowned in her own oedematous foam, nearly arrested by angry soldiers firing artillery around her, tricked into staying at a mould-filled resort, transported on a variety of wild animals, participated in unsolicited exercise without her consent, and worst of all had to travel for bloody weeks with the biggest loser tour guide God put breath into. Yep! That was me, alrighty.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Veronica Forsayeth
• Release date: Oct 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005528935

Veronica Forsayeth

I live in the Adelaide Hills in South Australia. I am an artist, writer, photographer and playwright. I enjoy all sorts of things, primarily observing the crazy things people think and do. That comes out through works like my play Holy Clappers A Story of Folly and Stupidity, which you can find online with Australian Plays. You can find lots of my stuff on Instagram #veronicaforsayethart, #veronicaforsayethpoetry, or #theveedog. I love travel and have been fortunate to do a lot of it and my favorite places are all in Asia where it's warm and the people are great. Can't wait to get back to it.

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All Go On The Gompa

Veronica Forsayeth

Copyright © 2021 Veronica Forsayeth

All rights reserved.

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Contents

Dolphin Squeaks

The Wall Buttons of Kolkata

Horse Blankets, Cutlets and Tea

The Road Makers Of Pelling

Every Dog Has Their Day

The Frozen Wastelands

Elephants A-Go-Go

Ping Pong It’s Kalimpong

Jungle Fever

The Yeti Lives

Do You Want Fries With That?

Just Rewards

Author’s Note

Dolphin Squeaks

It isn’t hard to define what makes a good holiday. A holiday is all about indulgence i.e. tongue hanging out, spit dribbling down chin while napping, having had a taxing time picking a bit of fluff from your navel, and feeling tetchy that the pool water maybe a little too cool. That’s a good time in anyone’s language.

***

I am a sensuous, pleasure seeking Taurus with an eye for a chaise longue and a large cake. Give me anything in a glass with a few bubbles and a man called Sven and I’m yours. I am a simple girl with simple needs, although a large home with staff wouldn’t go astray. I don’t like thrills, spills, sweating, climbing, or hurtling through time and space on any type of animal, car, machine or man-made object. I have legs; they like walking – to the pool. Don’t get me wrong, I love travelling the world, but I prefer to fly home without the aid of a ventilator and an ambulance. Holidays are for resting, for enjoying life, and for experiencing other cultures and people. Note that there is no mention of wild animals, raging rivers, cliffs, slippery rocks, snakes, spiders, or poo – human or animal. Karl, a self-obsessed Leo, was convinced that a holiday meant busting your clacker: up at six in the morning to walk the sites at speed, scale a large mountain before lunch, or wrestle a bull before dinner. He also thought that the more rigorous and painful the holiday, the better the experience. Authentic-shmemtic! I think that visiting a country just to see how horrible other people’s lives are borders on the macabre. They say opposites attract and that was true in our case, and it provided for a relationship best described as the immutable force meets the irresistible object – me being the irresistible part of course. Although Karl and I had travelled together on many occasions, I’d describe them as more of a quest, an expedition, or even an invasion of sorts but definitely not a holiday. So here I was again, bracing for the inevitable holiday trauma that I had come to expect.

The Wall Buttons of Kolkata

Every tick of the overhead clock sent my bowels into a tingle and the Singapore Sling I had for supper hadn’t calmed my nerves. The flight to Kolkata was boarding; there was no going back - India was waiting. For the record, I don't blame my travel agent, Julie. After all she was only doing her job when she passed on the tour brochure to Karl. She was ensuring we had the opportunity to enrich our lives with fabulous experiences and memories. Travel agents are so motherly. You could ask for a tour of European Eastern Block Coal Mines of the 50’s & 60’s, and they would say ‘Ooooo, you lucky thing, how fabulous. Here is your free miner's hat with canary motif as a special gift for booking with us’. Julie’s little newsletter brought the whole India thing to Karl’s attention in the first place. That one tiny paragraph announcing a unique tour of Northern India and the Himalayas was all it took to prick up those Leonine senses. You may not know this, but Leo’s prefer to do things that no one else is doing. They are the trendsetters of the Zodiac - so they believe.

