Overland from Kathmandu to Mumbai

March 6^th, 2007

 

Leaving Kathmandu at seven o’clock from the local bus stand I expected to be in Gorakhpur late that evening. Hoped was perhaps a more realistic word given the reputation of the Terai and the Southern Nepali border. The first part of the journey consisted of nine hour bus ride to the Indo-Nepali border town of Sounali. I had passed straight through there en route to Pokhara by tourist coach so I knew that it wasn’t a particularly attractive option in terms of accommodation or facilities. Instead, a short walk back across to the Indian side with multiple entry visa in hand and three hours again by bus to Gorakhpur. All being well I’d be in a hotel outside the train station by approximately eight o’clock. I didn’t plan to get the train to Mumbai that evening as I figured it would give me time to refresh before the longest single stint of travel I could imagine.

 

I had already been prevented from leaving Kathmandu the day before so when the bus ground to a halt about two hours from the border I had my suspicions. We were beckoned off of the bus by the ticket collector and baggage handler who had an urgency and strange military air about them. I followed the crowd to a little roadside food stand and sat down on the mats under leafy thatch, where as luck would have it there was a fairly affluent looking Nepali who had also been on the bus who spoke English. He explained the reason for the stoppage. Apparently two buses had been set on fire that day and there was another bandh about to be imposed. To my surprise and even perhaps dazed amusement the reason was not the Maoists; this time it had been staged by the locals to demonstrate that the bandh which had been frequent of late had been crippling their businesses. With my journey in mind, I couldn’t help but see the irony of the situation. I had little choice.

 

We waited for a couple of hours or so, meanwhile vague thoughts of sleeping on the bus that night and flames licking up and around it began to run through my head when suddenly we were marshalled back into our seats. Having seen no communication that anything had changed I wondered why we should continue now but was optimistic to be back on the road. Another hour and another stop. The English speaking Nepali who I had spotted sitting near the front of the bus again kindly explained. There was to be a full bandh tomorrow. As the bus driver didn’t want to get caught up in it, he was dropping us off at the side of the road to await another one and going to his nearby home. In disbelief I gathered my things and hauled my backpack down from the roof. There we were, a group that consisted of nineteen Nepalese and an Englishman, sitting on our various cargos. At that time I had no hope of another bus arriving and yet within twenty minutes a smaller one did.

 

Everybody crammed in, I had my large and what seemed like a wholly inappropriate backpack, which doesn’t slide under a seat or mould to a lap in the same way that bags of rice or fruit seem to. The bus was packed solid; people clung to one another teetering at the open door. I meanwhile was still outside on the verge with my belongings. One of them looked at me and motioned to the top of the bus. Without allowing myself time to think I climbed the ladder and lay flat amongst the eclectic assortment of items I have since become used to seeing carried on local transport. As we continued my thoughts began to race. Burning buses, strikes and my stark white skin and western clothes shining like a beacon from the top of the moving vehicle. I tried to compress my body in order to sink lower, my head faced forward and eyes averted so that all I could see were the brief shadows of power lines as they flew overhead. I didn’t dare look to either side of the bus. After an eternity the slowing of traffic and increase in voices told me we were at the border. Despite all the indicators of trouble I hadn’t see as much as a stone thrown.

 

Looking back to that leg of the journey, I am not sure whether I made more of it that it was. None of the local travellers showed signs of worry on their face and yet they weren’t displaying the friendliness I had become accustomed to in other parts of Nepal. Our driver and crew had gone home and whatever the motivation behind that particular bandh I couldn’t help feeling that I would stand out as a target. I walked through the border feeling both highly aware and at the same time on some kind of autopilot, discretely checked my guidebook and went to the first hotel on the list, knowing instinctively from the look of the town that the rooms would be dark and shabby. The discoloured walls, damp musty air and brown stained water jug as the only provision didn’t let me down.

