4~ Welcome to Rishikesh. Part 2

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December 10

The three of us were on the scooter: Juanita, Akash, and me.

Three minutes in, Akash pulled over at a street stall and asked if we wanted a Chai.

Masala Chai is India's signature tea—a black tea brewed with milk, crushed ginger, cinnamon, cardamom, cloves, and left to simmer long enough for time to work its magic.

It’s usually served in tiny, espresso-sized clay cups. These adorable baby cups are no more than three centimeters high, which means that for those of us used to larger mugs, one Chai isn’t nearly enough. You’d need at least two or three if you were drinking it like a full breakfast.

But here, Chai is more of a passing ritual, like espresso in Italy. Nobody sits down at these street stalls. You order, drink it standing, and move on.

Instead of a shot of caffeine, a shot of black tea with ginger. Much healthier, and way better for the immune system.

Akash told us this was the best Chai in Rishikesh.

The place wasn’t exactly a shop—just a few wooden planks set up at the side of the road with the essentials for making tea: a small gas cylinder, a pot, and some cups.

The stall was modest, to say the least, and swarming with flies hovering over the pot, eager for their share of breakfast too.

The cups here were glass, washed in a bucket of water before being handed straight to the next customer.

I was dying to try the local Chai everyone had raved about, but I was also terrified my body wouldn’t be up for the challenge. So, I took a polite sip, while the other tourists stood at a distance, eyeing everything with suspicion.

The thing about water and certain hygiene standards in India is that they can be tricky for us Westerners.

Until we adapt—which is usually about the time we leave—or unless we end up staying here for years, we’re bound to go through a rather unavoidable “adjustment phase.”

Which, in plain terms, is the great welcome-to-India diarrhea. No one escapes it.

There can be worse cases, depending on your stomach and what exactly you ate (trust me, I could give lectures on this), but those are more personalized experiences.

We crossed one of the semi-pedestrian bridges in Rishikesh—a hanging bridge made of wood and wire, swaying in every direction, with monkeys hanging from the beams, performing quality control by snatching anything that looked remotely edible.

One and a half meters wide for motorcycles, people, and maybe even a cow—all moving together, at a snail’s pace, in a single lane.

We crossed the Ganges—the sacred river of India that runs through the city.

Here, the river is still untouched by pollution, with a striking color—a soft green, blended with cream. Behind it, the mountains. A perfect postcard.

We continued uphill through narrow mountain roads, where everyday life started unfolding before our eyes.

Villages in India have a unique charm, as if everything were left slightly unfinished, frozen in time, untouched by the modern facades and technological conveniences we’re used to in the rest of the world. This makes every daily routine feel more nostalgic, deeper, slower—like scenes from an old film, or the quiet romance of watching grandparents go about their daily tasks.

Sweeping the front yard with half-meter-long straw brooms that force them to bend low, almost chest to the ground. Feeding the cows tied in the garden with baskets of leftover food. Walking to the local market—which is often nothing more than a few wooden planks displaying basic essentials—carrying groceries home in newspaper-wrapped bundles.

Every meter, a new scene unfolds.

Most of life in Asia—especially in India—happens outside the home.

So riding a motorcycle through these streets feels like watching a movie, admiring its beauty, and somehow becoming part of it. You could never get bored—something always surprises you.

In every corner of India, there is always something to see.

We arrived at Secret Garden, a trendy open-air café where all the hippies go to hippie around—reading, walking the slackline, practicing AcroYoga, or simply vibing spirituality.

We ate there—veggie hippie style. Fresh vegetable juices and healthy food.

The whole scene instantly reminded me my teenage hippie days.

Rishikesh is the Yoga Capital of the World, so everything here is healthy, everything is Ayurveda. There are no bars, and selling alcohol is prohibited, so all you see around are cafés—everywhere you look.

I had chosen to start my journey here because I needed something peaceful, a small bubble within India to ease me into the cultural shock.

A friend had told me that Rishikesh was paradise.

Nestled at the base of the Himalayas, surrounded by mountains, rivers, and spirituality, it certainly looked like one.

