Night bus from hell; part iv

Which will be the last installment, I promise.

(The picture above shows the three Nepali men who rode in the bus behind our 'most excellent seats.' They were very friendly, and occasionally helped me understand what was going on. Mainly their presence just made me feel vaguely - tacitly - supported, and hopeful about the human race, when causes and conditions led me to feel otherwise.)

It occurs to me you may be wondering why and how I 'let' this all come to pass. As mentioned in an earlier post, I love to travel without any specific plan. Fly to Delhi, and go overland to Nepal, end of plan. I love that. However, I don't particularly enjoy discomfort, terror, disgust, or any of the other unfortunate mind states that this bus trip occasioned. In my defense, I will only offer up the parable of the frog in the slowly warming pot of water. At first it's pretty nice, the frog floating on his amphibious back as the temperature is very relaxing and spa like. This stage analogous to the nice hotel concierge, the pleasant and smooth micro-bus ride. Then gradually the water heats up - cramped bus, crazy traffic driving around Delhi, uncomfortable seats, etc. As the water nears the boiling point - games of chicken, pedophilic overtones, etc. - there seems no escape. What would we do at three a.m. by the side of a desolate Indian road, not knowing the language, etc? My fancy for planless travel notwithstanding...

However, in spite of it all, and the loss of control of the situation - the veritable submission to mother India - something intangible is gained. A deepened appreciation for the small comforts of life? For my relative health and dear sons? To spell it out like this makes it sound banal and formulaic - and obvious. But there is something more, something that makes me still want to be carried helplessly by the quixotic winds of the great cosmic mystery from time to time. Perhaps it is in - or following - these moments of total release, that feelings of euphoria can arise.

Back to our tale: Just before dawn - the darkest hour - the road (by now quite narrow, but thankfully hardly used) kind of forks. One tine leads up to a defunct bridge, and the other down to what appears to be access to ford the river. The river isn't very wide, but the current seems brisk. We stop, the headlights kept on. The driver and a couple scouts walk down to the river's edge. One fellow wades out and is soon up to his thighs, turns around and they all come back to the bus. There will be no attempt at that crossing: I feel both relieved and forlorn at the prospect. The boys and I thought the thrill would be worth the risk - such has the night rent our faculties of reason.

Once the bus is turned around - this takes a while - we are informed that another road detours maybe five kilometers away, no worries sahib. We ride along in silence - Shiva and Soro murmuring quietly together (perhaps plotting - but I only suspect this in retrospect, as I still don't apprehend The Sting on the bus. As we ride along, the globe slowly rotates in the direction of the sun, and we begin to see houses, trees, the occasional early morning jogger (this really surprises me - I'd never seen a non-western jogger in India or Nepal). Perhaps they were fugitives making a hasty retreat from some macabre crime scene, their blood soaked hands having been rinsed in a monsoon puddle, providing a nice little breakfast treat for the mosquito larvae. (Such thoughts do not cross my mind - only as I type this later do such thoughts arise.) I am just too tired this morning, after night bus hells one, two, and three: the passing images outside the bus windows come as if in a dream or hypnotic state. I'm vaguely aware that the houses are beginning to look a bit more like those I remember in Nepal - though not a one has thatched roof, a commonplace 25 years ago. Tin is now the standard, which is not nearly so pleasant to look at, but I know from experience does a much better job of shedding the rain.

We pull up to our 'station' (it's more like a tea shop, there are no other buses there, or much place to park really), before day has broken - it's maybe five a.m. There are many Indians walking about, however. Which reminds me, for the entire trip not one of us carries a watch and must always ask somebody for the time of day. Neither I nor my sons ever wears a watch (I used to carry a pocket watch, but that has been replaced with a cellphone - always showing the correct time - except on the other side of the planet where there is no Verizon service). Bleary eyed, I ask the boys to unload our carriage, and be sure to post one of them with the bags out on the ground, and be on the lookout for, well, the context is obvious, I don't need to supply a noun here. Which it turns out is the very wrong place to suspect thieves...

I ask Soro where I might be able to change some money (we are still in India) to pay for transit to the border (still a mile or so off). This question was my first mistake of the morning. He and Shiva assure me that they will take care of that, find me a tuk-tuk, and handle the money. I pull out a ten dollar bill - thinking they will exchange it for rupees for me - and hand it to Shiva. Mistake number two. Soro says no, that will definitely not be enough, do I have any more? I pull out a $50 bill, and exchange it for the ten I had just given. Exactly as I make this hand off - mistake number three - the Entertainer sounds loud and clear in my mind. They say yes, that will be enough, jump off the bus, and begin their impenetrable haggling with the horse drawn carriage just in front. I am cursing to myself in several languages at this point, repeating one of my favorites, 'haidenai!' (a German approximation of 'dagnabit'), as it dawns on me - and I explain to my sons - what just happened.

