We should start our journey early, we were told, in order to ensure arriving at Calcutta in good time. So we were up at 6, + on the bus at 6.30. Rather to my surprise, it was a reasonably modern + comfortable minibus. Most important, we had 2 seats to ourselves. Using Californian neo-philosophy, one’s own “space”. Unfortunately, the road was nothing like as good – appallingly bumpy + rutted. We had to take a rickshaw from where the bus stopped to the border itself – as usual, our driver was not happy with the money I gave him, but gratitude is something one learns not to expect.
The frontier was quite remarkable, nothing more than a succession of broken-down huts – they really weren’t much better than the average well-built but well-used tool shed. One walked from one to the next along the mud lane getting various things done, passing the actual border about half-way along. That was denoted by a simple one-bar barrier that one ducked underneath. Leaving Bangladesh was actually more difficult than entering India because of the press of people in the Bangladeshi customs office, but our white skins afforded us some form of priority – it was the physical problem of pushing thro’ all these people that proved difficult. Normally, when one enters a country, one passed first thro’ Immigration, + then on to Customs. India has its priorities ordered differently, + the first hut on the Indian side of the gate was Customs, our biggest test. Not, we thought, that we really had anything to worry about, but we did have a few things that we would like to be able to sell, at a pinch, so we would prefer not to have written down in our passports. I thought it best to declare the camera + radio, but the man was very casual about the whole thing, + wrote nothing down, taking us for honest, upright citizens. Or else not caring one way or the other. He was highly amused, however, that we were carrying whiskey + cigarettes. He certainly had a point. Our packs were both monstrously heavy with all the Burmese handicrafts, the 2 tape players, 5 or 6 books, 40 packs of film… + the whiskey, of course.
Immigration was a formality, but, as is usual when Indian bureaucracy comes into play, a time-consuming one. We did discover the correct price for the rickshaw to the next town, + armed with this knowledge, went out to secure ourselves one. The next part of the story I am rather ashamed of. We selected, more or less at random, one of the rickshaw drivers offering themselves vociferously, conformed the price – 10 rupees – stacked our bags on his machine + climbed aboard ourselves. Only then did the chap turn to us + say, “10 rupees, 10 rupees”, indicating first me, then Val; 20 rupees, in fact. I immediately became furious + flew into a rage, telling him we knew how much the ride cost, + who had told us. We’d already had quite a crowd around us, but my outburst brought more. Surrounded by so many, he could not back down, but his sullen obstinacy only enraged me further, + seeking to provoke some sort of reaction, I slapped him lightly, on the cheek. I am sure there was no physical pain, but I cannot calculate the damage to his pride, self-esteem, whatever. It was an unpardonable + cowardly act – there was no way for someone in his position to strike back, especially at a white man, + the only excuse that I can offer is that it was a “crime de passion”. And that’s no excuse. Luckily, Val did not witness the incident; she had walked a few yards away when I began my tirade. I finished the incident by declaring that I would rather walk than pay such an exorbitant sum; we grabbed our bags + marched off down the street.
We had not gone more than 30 yds however when another driver ran up to us + offered to take us for 10 rupees… for both. We accepted. It was a lovely way to enter the country – quiet + peaceful, with occasional waves from people in their houses or in the fields. It was, however, a mighty long way to town. When we finally arrived at the railway stn I gave our man an extra 2 rupees, partly out of appreciation of the distance involved, partly out of gratitude at his helping us out when we’d got into a spot. Plus, I suppose, a fair measure of guilt at the way I had treated his colleague. Despite what I said earlier, he was grateful for the extra consideration.
The train journey took about 2 hrs into Calcutta, but wasn’t very comfortable. It was supposedly 2nd class, but was remarkably bare + Spartan, with plain wooden seats. It was also pretty crowded, but a bearable journey – I lost myself in “Howard’s End”. And then Calcutta.
Enormous, bewildering, of course, but we weren’t as disoriented + confused as we had feared – that’s one legacy of much travelling, I suppose. The buses looked too awful to contemplate, so full that no more people could be fitted inside, so the rest were clinging to the outside. A man who had been on our carriage offered to help us, + when we turned down his suggestion of a taxi, took us to the bus-stop + pointed out the right bus when it came trundling over the bridge, already down on its springs + full. As a pint mug is full of beer, not as a bus would normally be described as full. It seemed a hopeless task, but as the bus slowed – it never actually stopped, for fear of not being able to start again – Val hurled herself at the doorway. Then the bus driver, deciding his limit had been reached, started to speed up again. Luckily, with all that weight aboard, he had no acceleration, so I was able to run alongside, grab the metal hand-rail by the doorway with one hand. + force the toes of one foot – I’ll swear it was no more than that – onto the running board. We were aboard. We weren’t popular, because of our packs, but we were ordered inside, + somehow we squeezed thro’.
As the bus emptied, people were friendlier, + we were eventually able to discover the right stop to get down. Took a bottle of Thums Up, the local cola – surprisingly good – + set off to find Sudder St, Calcutta’s own Kaosan Rd. It wasn’t too far, + we were able to go direct to a reasonably good hotel, one recommended in the book (of course), the Modern Lodge. Booked into a room up on the roof, with its own bathroom + a pleasant roof patio outside. A shower was the first priority, naturally, followed by pulling everything out of our packs, partly because the bags themselves were in need of a good scrub, partly because we wanted to begin the process of getting things sorted out: to send home, to sell, to wash, etc.
Went out to find something to eat, as much for the exercise as anything, as we weren’t particularly hungry, + it was just as well, for nothing we saw appealed. We chanced upon a side street leading to the market, which had lots of interesting looking food stalls. We made pigs of ourselves, especially with a dish called chat, made up of cereals, spice, sauce + yogurt. The evening was rather spoilt when I had my 2nd argument. We had coffee in a small restaurant, + tho’ we checked in advance that they could change a 100R note, they then refused it because it had a small rip. It’s the same throughout India, we’re told, a mountain built up out of incompetence, suspicion, + mistrust. But I railed + raved for a bit, before walking out, saying we’d pay tomorrow. And then Val + I had an argument, because she was distressed at my recent displays of temper. I am geared up to expect problems, that’s the trouble, so when they arrive, the hair trigger is pulled. Wham! Finished the day feeling uncomfortable with each other, + washing clothes.
Absolutely not my best day. Actually, one I am rather ashamed of, but I did say warts n all, and this is one of them. I was coming to the end of my limit of patience, tolerance, humour… though at other times I would be fine.
I call those moments in my own travels “Ugly American” moments–there must be an equivalent for British travelers. I’ll send you a story about one of mine.