Kolkata

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Before we left, I think we had some ambition to be landed in a place that was a complete unknown for us. Well, it is safe to say that we have found it! Up until now, all through our trip we have seen the ads by the the India Tourist Board singing about “India, Incredible India...”, and based on our first hour in Kolkata (Calcutta) I have to agree with them. It is definitely incredible, in that it has to be seen to be believed.

Why start in Kolkata? It is probably a question we will ask ourselves in years to come. The short answer is that it was the cheapest flight option. It is also a city that I have always wanted to see. Mother Teresa of Calcutta was beamed into our houses regularly as a child, and it must have left me curious.

We landed after an uncomfortable three hour flight that started badly with me being kneed regularly by the tall guy in the seat behind me. The seats were uncomfortable to begin with, but between this added annoyance and the weird smell that loitered near us, I was rapidly descending into a bad mood. Any flight that needs to have air freshener sprayed twice (that I saw) is not a good one. Philippe was napping beside me, and I was trying to make headway into a book I've been dipping into for ages. The flight was on time but landed with a bump. As it did so the gent next to me began a conversation, of which we understood about 60% - this did not bode well for our ongoing adventure.

We stepped off the plane on to the concrete at Kolkata airport and surveyed the scene around us. My first instinct was to feel apprehensive. We were ushered onto a bus by about twelve uniformed men. Immigration was painless, our luggage came in due course and eventually we wandered blinkingly into the arrivals hall without a clue about how to proceed. We hadn't even managed to reserve a hostel on line.

We changed some dollars for rupees and ordered a taxi to Sudder St. from the pre-pay booth in front of us. We were directed to the top of a line of strange looking yellow cabs. As we reached the cars one man grabbed my slip of paper, another made a dive for the boot of the cab and a third 'helped' us with our luggage. We decided to keep all the luggage in the car, but as soon as we were seated in the back a hand came through the window looking for tips for helping us out. The cab didn't appear to be moving and the driver looked like he was suppressing a giggle. Philippe chucked ten rupees at the guy, said that was all we had and told the driver to get going. It was daylight robbery - but they only got about 15euro cents , so we won't exactly need to claim it on the travel insurance.

The first oddity I noticed were the random cows. They were in the most unusual places, just wandering about of their own free will. At one point there was one sitting on the road in the middle of a round about. And they are completely oblivious to the noise and the horns that blare incessantly around them. It was bizarre but absolutely brilliant at the same time.

Upon inquiry the taxi driver proudly told us that his car was an Ambassador. The Ambassador was not spoiling us, and was welded and re-welded in several areas. The saying 'drive it like you stole it' popped into my head as we took off down the road. If this is the case then everyone in Kolkata must be driving a stolen vehicle because it was absolute bedlam. It struck me that it was like Hanoi's scooters, but now in much larger vehicles - still trying to fit in the same small gaps.

The journey to Sudder St. took about thirty minutes, but probably shaved a good three years off my life. There comes a point when you surrender your will and give up being afraid. Sit back relax, enjoy the show. Miraculously our Ambassador didn't hit any of the bikes, rickshaws, auto rickshaws, other cars, people, cows, chickens, goats, pigs or dogs that passed in front of it. He was on the horn for at least 40% of the total trip time, but he got us there, and that was all that mattered.

We quickly found a hotel that was listed in our lonely planet and asked to see a room. The room was large, had a western toilet, a deadbolt on the door and only few resident bugs: we'll take it! We surrendered our passports to reception and deadbolted the door. Then we sat wide-eyed on the bed and stared at each other. What the hell have we gotten ourselves into??

To say we had culture shock is an understatement. I could quite happily have stayed in our safe haven for the entire three weeks we planned to spend in India. Philippe shared my sentiments, but soon our bodies were demanding food, so we had no choice but to venture out of the room. We needed cash, and each time we requested directions to the ATM we were pointed to the end of the road and told to turn right. This happened three times before we eventually reached an ATM that promptly went out of service once we joined the queue. A helpful local who was also in the queue pointed us to another machine at the end of the road and we got what were were looking for. In our quest for a bank machine we had travelled a fair bit away from our hotel. We picked our way back through the traffic, animals and street vendors, swatting away some very persistent market touts, before we spied our hotel again.

