The Road to India

The Road to India…

It was the moment of truth. Time to see whether I’d honed the survival skills necessary to navigate through the insanity that is India. Would I make it through the 13 days with my wallet untouched, my stomach lining intact, and my sense of naiveté undisturbed? Only time would tell. But first, I had to survive the 18 hour journey across Nepal to the Eastern border town of Kakarbhitta. With the daunting prospect of India stretched before me, I did not even spare a thought to the potential trials and tribulations that I might experience on this trip. It turned out that my last 18 hours in Nepal would be more challenging and exhausting then my first 3 days in India.

I suppose that I should have first gotten the hint that this would not be an easy trip when my tour guide referred to the bus as the “bus that sometimes people die on”. I chalked it up to exaggeration, but apparently this was an accurate description of the route. There is a large river that runs across the highway about 12 hours into the journey. Due to the heavy monsoons that Nepal experienced a few months ago, the bridge spanning this river had been washed away. The first proposed solution was to build bamboo rafts so that the bus could drive directly onto these homemade death traps and theoretically be pulled across the river via a rope and pulley system. Unsurprisingly, the rafts were not up to the task and a few of them sank - taking the bus and consequently the passengers down to the bottom of the river with it. Since that failed experiment, the bus drivers decided that the river would mark the end of their journey, and the passengers would be unloaded onto ferries to be shuttled across the raging waters. Or at least that’s what I was told when I booked my ticket.

I had two options for my departure time. I could either catch the day bus at 4am, which was scheduled to reach the river by about 4pm. Or I could catch the overnight bus which left Pokhara at 4pm and arrived at the river at 4am. I had originally planned on taking the overnight but, however after many disapproving noises and cautionary warnings from the various travel agents that I spoke with, I decided to change my plans and catch the day bus instead. It turned out that the bus did not drive directly to the river, and it was about a 2km walk on the side of the road to reach it. Plus, I was told that the ferries did not begin operating until 6:30am. And so the prospect of walking down unknown roads at 4am in the morning and then sitting next to a river for a few hours waiting for the sun to rise and the ferries to run did not seem particularly appetizing or wise. The travel agent I ended up booking my ticket with arranged for a taxi driver friend of his to pick me up at 3:30am on Friday morning to take me to the bus park and to physically walk me onto the correct bus to ensure that I did not end up in Tibet due to the difficulties that inevitably arise with the language barrier. I ended up snagging a window seat up near the front of the bus, and a nice looking lady who spoke absolutely no English was seated next to me. The bus left on schedule (according to Nepali time) at 4:15am. And it did not take long for the trials and tribulations to begin.

First or all, it quickly became apparent that the “local bus” experience would be a far cry from the luxurious and relaxing journey from Kathmandu to Pokhara on the “tourist bus”. There were no cushy reclining seats or curtains on the windows. We did not stop at a restaurant every 2 hours for a snack and a bathroom break. And the concept of “personal space” quickly became a vague and hazy memory. The reality of the bus was a smoking, wheezing tin can of a vehicle that squealed alarmingly every time pressure was applied to the breaks. It was stuffed with as many people, luggage, and livestock that the vehicle could physically hold, and when the space filled up inside, people simply clung to the handholds on the outside. I quickly made a judgment call to avoid food and drink at all cost as it appeared as though the bus driver was operating with a catheter and was under the impression that if he did not require a pee break, then nobody else on the bus did either. Luckily I have strong bladder control as we were graciously given a single 5-minute bathroom break in the entire 18 hour trip. I also managed to be seated next to the only person on the entire bus that was afflicted with motion sickness, and in the 10 hours that I was trapped between her and the window, she managed to accumulate an alarmingly large puddle of vomit on the floor, my bag, and my left leg. And though the windows were capable of opening, the man behind me screamed unintelligible Nepali curses at me every time I tried to crack it open to dispel the rank smell of congealing vomit.

And then the bus broke down.

If I had bothered to purchase a Lonely Planet guidebook before embarking on this journey I would have perhaps expected this snag. The propensity of any and all vehicles in this country to suffer frequent breakdowns likely explains why every Nepali man can claim to be at least an amateur mechanic. Luckily this happened close to an auto parts and repair shop, and so young boys smeared with motor oil came running to the bus with wrenches, hammers, and strange alien car parts shortly after we were forced to pull over. Every single male on the bus filed out and stood in a semi-circle around the driver as he ripped and hammered his way through the engine, offering grunts, nods, and advice. A vague urge to pee made me consider embarking on a quest to find a suitable location for a “natural toilet”, however unfortunately we were parked in the middle of a vast and barren field and so the lack of ground cover made this option infeasible. Plus I was trapped behind the sea of vomit. It took 2 hours for the collective effort of the 37 men on the bus and 4 mechanics from the auto repair shop to fix whatever was wrong with the bus (I’m guessing it was the breaks, as they no longer sounded like an animal in pain once we commenced traveling).

