Journey to India

We made our way from Chitwan National Park in Nepal to Kalakankar, a small quiet historical village in Uttar Pradesh, via Sonauli, Gorakhpur and Allahabad. And what a roller coaster of a ride it was. After a five hour bus ride from Chitwan, complete with unauthorized stops to pick up customers for extra cash, our bus full of tourists, from Israel, India and Canada, we were dropped off somewhat unceremoniously at the border where we had to fill out exit documents for the Nepali government. Given that it is all hand written in large bound ledgers, one wonders how the information can ever be quickly useful.

 

As we walked across the border into India, the roads instantly become more clogged, dirty and populated. Diesel, dust, garbage and humans multiplied by a factor of three. Incredible India, as the tourist posters proclaimed. After much haggling we got a car to Gorakhpur, the nearest train station. It was the same price as getting a bus, and usually faster. However, a bridge had collapsed somewhere, so the driver had to take a detour. This detour was 3 hours of winding village road, on land, dusty and narrow, with a village every 500 meters or so, consisting of 10 houses or so. The driver drove with Hindi film music whining the whole way, but we all go to liking it after a while. The tape was quite old, so I think it's something I was vaguely familiar with from the eighties. And anyway, half the time, he had his hand on the horn, chasing down little children, bullocks, dogs, old people, horse drawn carts. Everyone must get out of the way. It is breathtakingly scary for me to be a passenger in a taxi, city or countryside. I can't quite get used to it.

 

We saw endless fields, meticulously plowed and irrigated, thousands of peasants bent over their back breaking labour, and walking the small paths between the fields going to and from their homes and villages. It was clean and peaceful, except for our noisy car. People stared at us and I was quite embaraased to barge through their life in such a discourteous manner.

 

We finally arrived in Gorakhpur, at the train station, and after paying a heavily solicited tip to the driver, we went to find railway tickets, an overnight trip to Allahabad. As usual, I got indignant about something. A couple of  blonde tourists, two young women, asked for the cheapest fare to Kolkata of the ticket seller in the next booth. The ticket seller demanded to know why they needed the cheapest tickets. They had to practically beg. Having a guidebook with them, they knew what class was available to them. I told the seller in my wicket that this was outrageous; that his buddy had no right to ask this. I told him that just because they were blonde was no reason to assume that they had lots of money. They were in fact from Poland, as I had chatted with them before. I told him so. He looked a bit sheepish, but did tell his colleague. I further added in my broken Hindi, but taking advantage of my matronly gray hair to pull some rank, that they had a lot of nerve, as so many Western people come to India and give generously of their time to volunteer here. How dare they treat them so arrogantly?

 

The overnight train ride was fine. We were in sleeper class AC, which means air conditioned. We didn't need AC but that was the only thing available. The real advantage is that it includes bedding and a sealed unit, so you don't get the endless dust and stream of food sellers and beggars that you get in non-AC.

 

In Allahabad, it took us 4 hours to find an ATM that worked, and a driver willing to go to Kalakankar for a reasonable price. Allahabad has much to offer if you have friends and if you seek out the holy places, and on grand mela days, but this day it was just another  crowded, dirty, noisy, polluted city in North India.

 

And then to Kalakankar.