We were so shell-shocked that we ended up eating in the restaurant attached to the hotel. Apparently they cook all food fresh, but from what we made out, the food is cooked somewhere up the street. Once we had received assurances from the waiter that the meal we had ordered was the mildest thing on the menu, a waiter carrying plates was dispatched up the road. He returned with some delicious Chicken Butter Raishmi with rice and nan bread, so I didn't dwell too much on where it had come from.

Ear-plugs have become our constant companion when sleeping in India. From our nice room in the Super Hotel we were treated to a medley of car horns, jangly music, random drums and my personal favourite - someone hacking up phlegm, right under our window. That said, the room was habitable and the bugs were keeping to themselves, so we booked it for another two days.

On our first full day in Kolkata we had to secure some train tickets out of the city. To do this we could either choose to trust one of the travel agents in our street or make our way to the tourist ticket office on Fairlie Place. We looked at the map and figured it was about a forty minute walk and would be a good way to get to know the city.

On that walk it felt like we saw a fair portion of the 16 million people that live in Kolkata. The colours and smells of the country are generally amazing. Crowds of people gather to eat with their hands, food bought from their favourite street vendor. Children play cricket in any patch of footpath they can commandeer. The blend of colourful sari's worn by Indian ladies was fantastic. The downside is the filth of the roads and obvious poverty that is never far away. Gutters and grey water pipes spew freely into the streets. Locals use water pulled from street pumps to clean themselves, drink or wash clothes. Emaciated bodies lie every twenty metres, either begging for money, or just lying there, staring aimlessly. The class system is very obvious in Kolkata. Well dressed Indian people travel in rickshaws pulled by barely sandeled men. Although it is the norm here, I must admit that the caste system offended me, and we never took a rickshaw because of it.

On that walk and we realised that the city really isn't used to having white tourists wandering through it. Especially white girls who aren't wearing sari's - although I was well covered up. I was vaguely aware of some curious glances my way. Philippe on the other hand, was walking behind me and caught the pervy leers that followed some of the curious glances. While my perception of the Indian women I see is that they are beautiful women, essentially white girls are imagined to be free and easy. This nugget was hammered home to me when a guy actually said “Titty, titty, ha, ha” as I passed by. Thankfully I chose to see the funny side, and still do, but it was starting to make Philippe pretty angry by the time we reached the ticket office.

At the ticket office we had to take a form with a number on it and then wait for the number to be called. It seemed pretty straight forward until I saw the number on the form of the couple beside us. We would be there a while. We read in our guide book that one of the criteria for foreigners buying tickets using Indian Rupees is proof of having withdrawn them or exchanged them in India. I didn't have our recent bank slip with me, so we went off to withdraw more cash to get the slip. When we returned they had moved on by one number.

I was amazed at the number of people that staffed this office. The work could be done by one single person, but there were six people sitting behind the counter. Only one of them was working the computer. As time ticked on, closing time loomed large. I think this spurred the guys on, because they began to pick up the pace. We were finally called to the counter and learned that our chosen class (2AC) on the train we wanted was booked out. We could take the train if we down graded to 3AC. We agreed and our passport details were noted in a great big book while our tickets were processed on the computer. We took the opportunity to also buy our ticket from Varanasi on to Agra. This was about a week in advance, and we got the last two beds available in 2AC.

Back on the street we decided to find an alternative route to the hotel to avoid the madness of the market area. The road we took brought us slap bang in the middle of the crowd of people that were exiting the Cricket Stadium. We later found out that India were playing South Africa. They must have done alright that day because there was a jovial atmosphere as we joined the throng of people crossing the road.

If the Vietnamese have a natural sense of balance, Indians have a natural sensor for cow pats. We don't possess such a talent, and it is for this reason that after that first day walking around Kolkata, Philippe and I now wear our boots out and about in the streets. You can see the cowpats, but it is not hard to imagine that the dirt that is less obvious is a whole lot filthier, particularly given that a favourite pastime here seems to be hacking up your lungs wherever and whenever the urge arises.

