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Published: August 1st 2012
I didn’t realize that I hadn’t been feeling like myself until I suddenly felt like myself again. I was somewhere in rural northeastern India, on an overnight train heading towards the India-Nepal border. As I woke up, I glimpsed out the window and caught a view of the sun rising over endless rice paddies and a handful of water buffalo wading neck-deep in a waterhole. The tranquility of the image snapped me back to reality. I’d been in a city for far too long. I was so caught up in the fast-paced lifestyle – the nights of dancing and the convenience at having everything no farther than my fingertips – that I wasn’t even aware that I was losing balance. Cities are fun, but when it comes down to it, I’m not a city girl. I needed some fresh air.
I left my air-conditioned cabin and stood in the open doorway of the area between the carriages. It was only six in the morning, but the sun was already hot on my face, the air sultry as it whipped across my skin. The women were already at work, squatting in the flooded fields while they extracted the tender green shoots
of recently sprouted rice. The men were at work too, squatting in the overgrown grass while they relieved their systems of the previous day’s food. It looked simple to be out there in the fields. I knew that the reality was more difficult than it appeared, but from my vantage point, life looked simple.
I scanned the horizon for any sign of civilization, but there was nothing more than a scattering of single-roomed reed huts here and there. It was just what I needed, an empty space to clear my mind. Every now and then, we’d pass a brick building with yellow letters painted across a red background that spelled, “RELAX HAWAII!” The incongruity made me chuckle. I enjoyed the single scene glimpses of life the passing train afforded me. In an opinion that I don’t think any my fellow passengers shared, the 19-hour journey was over too soon.
Stepping off the train at the station in Raxaul, I got caught up in a procession of hundreds of Kawadis, Shiva devotees swathed in orange robes and carrying symbolic tridents, on their annual pilgrimage to gather sacred Ganges water to bring back to their hometown Shiva temples. I used
them as cover to dodge the rickshaw wallahs who converged en masse at the edge of the crowd. It was three kilometers to the border, but I was in one of those moods where I preferred the weight of my bags and the heat of the sun to bargaining a fair price. Plus, it’d been a while since I’d crossed a border on foot and I was determined to do just that.
I walked until I reached the small Indian immigration office, which also doubled as the Raxaul police station. The sole officer of the small, multi-purpose establishment examined my visa and exclaimed, “Oh, your last day!” I thought that the following day was my last day, but I kept my mouth shut to keep things simple. When he handed my passport back, I furtively glanced at the visa and saw that it really did expire that day! It’s typical of me (and my mother, bless her) to not pay attention to small, important details like that. I thanked my lucky stars that I had listened to the little voice inside me telling me to book a train ticket for the 29
th and not the 30
th like I had
originally planned. Potential mishap avoided, I walked on.
After another kilometer or so, I crossed over into Nepal and walked right past a shack hidden in the bushes. A man ran up behind me, “Immigration office? This way please.” I followed him into the concealed room and encountered my first real dilemma. A 15-day Nepali visa costs US $25 – not the Nepalese equivalent of US $25, but 25 actual American dollars. The only currency I had on me was Indian rupees, which I had planned on changing at the border. I’d never been to a border town that wasn’t crawling with money-changers before. Now, I have. To make matters worse, I had no other denomination of cash than 1,000 rupee notes, which as it turns out, are illegal in Nepal. There’s nothing like showing up prepared. But, I have a simple theory that, where there is trouble, there are always people willing to help. In this case, that help cost me a few hundred rupees extra, but the immigration officers were very helpful indeed. They cheerily waved me out the door, as I set out on the road again.
Birganj, the Nepalese border town was indistinguishable from
its Indian counterpart. People wore the same clothes, ate the same foods, and blared the same Hindi pop songs over tinny speakers. What did make the chaotic little city unique was that it seemed to consist entirely of auto repair shops, which was odd considering that every one got around via horse-drawn carriage taxis. It was another five-kilometers to the bus station, but I didn’t feel like putting the gaunt horses through any more exertion on my part, so I kept walking. A line of transport trucks belched out exhaust and spit up dust as they shot past me at a reckless speed. All of the particles they sent airborne stuck to my sweaty skin. By the time I reached the bus station, which is really just a crossroads that all the buses drive by, my complexion was two shades darker and had the texture of sandpaper. I felt like a traveler again.
Filled with the spirit of adventure, and with two hours to kill before the bus left for Pokhara, I walked into a roadside restaurant and ate the rice and dahl they served me with unwashed, but babywiped, fingers. Then, I washed it all down with two
glassfuls of the water sitting in a jug on the table, although its origin and cleanliness were unknown. I gave my immune system a little pep talk and felt confident that I would suffer no consequences for my rash behavior (writing this over 24 hours later, I’m still in the clear). I stepped back out onto the crowded street and marveled at its ability to be both dusty and muddy at the same time.
Finally, it was time to go. I’d been told that it would take eight hours to cover the 285 kilometers to Pokhara, but climbing on board the bus, I knew the journey would be much longer than that. The removable seat parts that weren’t firmly attached to anything, least of all the lack of a floor, were what tipped me off. I’d been on buses like this before in Africa, and the ride had never been pleasant. As the bus pulled out, a horrible clanging sound issued from underneath my seat. It sounded like an important piece of machinery was dragging on the road below us. But no one seemed to notice, not even the proprietors of the auto repair shops. I settled in and
hoped for the best.
About an hour out of the city, it started to rain. The bus’s claptrap exterior was no match for the elements and we sat getting soaked in the rain, in the bus. The woman sitting next to me had a bad reaction to the weather – it made her spit. In what I can only guess was an attempt at tact, she spit into her hand and reached over me to fling the phlegm out the window. She wasn’t successful. Glistening trails of saliva trailed from her fingers as she brought her hand back inside, dangerously close to my face. An involuntary whimper escaped from my throat. She quickly wiped the dangling driblets onto the back of the seat in front of me just before they fell from her phalanges. From then on, she abandoned tact and leaned over me to spit directly out the window.
When the rain had stopped and we were slowly drying out, the clanging below us would no longer be denied. The bus broke down. We all filed out and waited by the side of the road while the driver worked on extracting the problem piece of metal. He turned it over in his hands a few times, seemingly satisfied with his handiwork, and reinstalled it. We scrambled back into the bus and began our slow ascent into the Himalayan foothills.
Night fell quickly in the mountains, but the light of a waxing
moon lit the sky and reflected off the surface of a river cutting its way through the valley below us. I was surprised to find that I was actually starting to enjoy the ride. Then, the bus broke down again. The men gathered in a semi-circle around the deflated tire, hoping to fix it through the power of a group stare. Fireflies danced above their heads and I found no reason to not smile. It felt good to be back on the road again, no matter how long or bumpy it may be.
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Sanjay P
non-member comment
:)
Very beautifully written...could almost picture the landscape (and the lady sitting beside you in the bus!!). How much was the bus ride? And, how long did it take to reach Kathmandu (?)