Shortly after we hit the road again, the lady beside me got off the bus. Two men who had been standing in the aisle up to that point made a leap for the available seat but recoiled back in horror when they saw the mess left behind. Several young boys jumped out of the bus and came back on with handfuls of sand which they used to soak up the vomit. One of the guys who had been smiling and winking at me from the aisle sat down. I was worried that I had finally come across a young Nepali man with a Romeo complex, and this assumption was quickly confirmed when he began reciting his poetry for me. Pages and pages of mushy and oftentimes embarrassingly graphic poetry that he insisted on reading aloud for my benefit. Once we had finished this, he brought out a sketchbook and got me to inspect all of the drawings that he had done. And then, to gain further insight to his life and hobbies, he got me to read his resume and a portfolio containing all of his certifications. And then he played every single English song on his cellphone and had me break down the lyrics for him so that he could understand them better. And finally, he got me to listen to a bunch of recorded phone conversations that he had stored in his cellphone between him and this girl from Kathmandu.

At the end of this 2 hour breakdown of his life, he began interrogating me on my own. He wanted to know about my marital state (I had been married to a Goan gentleman for the past 3 years and was meeting him in Darjeeling), my state of childlessness (I was hoping for 4 but had no luck yet), the career I left behind in Canada (to minimize the number of lies I had to keep track of I simply described my previous role at Canadian Tire), my educational background (and of course, how he could get a visa and scholarship to a university in Canada), and my religious views (I wasn’t touching this one). At the end of this interrogation I decided that at the earliest opportunity I would flush out my traveling “cover store” more thoroughly as I’m not a very good liar and the people in Southeast Asia want DETAILS! I regretted the necessity of misleading my new friend, but it did not seem wise to advertise the fact that I was a single woman traveling alone to random strangers that I met on an 18 hours bus journey. However, by the end of the 4 hour conversation, I determined that Praveen was actually a genuinely nice guy who just wanted to practice his English skills. I feel bad about giving him a fake email address and phone number. Maybe I’ll send him a note and apologize for my initial misgivings.

The final hour of the trip to the river passed without incident. I actually got quite excited at one point when we crossed a bridge over the river, as I originally assumed that this meant that the bridge had been repaired and the bus would now be going directly to Kakarbhitta. Unfortunately this assumption was shattered minutes later when the bus came to a screeching stop and all of the passengers began filing out and collecting their luggage. I hesitantly stepped off the bus and uneasily eyed the stretch of unrelenting barren sand, broken only be a smattering of rundown wooden shacks and their occupants. When I enquired about Kakharbitta, the drivers only response was to bark out the word “Walk” while pointing in the direction of the distant river shore. I strapped my bags onto my back and started walking. And walking. And more walking.

Finally I reached the bank of the river where there was not a single ferry in sight. Instead, there was a long bamboo bridge that stretched indefinitely out across the water. I paid 15 rupees for the privilege of walking myself across this precarious path that literally swayed in the wind and from the combined pressure of hundreds of people, donkeys, and carts making their way across it. Looking down, I could see the raging water through the cracks in the bamboo, and never did the 43 pounds of luggage seem quite as heavy as they did during that 20 minute walk. I began a mantra and personal prayer for survival that I chanted relentlessly for the entire trip. It went something like this:

“Jesus f*cking Christ. Jesus f*cking Christ…etc etc etc”

He must have heard my prayers because I made it across alive.

The other side was just as daunting. The desert vista continued unabated in the distance, the sun was beginning to set, and I had another 2km walk before I would reach a line of buses that would hopefully take me to my final destination. By the time I reached a bus that was heading to Kakarbhitta I was exhausted, dehydrated, and dripping with sweat. I promptly collapsed in the back row of the bus, rested my head against the cool glass, and salivated over the bottles of water that street vendors were selling on the other side of the window - all the while knowing that I dared not drink anything due to the fact that I still had 3 hours to go on the bus with no bathroom breaks in sight.