On our second, and final full day in Kolkata we went to visit Mother Teresa's Tomb. As an ex-Loreto student I felt compelled to see it. We set out from the hotel and managed to get ourselves very lost in a maze of side streets. Finally an Indian couple, visiting from their new home in Australia, took pity on us and practically walked us to our destination. En route they explained that they were visiting their hometown for the first time in ten years. It was a very interesting viewpoint. Over the course of the ten minute walk Shabnab and Alfred told us all about themselves. Shabnab even ventured the opinion that India would be a much better place if people had any concept of street hygiene. As we parted, they apologised that they could not invite us to their home as they were having it repainted. I truly believe they would have had us for tea otherwise!

We finally found the Sisters of Charity Motherhouse at 54a AJB Bose Rd. The first thing that struck me was that there were no donation boxes that I could see. It was a simple exhibition about Mother Teresa's life and the beginning of the order. It was a very interesting explanation of her calling and showed some of the details that have only emerged since they began the beatification process. After reading all the panels you are left in no doubt as to the goodness of the woman, but also her humble nature. We saw the room she lived and died in. It was a simple box room, with holy images and text in her handwriting with simple messages such as “Jesus loves you”. After reading the exhibition, you could completely imagine Mother Teresa in her old age sitting at the simple desk writing letters.

Having seen all this, it was nice to be able to spend time at Mother Teresa's tomb, to pay my respects. Visitors are encouraged to take medals and prayer pamphlets with them, but I couldn't find somewhere to contribute to the charity. Mother Teresa was insistent that neither her name nor photo should be used to raise money. You get the impression that she would have preferred to shun the limelight.

After visiting the Motherhouse we found our way back to the hotel, and grabbed a bite of dinner in a restaurant up the street. For 150 rupees we had a whole seven dish meal that gave us a taste of the local Bengal food. It was made from simple foods like beetroot, cauliflower and lentils, but it was very flavoursome and not too spicy for our foreign palates.

The next day we checked out and left our luggage with the hotel while we sorted out some admin issues. It was raining, so we didn't go far, but we did manage to buy a sim card (for which they needed a copy of our passport and visa, a passport photo and a copy of our hotel bill) - and this is just for a pay-as-you-go phone. It was worse than France!

Finally it was time to go to the train station, at which point we again got hit up for tip money for helping carry our bags to the taxi (we wanted to carry them ourselves!). The taxi journey was as hair-raising as our first. He dropped us outside the train station and we gingerly edged our way in. We found our train number and supposed platform on a large printed poster on the wall. If there was a change, we just had to listen out for it over the intercom. We were hours ahead of time, so we found a patch of floor and sat on our bags and got stared at.

The train was announced. Our name was on the listing that was posted at the top of the platform and on our carriage, so we hopped on. We locked our luggage to the bottom of the bunk and took a seat. It was our first experience of train travel at night, so we didn't know what the correct etiquette was. Because we were in a three tier bunk carriage, a man was sitting beside me and Philippe on the bottom bunk until it was time to go to sleep. We wanted to sleep, but I couldn't put my (second) bunk up until the man got up to his top bunk. When, at ten o'clock, I asked if we could put the bed up, he told me he was getting off at the next stop - in twenty minutes. The train was running late, so twenty minutes turned into an hour. Once he got up to go, quick as anything Philippe and I had the bunk up and the beds made. We were tucked up asleep by the time the new passengers got on.

It was a sleepless night because our co-passengers hadn't the slightest idea of how to be quiet. Between hearing people hacking up in the toilet next door, and the mobile phone of the guy above me ringing, I didn't get a good night's rest. To top it off, rather than it's 9.45am expected arrival time, we didn't reach Varanasi until 1pm. Yes, we had an interesting conversation with a Catholic Priest on the way (“What happened to Christianity in the west?”), but we were hungry and tired by the time we finally stepped foot on the platform in Varanasi.

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