Journey to India

We left Rumtek on the morning of Oct 30th for a gruelling day of jeep and bus rides. The drivers are incredibly sure of themselves as they stare death down at every high risk turn and sideless mountain pass. We seem to get drivers that have to pass every vehicle on the road, be it a monster truck, bus, jeep or motorcycle. We are downright blasé about near misses. The drivers don't stop for vomiting people. A poor slight Bengali woman threw up the whole time, retching and retching, and we still went ahead like a bat out of hell. Along the way, we stop to pay off police blocks as it is payday for them, end of month. Fifty rupees for our jeep apparently. I learn a lot as I speak a bit of Hindi and Bengali. I chat a lot with everyone.

 

 In Siliguri, we switched to another jeep that takes a different load to Kakkarvitta, a small border town. It was night time by then and everything looked exceedingly seedy and humid and decrepid. Leaving India means having your names registered in a tiny office manned by resentful officials who bark out orders in a menacing way. They have a humongous book and everything is handwritten. All our names, addressed, birthdates, passport and visa numbers have to e recorded. The air is thick and smelly, and scores of people stare at us through windows with metal bars. One young man in particular looks very friendly. He has short hair and is conservatively dressed, but his very sweet and effeminate smile, and his little gold stud of an earring, and the twinkle in his eyes tells me he is gay. This is a not a problem in a big urban area, but in this little border town, full of smugglers and goons, I can imagine he isn't that safe. I think we have a meaningful exchange with our eyes. The official softens up considerably when I play my Bengali card. I speak to him in Bengali, talk about my Bengali roots and he sees my trademark conch shell bangles. I remain subservient; it's an act, but it works. We get through the line much faster, and the service is now with a smile.

 

The Nepali border isn't much better. They all seem to have gotten out of bed at 8 p.m. to take care of us. They are dressed in singlets and lungis, and shake their heads because I don't have passport size photos for the visas, which in themselves cost USD30. They don't accept Nepalese currency. They talk, scratch their heads, and decide the absence of photos will cost me an extra five hundred Indian rupees, for which I don't get a receipt. Corruption is rampant.