***

When Karl read that one word ‘unique’ he became obsessed with the tour. He embarked upon a cruel and relentless quest to get to India - with me in tow. Everyday Karl became even more enthusiastic about the India trip. A travel guide appeared from Unique India Tours. A map of India arrived, and then more and more information about the tour poured in. I drowned in paperwork, films, emails and books and phone calls. My head began to wobble sideways; I said yes when I meant no, I was becoming Indian by osmosis. I should have said no. Hang on, I DID say no. I said no so many times I began to think I was speaking in dolphin squeaks. When I said no did it really come out as chchchchchchcchchch? Was I growing fins? In the end, I curled up my flippers and accepted my fate; there was nothing I could do.

***

Unique India Himalayan Heaven Tour would begin in Kolkata (see dead bodies and stinky rubbish), travel North on an overnight train to Siliguri (get robbed), change trains to famous Toy Train, (use foolish 1960’s word ‘dinky’), arrive in Darjeeling (drink poisoned tea), travel by Jeep to the Himalayas through the Kingdom of Sikkim (drive over mountain edge), overnight by bus to Chitwan National Park in Nepal (eaten by tiger; squashed by rhino), fly out from Kathmandu (infected with Hepatitis/Cholera/Polio), and all this in a mere five weeks.

***

Before our departure we received a personal information questionnaire along with the travel itinerary. Apparently it was imperative that they knew our food preference: (no sloppy crap), favourite things to do (stay home), hobbies and talents (being sarcastic and negative). Karl put down horse riding as one of his hobbies (apart from slave driving) and I knew that would come back to haunt him. I hate that nosey interfering ‘let’s all be friends’ thing. I had friends and they all wanted me to stay home. We would probably have to do one of those ‘get to know you’ things when we arrived. There would inevitably be a woman with big knockers and a whiney voice (apart from mine), ingratiating themselves to all with ‘Hi, I’m Randy and I’m from the States, and I’m de-vorced, tee hee, and I think India is just darling.’ Worse, some limpet woman with a natural lobotomy and a sorry implied in every sentence, ‘Oh Lord, I am but a little worm, I’ll do whatever the group wants to’. Save me!

***

After reading the brochure, I was convinced it was a trap to steal my kidneys or pass me into the arms of a white slaver. Well, smarty, it happened in Days of Our Lives - I could end up being a cook on a prawn trawler in the Malacca Straights. To reassure me, Julie supplied a contact number for a Mrs Merry, who apparently had just returned from doing the same tour. Julie said she was a very nice woman originally from Lancashire, but what that had to do with it I’ll never know. I insisted Karl phone her to get a first-hand account of her trip. She was apparently full of praise and reassurance, and I quote Karl, ‘She said it was a marvellous, enthralling, thrilling and exhilarating adventure!’ Never trust anyone who calls a casserole a ‘hotpot’; I should have known. He was quite smug after that as it confirmed his ‘excellent’ choice in choosing a tour and I had nowhere else to turn. For all I know she could have said, ‘Eeeh, you’re out of your minds, you’d be better off travelling the entire sewerage system of Melbourne, run to the nearest landfill site, sift through all the rubbish and come back with as many dead dogs as possible slung on your back, tied up with the entrails of a cow’. I was always suspicious that I didn’t know the whole story but I was too busy fretting about cholera to give him the third degree – more fool me. Besides, Karl wouldn’t lie to me. Would he?

