The Oasis

I went to Khasola today. It is a small mountain town in the foothills of the Himalayas. The foothills are impressive and I haven’t even seen the real mountains yet. The mountains rise straight up from the flat India plain similar to Alaska mountains. Khasola is at about 6000 feet and the road is so windey that it makes the road to Hana on Maui look as straight as I-5.

But similar to the road to Hana it made me carsick. I don’t know what it is about people when they get in tight, dangerous, mountain roads that makes them think they’re all Formula 1 drivers in their four cylinder sub compacts. Our driver loved to hit a turn and then whip the car quickly, sending me crashing into the door.

And of course there are busses, trucks, and all manner of road hogging vehicles who think that the only way they can get where they’re going is by cutting the corners in the opposite lane. Our driver, every time he came to a blind bend would honk his horn, and then we waited in breathless anticipation for something to loom in front of us. This is not to mention the number of times where you have to pass a bus and your wheels just barely stick out over the edge of the cliff. I have to admit though, it is a well maintained road and there are cement barriers most places to prevent you from going over the edge.

About half way up I’d had enough. I asked to pull over and we got something to drink while I cleared my head and settled my stomach. As I sat there in this tiny nameless town I swore I spied something through the trees. Could it be? Up here? In this tiny little town in the middle of nowhere? That must be a mirage. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. Yes, it is there. That really is a golden arches. I roused everybody and demanded they take me to Mickey D’s.

Once there I desperately searched the menu for a Quarter Pounder, with no luck. No beef served here. Damn, not enough Moslems in this area. I got a nasty, horrible, chicken sandwich and relished it.

Once supplied we made our way all the way up to Khasola only to find that the great viewing we wanted was now part of a military base. Some terrorist group was planning to blow up a military radio antenna up there and so the government sent in the troops. They would not let me in because I didn’t have my passport with me.

I never carry my passport unless I have to because I don’t want to lose it. But I always carry a copy of it. I cannot understand the military here, they seem so laxidasical. There was a civilian guy dressed in non-important attire who seemed to work as a buffer, generally shouting at people and acting pushy. I’m told in India this is a common refrain, if you tell somebody, ‘watch this gate’, they suddenly think they are King of the Gate. The military guard took me over to somebody else who said I couldn’t get in without a real passport. It probably didn’t matter because the haze was quite bad.

We had left Chandigarh, an ugly, dirty, rubbish heap of a city in the flatlands and made our way into the Himalayas, up to 6000 feet and Khosala, an ugly, dirty, rubbish heap of a town in the mountains. I’m sure some people think this is beautiful, but not me. The mountains rise at 60 degree angles and as this is the dry season they are sparsely covered in dry foliage. Instead of looking out at magnificent peaks and valleys, through the haze we saw more towns filled with rubbish all up and down the mountains.

Of course I can’t tell anybody that. I have to say, “Wow, look at those mountains. That’s impressive”. When what I want to say is, “Doesn’t anybody have a goddamn garbage can around here?”

This is what American hippies sell everything for? To come to the trash packed Himalayas? Yes, I remember being young and loving strange exotic places so different from the sterile suburban environment I grew up in. I still remember the smell of Warsaw like it was yesterday, and I haven’t been there in 23 years. I used to love San Francisco as an exciting place when I was young, but as I get older I dread even going up there and dealing with all of the noise, traffic, panhandlers, and general irritation of a big city. So yes, this is exotic, and there are monkeys, and the people are different, and there are different smells; but give me sterile, quiet Fremont any day.

We wandered around the town and I saw a photo of the town in 1910. What a difference a century makes. It actually looks like the same town, except without all the signs and rubbish. The dirt in the old picture looks like it belongs where it is, whereas the dirt today makes it look, well, dirty.




On the way back down I begged the driver to go slowly. He tried, but whenever he got passed, the Formula 1 instincts would kick in and he’d try and keep up with some madman in a Hyundai.

As we got about half way down again I cracked; an old Barry Manilow song took hold in my brain and I couldn’t shake it.

You deserve a break today
So get up and get away
To McDonalds
We do it all for you

I just need a break from India.

When I went to school in Denmark the students used to call McDonalds ‘The American Embassy’, we all went there after classes to get something to eat before going home to that bad Danish food. Think I’m insulting Danish cooking? Have you ever seen a Danish restaurant? No? I didn’t think so.

I met a guy who was at the Moscow McDonalds when they trained the first staff. They split the staff in two and told half to pretend to be customers and the others to be cashiers. There were over thirty cash registers as it is the largest McDonalds in the world. They told the pretend customers to get in line. And they did, everybody in one line behind one register. Russians are well trained.

At another time they brought in some school kids, now remember this was 1990, the Soviet Union had yet to fall, and gave them money and told them to go to the cashier, ask for a Big Mac, fries, and a Coke, and exchange the cash. They were training a new consumer society as well as the staff, also like a pusher they were hooking those kids on those sodium packed treats. The kids all did as told and took their meals back to their tables.

But as he stood and watched, the kids all ate the fries and drank the Coke, but didn’t touch the Big Macs.

“Do you see that?” the asked his interpreter.

“Yes”

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know”, the interpreter responded.

So they went up to some kids and asked, “Do you like the fries?”

“Yes, yes, the fries are very good”, the kids smiled.

“And the Coke? Do you like the Coke?”

“Yes, Coke is very good”. Everything’s good so far.

“And what about the Big Mac? Do you like the Big Mac?” he asked.

Blank stares all around from the kids. He reached over and popped open the styrofoam container holding the Big Mac. The kids’ eyes lit up and the place exploded as a hundred Big Mac containers were popped open simultaneously. They’d never seen styrofoam before, or a Big Mac. Almost brings a tear to your eye, doesn’t it?

So, we stopped at McDonalds again as I endured Kovi’s mocking. But to me it was like an oasis and I examined it more closely. The architect had done a brilliant job of building it like a bridge across a small thirty foot gorge. They had even landscaped some of the gorge around it. This was true American ingenuity I marveled, the best looking thing in thirty miles.

As you all know, I hate American corporatism that makes us all slaves to them. I’m not against capitalism, just the big government approved oligarchies that rule our lives. Micky D’s is high on my list for poisoning America with sugar and fat while opposing teaching good nutrition. They create tons of needless waste with disposable everything. But outside America I always end up going to one at some point. It is my own little American oasis in a sea of confusion. We got a couple of ice creams and sat enjoying the view.

The place was spotless. Trash was quickly cleaned up. It was packed, but I never saw a single person put anything in the trash, the staff did all the cleanup. They have us well trained in America.

Finally it was time to leave and face the reality of India again. I asked for the restroom and was shown a building about thirty yards away. In India the restroom is usually far away from anything because it is, well, you know. I will spare you the description of the standard Indian restroom, I’m sure you’ve all heard the stories, and they’re all true. I plodded over there, steeling myself for the inevitable India bathroom experience.

I opened the door but to my surprise there was a Micky D’s staff person cleaning it! He shuffled outside, embarrassed to be caught doing such a job I presume, and I closed the door behind him. Then, in this immaculate bathroom in the Himalayas, I fell to my knees on the newly washed floor and gave thanks for McDonalds.