Other then experiencing a minor passenger riot on board when we found out that the bus driver had doubled the fare to Kakarbhitta, and having a very nice Indian gentleman fall asleep on my shoulder for the 3 hour trip, it went fairly smoothly. I finally reached the border city of Kakarbhitta at 10pm - a mere 18 hours after I had set out that morning. The border was closed and so I decided to spend the night in the city and cross over into India as soon as they opened the next morning. A hotel manager cornered me as soon as I stepped off the bus and coerced me into staying at his place for the night. It was the dirtiest, dingiest, and smelliest room that I had seen thus far. It was the only place where I did not trust the sheets and ended up pulling out my sleep sack. It had a disturbing poster of Avril Lavigne over my bed. But despite all that, I gleefully paid the money, crawled into my sleep sack, and fell into a grateful and overdue sleep.

I woke up the next morning at 5:30am, having been told by both my travel agent and the hotel manager that the border opened at 6am. I had to make it to the city of New Jalpaiguri by 9am if I was going to catch the toy train up to Darjeeling. I strapped my headlamp on and set off in the dark streets for the border crossing. Unbeknownst to me, I illegally crossed the border in my quest to find the immigration office. I’m probably lucky that I didn’t get shot or arrested. I sat down outside the police station to wait for 6am, and 2 officers came up to ask me what I was doing. When I told them that I was waiting to cross the border they told me to come back later as it didn’t open until 9am.

Great.

I walked back into Nepal and asked 3 different people what time the border opened at. I got 3 different answers. I then asked where I could find an internet café so that I could let my parents know that I was still alive. Nobody knew where I could find one.

While I was aimlessly walking around town, a taxi driver asked me where I was going. I told him that I needed to get to New Jalpaiguri. His eyes lit up and he offered to drive me there for a mere 500 rupees. I knew that the “proper” rate should not have been more then 300 rupees, however at this point I didn’t have any fight left in me and so agreed to the inflated tourist tax. It was worth every inflated penny.

He promptly loaded me and my luggage into his van, drove me to the immigration office, and woke up the official. He stood in as my personal translator to ensure that I got through the Nepalese immigration office in record time, and then did the same for me at the Indian immigration office. It turned out that he lived in Darjeeling and so regaled me with stories during the 1 hour drive to New Jalpaiguri. He got me to the station by 8am, and then came in with me to help me book my ticket. I truly believe that if he hadn’t of done so then I might still be wandering around the train station, as the process for reserving a train ticket in India is ridiculously convoluted and bureaucratic. It involved going to the ticket booth and being told to get a slip from the passenger assistance booth at the other end of the station. The slip was basically a handwritten note saying “Please sell Jennifer a ticket to Darjeeling”. I had to take this permission slip back to the front of the station and pay 16 rupees for her to give me a receipt. I then had to take this receipt back to the passenger assistance booth to get a ticket for an additional fee of 26 rupees. The whole process took about 45 minutes of walking back and forth across the station. But finally I had my ticket in hand and 15 minutes to spare before the toy train was scheduled to arrive. I learned that Indian time is actually 15 minutes later then Nepal time, as my train did not actually arrive until 9:30. But finally, I loaded into the cute, blue, 4-car toy train and set off for the 8 hour, 85km trip up the mountain to Darjeeling.

The train ride was by far the highlight of my travels thus far, and was worth every uncomfortable and exhausting moment of my trip from Pokhara to New Jalpaiguri.

This tiny train wove through majestic forest groves, providing tantalizing glimpses of lakes, quaint villages, and the distant mountain range. Unfortunately it was rather hazy that day and so I never got a good look at these snow-capped peaks, however despite this, the journey still managed to be both captivating and extremely relaxing.

Until the train broke down.

Or at least, that was my original thought when we came to a screeching stop. In reality though, it turned out that the last 2 cars had de-railed. Luckily this happened in the middle of a town and not when we were doing one of the hairpin turns on the edge of the mountain. Similarly to when the bus broke down in Nepal, all of the male inhabitants of the train got out to stand around and grunt, nod, and offer advice. Some young boys came running up with long steel beams to try and hoist the train back onto the rail. I didn’t mind the interruption so much as it allowed me to go to a nearby food stand and pick up some chocolate bars and a bottle of water - the first food that I’d consumed in approximately 36 hours.

We arrived in Darjeeling at 5:30 - only an hour behind schedule. I booked myself into Hotel Pagoda as Kevin had arranged to meet me there the following day, and after a quick session at the internet café, and a trip to the nearby grocery store to finally get some real food, I settled down to enjoy my first night in India. More on that to come...

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