***

The stupid thing was, I kept thinking that we wouldn’t go. Even as I passed through Customs at the airport, I thought Karl would say, ‘Surprise, surprise, we’re not going to India but to the beautiful Maldives where I’ve booked a six-star hotel with all the champagne and back rubs you can manage.’ Then I would have said something with a cute dimply smile like, ‘Well, scuttle my Sari you certainly had me fooled.’ Except that none of that happened and I don’t have dimples, well, I do, but they are not on my face cheeks. My last night at home had been one of resignation, as shown by my miserable long face. My children tried to cheer me up, ‘Come on mum, you’ll have a great time. It will be fun, you’ll see’. I smiled bleakly at them, knowing they knew that I knew that everyone knew it would not happen, and I would come home in a box. I patted their heads ‘be brave my little ones, be brave without mummy’ with tears of regret glistening in my eyes. I cried copiously into my pillow that night like a sad lamb to the slaughter (or hotpot). I am not sure if lambs do cry but I’m sure they would if they had to go to India. So, back to the airport in Singapore, where I was seriously hyperventilating and wishing we would be hijacked to Bora Bora.

***

The plane was packed and there was a furious commotion in every aisle and overhead locker. I have never seen so much stowed by so few in the name of capitalism. Huge bags of God knows what were still warm, hot, cold, or moving. Large suitcases were tucked under legs; blankets, pillows, tents, arm rests, curry pots, were stowed in every nook and cranny. The flight attendant smiled, oblivious to the pandemonium, saying ‘Welcome, how are you tonight madam, allow me to vacuum pack that elephant into the front pocket of your seat?’ Her pleasant, sweet manner reminded me of my travel agent, Julie. They must be related. We were the only Westerners aboard, except for a couple of the flight crew, and I felt conspicuous. I wished the plane would get a flat tyre or that the pilot would forget his keys. I thought of my children, my home and my bowels. Was it at all possible that I would survive and eventually return unscathed? No one goes to India and comes out unchanged - look what happened to the English, they went downhill after India. I gripped the armrest and controlled a lip wobble.

***

It wasn’t long before drinks arrived and the pappadums popped out. I like curry. Which got me thinking that if anyone should have been breaking their neck to get to India it should have been ME! After all my family was first in our neighbourhood to eat curry and rice, complete with little side dishes of coconut, tinned pineapple, and sliced banana. It was the sixties and people only ate rice as rice pudding, with sugar and cream on it. I definitely had eaten curry a long time before Karl had even heard of Keens Curry Powder. On the other hand, Karl had been stuffed full of sauerkraut and sausage, and ate things like cheese and sliced meat for breakfast. Where were the Corn Checks, the Vegemite, the tomato sauce on a sausage for goodness sake? Furthermore, who would honestly believe that anyone with that kind of Germanic background would think that going to bloody India was a normal thing to do. I think chomping on a large wurst would be more bloody familiar to him than looking for spicy culinary treats in Kol-bloody-kata.

***

We got talking to a young couple in the aisle opposite that were from Kolkata and had been to Australia for their honeymoon. I couldn’t grasp their Indian names, so I referred to them as John and Betty. They were impressed that we were voluntarily flying into Kolkata - obviously a rare occurrence by western tourists. John and Betty had a great time in Sydney and the Gold Coast, eating, drinking, and honeymooning. I think he was a doctor, which accounted for their ability to have an expensive holiday abroad. They were curious as to what we were going to do in Kolkata for three days. I was just about to tell him exactly what I thought would happen when Karl turned his back on me, cutting me off. He fished out the tour itinerary and gave it to them to read. You know the look that the dentist would give his nurse if he had just snapped off your last molar at the root and there isn’t any more local anaesthetic left, and it’s Friday at five o’clock on a long weekend, and they have a meeting with the Queen to be knighted for Services to Dentistry and you’re going to be in desperate trouble for the next seventy-two hours and their taxi is waiting at the front door and you will just have to go through it by yourself and they don’t want to tell you? That’s just the look John gave to Betty. John handed back the itinerary to Karl and muttered something about having a good time and good luck. It was my first Indian, yes or no head wobble, as Betty gave me a watery smile, ‘I hope you enjoy your travels’. What did she mean? Was she saying I won’t or I will? I had witnessed the look they gave each other officially confirming I was doomed. The shiver that went over me was not just because of the air conditioning, I was sure it was the beginning of typhoid.