 

Waiting was a final challenge. A hoard of mosquitoes hovered intently above the bed and there was nowhere to hang my net. The hanging kit that came with it had a nail inside and remembering a roll of brown parcel tape that I had thrown into my bag at the last minute I used a combination of both to secure my night’s sleep. I gathered my clock, a book and all I saw fit to remain sufficient for the night and clambered inside. Realising I needed the toilet, with reluctance I jumped out and ran to it repeatedly twitching my body. I am still unsure whether it stops the mosquitoes from landing or attracts more. I went back into the room about to dive for cover when I slowed my pace for a second. In seeing that safe haven awaiting me I felt an unexpected surge of adrenaline. However insignificant it may have seemed to the onlooker; to me, still a relatively new lone traveller it represented a scaled mountain. Maybe not in terms of the reality of the accomplishments that day but in overcoming the uncertainties and apprehension of setting off alone it was a milestone. I punched the air with a mixture of determination and excitement, slid back in and tucked the net back beneath the bed roll.

 

March 7^th – 9^th, 2007

 

Waking early I repacked the small amount of things I had needed for the previous night, noticing the warmer but quite comfortable morning temperature after spending time in the more elevated Nepali capital. Scanning around for anything I might have missed, I left the room and gave the key back to the hotel owner who was sat at reception. He didn’t look me in the eye and said nothing as I put the key on the counter. I wasn’t sure exactly where the bus left from so I asked him. He looked up at me with a dismissive frown so I simply repeated the words “bus” and “Gorakhpur”. Without saying a word he pointed in a southerly direction. Not feeling totally sure he knew or cared what I had asked, I headed back to the road and saw a bus parked up on the left hand side about fifty metres from where I stood. I went over to the rather worn looking vehicle and saw an Indian woman sitting next to an open window halfway down the bus. Looking over, once again I repeated “Gorakhpur”. She gave a single nod of the head, so I thanked her and stepped aboard, double checking with the bus driver who gave the same wordless response. The journey went smoothly this time and other than me there were only four or five Indian passengers.

 

Arriving in Gorakhpur I was reminded of the bustling and chaotic India I already knew. People and cycle rickshaws were almost fused together as the filtered through bottleneck side streets. Men wearing tatty brown or grey nylon trousers and shirts, wrapped heavily in thick shawls paced the streets, the white intensity of their eyes visible against their dark skin. The few women that were to be seen were dressed in drab salwar kameez and similarly bundled in wool. As the bus drove through the industrial town and then parallel to the railway track I kept an eye out for the approaching station. I knew there were one or two budget hotels opposite, so when the bus stopped I walked over to a tall turquoise blue one which faced the station. I negotiated a price of a hundred and fifty Rupees for a room from mid morning until early evening, went up the stairwell and dumped my bags in the room. Examining the lock I used a small combination padlock I had, then put the one provided on as well so that it covered mine and made my way back to the huge white train station.

 

Picking my way through the families and large groups of people sleeping on mats or squatting playing cards I went in. There was the distinctive odour of paan and occasional red splotches covered the floor, which I had forgotten during my time in Nepal. There in the centre of the main station was a skeletal tan coloured cow, far more angular than the fat dairy cows in England. The image was quite absorbing. As the cow stood motionless and hawkers and commuters sped past it almost felt as if life was in fast forward, the cow as permanent a fixture as the large pillars holding up the station. I joined the correct queue and paid the four hundred and fifty Rupees to book a second class sleeper ticket for the seven o’clock train that evening.

 

Back in the hotel I walked up to the roof terrace where there were a few grimy red plastic tables and chairs and a hand drawn sign above a doorway saying restaurant. Realising I hadn’t eaten since leaving Kathmandu the previous morning I was overwhelmed with the pangs of hunger. Before I could go over to the doorway a boy of a about fourteen years old came out and gave me an old laminated menu with the two plastic layers curling apart at the edges. He had a smiley face and asked where I had come from. I told him I had come from Kathmandu and he told me that he was Nepali and only worked in Gorakhpur. We chatted about Nepal and I couldn’t help but think that he was friendlier because he was Nepali.

 

I ordered and ate malai kofte and two rotie accompanied with a fizzy drink and when the boy asked if I wanted any more I gladly took him up on the offer of the disc shaped Indian flat breads. The kofte was excellent and the sugary drink much needed. Sitting there with the sun shining and the large station gleaming from the other side of the road I began to examine my journey from Nepal back to India. In many ways it had felt quite unpleasant until that point and somehow now I had a fondness for all of it. Some things, I thought, only seem positive when reflecting. I would go on to find out that with time and more confidence of my place in India that those things could be not only pleasant but enthralling in the present too. I returned to my room and gazed through the fly mesh on the back window, which overlooked a large military field. There were soldiers marching. Feeling nourished from my meal I lay down on the bed to get a few hours of rest before the train left that evening.