The town is filled with yoga schools—("You lift a tile, and you'll find one," a friend would say)—and tourists flocking here in search of that experience.

Everywhere you look, there are travelers in leggings and yoga mats, dressed in Indian hippie style, moving from one class to the next.

Spirituality is in the air, every single minute.

Being by the banks of the sacred river is both a privilege and a constant invitation for offerings and fire rituals.

I already knew the town was touristy and more westernized compared to other Indian cities, but it felt like a safe place to start—somewhere I could ease into India’s culture.

"What do you mean they don’t sell alcohol?" I had asked a friend before arriving.

"You won’t need it there, I promise," he replied.

No alcohol.And of course, no meat either.

Cows are sacred in India, and stepping outside reminds you of that every second—with every little cow you pet along the way.

So here, healthy living, vegetarian food, and the yogic lifestyle are effortless to embrace.

It’s almost the only thing to do.

After an hour and a half with intermittent stops, we arrived at the waterfall. I was starting to get to know Akash and the Indian rhythm. Everything was slow; nobody here was in a hurry.

Only a small bridge separated us from the little natural pool where we were going to take a bath.The bridge crossing the narrow stream was made of two metal tubes with a wooden plank tied to both sides with wire. It wasn’t anchored to the ground, just placed across the river opening with a lot of love and not so much intelligence. I hate little bridges over water, but after seeing everyone cross, I gathered courage and placed my foot down bravely, deciding to start breaking my old patterns from the very first moment.

Proud, I told Akash. He smiled and told me that just last week, he had come with other tourists, and unfortunately, an American girl had stepped on one of the edges and fallen into the river.

"A dog saved her!" he said.

I didn’t ask how. I didn’t want to know.

"You have to be careful," he continued, putting on a serious face while I looked at him ironically.

The waterfall was beautiful, and it was hot. In India, people don’t usually wear swimsuits. Most go into the water fully dressed.Women are obligated to wear pants and a t-shirt, covering their bodies as custom dictates, while men wear shorts and t-shirts or, more often, just underwear – they can. Putting my swimsuit away and improvising, I went into the water wearing the long pants I had on.

Swimming felt amazing. The problem was getting out.

The sun began to hide behind the mountains, and the only clothes I had were soaking wet. It started to get cold. The forest ground clung to my wide pants, which dragged along the floor. I couldn’t find a place to change without feeling watched, nor anywhere to put my things without turning everything into mud, so something as simple as getting out of the water turned into a mini-odyssey, while my body felt completely strange swimming in the water with Oxford pants.

I came from Denmark, where people go into the water naked. After a process of adaptation, I had already overcome the shame of bodies, and one truly feels free from gazes and complicated social conduct. Hiding behind almost transparent pants, completely clinging to my body, started to annoy me. I was cold. On the bike, even colder. The only Chai stand nearby wasn’t much more hygienic than the previous one, so I couldn’t even get something hot to drink, even though my body needed it.

I had been told that it takes a month to adapt to India. I had landed four hours ago after three days of travel. The only thing I wanted was to get home, to some home. A hot shower and to get into bed. The water was cold. There was no shower, just a small bucket to pour water over myself and a low seat to sit on while doing it.I just walked out of the bathroom, wrapped myself in a towel, and went to the window to take a breath with resignation.

Most of our simple comforts – which for us are no longer even comforts but just basic Western needs – were impossible, so the normal and everyday became difficult.Bathroom, water, food, cleanliness… neither bad nor good, just different. Normal for them, problematic for us.

Out of the corner of my eye, I looked toward the street. The noise of horns, motorcycles, the chaos of people, the loud music. It was too much.I can still see myself sitting there, staring at nothing, asking myself what the hell I was doing there and how I ever thought this place could bring me peace...

I didn’t even try to find something to eat; I felt so frustrated that everything seemed like a huge project.Already exhausted, I got into bed. I had just arrived, and I already wanted to leave. I also wanted to cry. I cried.

Welcome to India.