***

After what seemed to be a nanosecond, we began our decent into Kolkata. I had a window seat, and as we circled over the huge city of Kolkata, I looked for the twinkle of lights below - as you do. Kolkata has a population of about 12 -13 million and I presumed that there would be the usual grid of major highways, roadways and streetlights demarking the city centre and such. That was my affluent western thinking and, as I looked at the darkness below, it dawned on me that there were no twinkles, sparkles or landmarks and therefore, no power, no plumbing, no flush. I knew then that my white honky upbringing was showing like a slapper’s petticoat on a full bender. Soon the wheels were down for landing, the seat belt sign came on, and as soon as the aircraft wheels touched the tarmac, all hell broke loose. Out came the giraffe package, the bricks, the spiral staircase, the suitcases, the pillows, and the life size statue of Ghandi. Karl and I ducked out of the way of a large parcel wrapped into an unnatural shape, carried by a sweaty matron as she elbowed her way between passengers. The flight attendants walked down the aisle spraying us with disinfectant. How rude! They should have been spraying us with a protective coating of antibiotic. John and Betty leaned over, gave us another little head wobble of sympathy and a half-arsed smile, saying ‘Welcome to India!’ This actually meant, ‘Welcome to India; book the funeral.’

***

Karl held my hand as we stepped out of the plane into the hot, humid night air of Kolkata. When I say ‘held my hand’, I mean pulled me along the tarmac to the entry to the Dum Dum Airport. Has anyone sanded back those scratch marks, I wonder? So, Dum Dum Airport. Really? Who’d call an airport that? Perhaps there was a Mr Dum Dum, and I bet he copped shit at school with that name. Meanwhile hundreds of rampant Indians trampled their way around us and over us into the terminal, bustled through customs, and then away, out into the night. We on the other hand, had no bloody idea what we were doing, and dutifully followed the red line on the floor to a counter full of humourless autocratic government employees. What’s with not smiling at people anyway? Does not smiling indicate that you are taking your job more seriously than someone who flashes his pearlies? It wasn’t my fault it was 1.30am, and they wanted to be at home - so did I! I left Karl standing in line and went off to find our luggage. With no carousel, I had to go searching the line of luggage trolleys. Finally I spied our suitcases on a trolley, thankfully unopened, wedged between a large paper wrapped llama and a boat - only kidding - it was actually a massive plasma TV.

***

Speaking of luggage, I think it’s important to throw in another difference about our holiday incompatibility. I am the Luggage Queen. I am a travel minimalist. I take pride in a light suitcase and scorn those lumping great bags around with them. Ha! I spit on their trolleys! Karl believes he is the Fashion King. Apparently his fascination with clothing and shoes has something to do with his father having been born in the fashion capital of Europe. Call me crazy but I thought it was Milan, but Karl insisted that no, Düsseldorf was, for sure. I’m not sure about that, but they both had a shoe fetish, so perhaps it was a genetic thing. When in the mood, Karl can out shop any man I know. While he can get away with it at home, as he had a large wardrobe, it isn’t acceptable when he wants to take everything he owns on holiday just in case he is suddenly asked to open a fashion show. His shoe fetish was way out of control. He had shoes for every occasion: red, blue, mint green, beige, grey, black, white and in a range of styles too: sandals, pointy toes, boots, patent leather, pony hide, pig skin, you name it - he had it! Not even a caterpillar had that many shoes. He had a thing about bringing them all on holiday too: shoes for the beach, for dinner, walking, dinner, breakfast, rain, snow, skipping, riding, invading, or for climbing. When packing for this trip I had to be vigilant. I was like a sniffer dog at the airport, checking the bags for illicit shoes or unnecessary clothing stuffed into the lining of the suitcase or folded into the shaving bag. Nary a day went past when I wasn’t removing items from the suitcases smuggled during the previous day.