 

At about six o’clock after dozing in and out of consciousness, I gathered my things and made my way to the still crowded but now darkened train station. I reached the platform with little less than an hour to spare, thinking “why so early?” as usual. Buying a cup of chai from one of the stands I sat on my pack and waited. Finishing it quickly I went to give the cup back and the chai seller took it from my hand and just dropped it in the bin next to her. It had cost five Rupees (about seven Pence), a real reminder of the poverty situation for many Indians. I tried to consider how within seven pence there was enough to make the little clay pot, gather the tea leaves, milk, sugar and spices and still leave room for a profit.

 

Returning to my nearby pack I was about to sit back down when a boy of about fifteen years old came over. He introduced himself as Sonujan and asked where I was from. He said that his sisters were further down the platform and would I mind if he took a photo of me with them. Slightly bemused and a little suspicious, I followed him over to where they were sitting. In their saris they stood to either side of me, their grandmother looking on. Sonujan took out his rather bulky looking compact film camera and was about to take the photograph when I motioned to the old woman to be in the photo too. She sprung quickly off of her haunches and went and stood on the end, hesitated for a split second and then shoved the younger of the sisters to the end so that she was standing next to me. This is how Sonujan took the picture and they all seemed very happy with it. I would love to see it. Standing slightly disheveled with my pack still on for fear of getting caught in a scam, with two young Indian women in exquisitely coloured saris and their grandmother in more conservatively coloured but equally elegant dress. I said goodbye, ignoring the glares from a group of Indian men who had watched the whole event and went back to my spot.

 

As the train laboured into the station I double checked I was in the right position on the platform to board the correct carriage. It came to a stop and I stepped through the door and into the narrow walkway. As I took that first glance into the carriage the hope that their may be other westerners on there sprung into my mind. I couldn’t see any. I found my bunk; there were six in total facing perpendicular to the side of the train, mine being one of the bottom ones. On it sat five Indian men. The two middle bunks which were attached to chains had been elevated so there was headroom to sit. After a period of hesitation I realised that nobody had the intention of moving so I slid my pack underneath with a strap sticking out, squeezed onto the end of my bunk and hooked my leg through the strap. There were twelve people in the six bed compartment.

 

The train trundled out of the station and time ebbed slowly by. I restrained myself from taking my alarm clock out to check progress as watching an hour tick past would have only lessened the already fragile resolve for fighting tedium that I had. With a day and a half of train travel ahead, and in what seemed like an extremely alien environment I needed all the mental strength I could muster. The other men, some in trousers and shirts, and others in lungis, where busy chatting and began taking chapattis and bound up pots of curry from their bags. I didn’t feel hungry but it occurred to me that I didn’t have any food. I quickly realised that there was plenty on offer as hawkers passed by selling chai masala, chai coffee, samosas, chopped salad, rice and curry. As food scraps and empty packets began to litter the floor, cockroaches emerged from their hiding places and the occasional dark flash signified a scurrying mouse.

 

As well as hawkers, all manor of beggars made their way down the train, men with no lower limbs on rickety skates and women with undernourished looking children in tow. I winced as a blind woman wildly lashed out behind her and struck her little boy square about the face because he was crying. Despite my horror, I couldn’t give money in that situation without drawing further attention to my obvious wealth. Eventually the people sitting on my bunk moved and the carriage began to settle down for the night. When things were quiet I discretely locked my bag to my bunk, tucked the lock out of sight and hurried to the end of the carriage. I tiptoed over people wrapped like mummies on the unsanitary floor and into the swinging toilet door. Returning just as fast I found my bag still where it was. Everything was silent; I took out my sleep sheet and shawl and covered myself from head to toe, laying still for hours my awareness eventually began to wane.

 

Waking early to the sound of the MC-like chai sellers’ pitches I sat up, sunlight shone brightly between the bars on the open windows. My bag was still in place and I packed my sleeping gear away. I spent the morning reading and taking a couple of cups of the sweet chai. In the lower bunk on the other side of the aisle were a young couple and their baby. I marvelled at how they fitted so easily into the small space and in a similar vein how naturally the baby nuzzled into her mother’s over garments. I felt good, still just a little less than twenty four hours on the train but as I read about a place called Shangri-La, I considered all I had seen in so short a space of time and the millions of snapshots that would affect my thoughts and very being over the coming year.