***

A covert struggle began over the packing. He would fill the suitcases up and I would empty them of unnecessary bits. Every morning I would have to check the latest additions and put them back in the drawers, and every night he would replace them. We finally had a fight about the packing, but I was quite determined that he would not be taking anything stupid or embarrassing. I was protecting him from himself.

‘Did you take those shirts out of the bag?’ He asked with a squinty eye.

‘Shirts? Bag?’ I feigned brain damage. It always had me through school.

‘You know the ones I’m talking about’, both his eyes now squinty with accusations.

‘You cannot take twelve shirts. I know you have forty-seven, and you can’t bear to be parted, but you are not taking that many as there isn’t any room left in the suitcase’

‘Don’t tell me what to pack’.

‘Well, don’t be an idiot’.

‘Don’t say that to me’.

‘Then don’t behave like one’.

‘No one speaks to me like you do’.

‘They probably do behind your back’.

‘I’ve had enough of you’.

‘Good, can I stay home’?

‘Shut up’.

And so on and so forth. I won the packing fight and not wishing to brag too much, it proved to be a fight worth winning. Besides, we didn’t really need any clothes where we were going, except for a shroud and a bible.

***

I brought the bags over to him, he continued standing in the line while I went to find a loo; it was all that tonic water. I expected that in a major airport that the ladies loo would have been just a tiny weenie bit clean and tidy - silly old me. The bolt-lock on the door was broken, the toilet was stuck on whoosh and the concrete floor and walls covered with dirty, old cracked tiles. On top of all that it was a squat toilet. What is with the squat toilet thing? Is it to do with sari management, hygiene, religion, or don’t they like cold plastic seats? I couldn't figure it. I managed to lean forward hold the door shut with one hand, hold my knickers clear and aim, all at the same time, without getting wet. Yay! I made my way back to Karl who hadn’t made much progress in the line. I tried the smiling ‘Hello we come in peace’ thing and aren’t carrying drugs or plague but it didn’t work. I still got the cold shoulder, which was very mean, considering I had travelled a long way to get there and all. We waited patiently behind other madcap, devil-may-care tourists, three in total, and a number of ex-pats, so we were the last ones to get our smiley stamp. Collecting up the luggage, we made our way through the glass doors to a large, empty waiting area. I stood around for about ten or fifteen minutes as a growing insecurity crept over me, all sweaty and cold. Had the dates been wrong? Had the travel company forgotten us? Had they just nicked off with the money and left us stranded? I obviously looked panicky, as a cleaner came past and saw my anxious, lip-biting face. He waived me, signalling us to follow him, saying something in Hindi, his mop leading the way like a banner flag. I poked Karl in the ribs to pick up his suitcase and follow the guy. He led us through another glass doorway to another corridor further on. Grinning widely, and giving us a little bow, he walked to the large front door of the airport and held it open for us. There, like a Spielberg movie, was a sea of bodies waiting to pick up, sell to, steal from, meet, greet, see off or just sticky beak at. Apparently for security reasons, people without flight tickets are not allowed into Indian airports, which is a good thing really considering that this unholy mass would have been inside causing a huge confusion all round. We walked outside and were set upon by porters, yelling at us, trying to grab hold of our bags, book a taxi, book a room, book a massage, sell bottled water or a trinket, or to just yell for the sake of it. I think I agreed to have sex with a monkey but I’m not sure. Karl, being taller than most people there, saw our surname on a cardboard sign over those hysterical heads and we struggled through the throng of sweaty bodies over to the wire fence and came face to face with Sunni, our tour guide.