 

All of a sudden something made me look up. My eyes latched on to a long pair of sand coloured trousers, I followed them up to a rifle, and then my eyes met those of a wild looking Indian officer. He was the tallest and most intimidating Indian man I could remember seeing. He barked something at me in Hindi. I smiled nervously as my stomach seemed to hit the inside of my chest cavity and drop back down with a force. He spoke again as he shooed the other men out of the seat opposite and sat down. I looked around for help and one of the remaining men sitting next to him who it emerged spoke English said “he wants you to read to him”. I motioned with the book to the officer and he nodded his head with a look that gave no real clues to his real intent. I began to read. The words which described the mythical paradise of Shangri-La now felt like individual nails in my coffin. I don’t know how much my hand was shaking as I held the book but it felt as if the pages were fluttering around as though in a breeze.

 

Continuing on for four or five pages without looking up it felt excruciating, until the officer tapped me on the leg and muttered something else in Hindi. I stopper reading and my eyes met his stare again. I let my gaze drift slightly to either side for a few minutes not daring to completely ignore him. He abruptly stopped a hawker selling oranges and offered one to me. I couldn’t have peeled it with other travellers’ tales of baksheesh (the Hindi word for bribes) in my head. I declined shaking my hand and trying to smile. Another small boy walked past with a large pile of books. The officer held his arm across the carriage so that the boy halted. He took them and balanced them on the seat next to him, offering me the top one. They were all written in Hindi and again I politely declined. The officer slowly looked at each one and then took the pile of forty or so and dropped them in the walkway. As the young boy scrambled on the floor to pick up his goods, I sat expressionless.

 

In total he sat opposite me for a couple of hours. I could feel the tension in the carriage as whatever his agenda, I was certain that making his authority clear was a part of it. Every now and again he would reach across and fondle the couple on the other bunk’s baby on the head. Each time he did so his rifle slung loose on its strap. I could sense their suppressed anguish but while the limelight was slightly off of me I slowly sunk in my seat and tried to act sleepy. I closed my eyes a few times, each time keeping them closed for longer until I left them shut. I made up my mind to keep them closed. After what seemed like an age I felt my leg being tapped again. Opening my eyes I saw the officer standing up again. He gestured goodbye which I willingly responded to and he walked off through the carriages.

 

The remainder of the train journey went slowly but much more agreeably. I drank some chai and ate a couple of samosas, abstaining from the bright green chillies provided as an accompaniment for fear of their power over my stomach. The Indian, who spoke good English, said he was travelling down to Bangalore with his friends to find work. I was grateful for his one intervention and also because just after the officer had left, he had gestured by circling his finger around his temple at the craziness of the situation. That affirmation that my fears were in some way founded made a real difference. I began to feel an affinity with the group on my bunk and even began to let my body relax against those that sat to each side. When things settled down for the night I again slept completely covered until I woke at five o’clock the following morning.

 

The train arrived in Mumbai almost exactly thirty six hours after it had left Gorakhpur. Donning my backpack I stepped out into the station, declining the offers from rickshaw and taxi wallahs with a dismissive shake of the hand. There is something about the eagerness of the ones waiting at the front that instantly makes me feel opposed to them. In the car park a bright looking taxi driver in a turban approached and before I could say anything he said “Colaba, four hundred Rupees.” The destination and the price were conveniently what I was looking for. His taxi was waiting so I agreed and we set off on the sixteen kilometre journey to the south of Mumbai.

 

I started a conversation about the forthcoming cricket world cup, a subject that is a pretty sound bet to spark interest and we talked about India and England’s chances of victory as the smart old vehicle sped along on my final leg. On arrival in Colaba I had already prepared the money and handed it over to him. As I did so he separated the one of the notes and swiftly threw it into the side compartment in his door. As my brain tried to click why, he fanned the notes out and began claiming I had given him too little. Colaba looked bright and grand and I was looking forward to a shower and some food. I took my pack in one hand and at the same time leant forward, moving his arm, and fished the note out from the compartment. After handing it back to him I got out of the taxi to the sound of the driver calling “okay, fifty Rupees more.” I didn’t look back. I had a spring in my step!