***

His black straight hair, cut pudding-bowl style, framed a large wombat shaped head and thick neck, which all sat upon an indulgent tummy and stumpy legs. The black broom shaped moustache accentuated his very round face - I thought I was meeting Mo from the Three Stooges. Don’t go thinking that I didn’t like him just because he was totally unattractive in every conceivable way. I didn’t like him because he was a total twat, but I will leave it to you to make up your own mind. It was instant dislike plain and simple and, as they say, it saved time. Sunni imperiously - there will be a lot of imperialism in this story - ordered porters to carry our bags to the waiting taxi and, still fighting off the locals, we trotted after him, rearranging our fleece as we went. Baaaaaa! We left the small concrete waiting area and emerged into a dark pot-holed car park full of children, beggars, shifty bastards, and ancient looking taxis. As I climbed into the back of the taxi my shirt was damp with the sultry heat in minutes, but it could have been incontinence brought on by fear. Have you ever been in an Indian taxi? It’s like riding in a motorised ladybug. In Kolkata taxis are yellow, tiny little cars, and ancient. I think they have been manufacturing exactly the same design over the last sixty years. Sitting in the back seat, stretch out your arms, and you can touch each side easily. Sunni sat in the front and poked the driver to get going. He reached back and presented me with a long stemmed rose, ‘A gift to my new Australian friends’, then he broke out into this weird laugh that went something like ‘hee hee hee heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!’ with a rising shrill inflection. Look, it was a nice thought but at 2.00am having just landed in the Black Hole, I just wasn’t impressed, and that laugh. Jees! Talk about annoying! Karl asked him how many others were joining us on the tour. ‘Ah, only you two are coming. You will have a lucky time of it as there are just you two. We will get to know each other very well! Hee hee hee heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!’ BAGAWK!! I just about swallowed my tongue. Only US? Just him and US? Together for five weeks? Truly, if I had a cyanide pill, I would have shoved it in Karl’s mouth and slammed his jaw shut. My bowels dropped into the forty-year-old upholstery, my jugular was throbbing so hard I was sure it just about split. That definitely wasn’t how it was supposed to be. I needed some other white, pathetic, indulged woman along just so I could whinge incessantly to her about everything. I would have welcomed ‘Randy and her big knockers’, honest I would have. The yellow taxi raced maniacally through the unlit suburbs of Kolkata, litter flying high in our wake. I gripped the door handle, mainly because there were no seat belts and the driver drove like a reincarnated meteorite - you have to start from the bottom; apparently, it’s a Hindu thing.

***

Even though it was late, there were plenty of people milling about the dirt lanes and houses, such as they were. As we slowed to turn a corner, the headlights of the taxi illuminated an army vehicle, soldiers and police, breaking up something or arresting someone, my heart leapt into my throat, bloody hell! All I saw were the whites of their eyes. I know it sounds like that 1940’s film, When The Rains Came, where the heroine wakes in the night and, through the mosquito net all, she can see is the native man coming towards her with a machete. She faints and wakes up in the arms of her hero. I wanted to faint and wake up in my own bed, thinking ‘Phew, that was a creepy dream’, gazing up into the gorgeous arms of Sven inquiring whether I needed breakfast in bed, with a happy ending, of course. We had been in the taxi for about thirty minutes, when we drove through a densely built up area in a very seedy, nasty part of town. I had been thinking, God, I hope we don’t break down here; we’ll have our throats cut for sure, when the car pulled up outside a mangy hole of a building. Sunni turned to us with his crooked smile, proudly announcing, ‘Welcome to your hotel! He was pleased as all get out, as though we had arrived at God’s Holiday Shack in Cocomo Beach. There was a street light some distance away, spilling a weak light onto the grey road below. Billowing newspapers and other rubbish rolled down the street, and large bulky shapes, which I later realised were people sleeping under blankets, blocking the footpaths. The buildings, all completely shuttered with steel folding doors, increased the sense of desolation. It wasn’t until morning that I saw they were all shops and we were in a retail district. I was tired, stressed and shocked. I hadn’t imagined it would be quite so impossibly horrible. I climbed out of the taxi with so much eye rolling and knee trembling you would have thought I was an epileptic. I was waiting for a sewer