The short trip might have cost at most 500 rs. (less than ten bucks) if I'd been able to exchange into Indian currency and haggle. I wonder who pockets the difference? My good friend Shiva the crazed pedophile, and his side-kick Soro, that's who! At least it seems obvious to me they do. It serves as a slap in the face to wake me up. I climb off the bus and shake hands with our erstwhile captors, smile, congratulate them on their excellent hustle - no joke, that's really what I said (maybe Soro understood, maybe not) - and wish them godspeed the heck back to that godforsaken wasteland they call home. It will take several days for me to get to the point where I no longer refer to India as 'teeming with thieves and knaves' (my best approximation in Nepali: chhormaanisharu - subbai badmaas!) which is a sentiment shared by many Nepalis. My boys load the cart with our belongings, help me on, and try to calm me down. And really, as the buggy plods along - hard wooden planks grinding my raw butt at each pothole - there is much to be thankful for, and I do calm down. I tell them that night was at least as bad as any hardship I ever faced in the Peace Corps. Of course I'm now twice the age I was, and have the welfare of three children to consider. But still. They say it wasn't so bad, which I find very relieving, I've perhaps been successful in shielding them from some of the worst. Or they are just saying that to comfort me.

We roll along peacefully through forest and rangeland. Until, that is, we come to a 'gate' - seemingly in the middle of nowhere - with indecipherable signage. We are informed it won't open till 6:00 a.m. Which it soon does. We roll slowly on to the Indian checkpost. The official is maybe 35 or 40, casually dressed, and speaks English pretty well. We fill out the customs forms, hand over our passports, and wait the requisite half an hour, swatting flies and mosquitos. All the while dozens of what appear to be Indians and Nepalis freely traffic in both directions, not needing to stop. This 'racial profiling' as it were, only vaguely gets under my skin, and I make a snide comment to Eli who is helping fill out the forms. He shushes me: a role reversal, I sound like the teenager. It could have been far worse - I remember sitting in a bus once for upwards of three hours at the Nepal border. We are neither asked for bakshish (bribe money), nor given any such hints. The fellow informs me of the fine print on our visas that says we would be unable to return to India sooner than two months from today. Which I think would be far too soon anyway. However, I explain that our visit in Nepal was only to last two weeks. He tells me we could get that changed at the Indian embassy in Kathmandu.

He stamps our visas, and we are free to go. In contrast, after we cross a wide river over a hydroelectric dam, the Nepali pass control doesn't even look at our passports, let alone any visas. What they want, is a thorough look at the contents of our luggage. To which search we willingly oblige the camouflage clad security officers. With whom I can speak! In Nepali! We are soon back on the road. However, it turns out there is indeed a pass control that checks our visas, etc. But by now my mood has completely come back, bobbing to the surface like an apple in a barrel at the Shrovetide fair - a mood higher even than the helter-skelter at said fair! (Thanks Fyodor D. for these similes' inspiration.)

I am able to change some money, then haggle with two or three (was it four?) bicycle rickshaw drivers for portage to the Hotel Opera, the finest hotel in Mahendranagar (about $15 per room - after haggling - of which we need two). Soon the rickshaw I'm riding in is overtaken by one of the boy's, and I am tagged 'it.' The drivers quickly get the gist of the game, and help out with the chase. Gradually we fall back into a normal pace. Then I am over taken by Miller pedaling his own rickshaw, the driver and luggage in back! Then comes Spencer, and the race is on! Eli and I hang back as weary passengers, Spencer and Miller far ahead. I'm having a great time chatting with my driver, and ask how much the other rickshaw drivers will pay for the ride they are getting. He laughs, and he points out one of his sons walking in the opposite direction. When I mention that my wife recently died, he offers to help me find a 'new wife' in Nepal. Nice of you to offer, I say, but I have a girlfriend back home. Can she prepare good daalbhaat, he asks (the national meal of Nepal)? No, but she's a great cook. Besides, I can make excellent daalbhaat!

We are now finally in Nepal - it's just the flat netherland know as the Terai, not the middle hills in which I and most Peace Corps volunteers lived and worked - but nevertheless, the place feels like Shangri-la. Lush vivid green rice paddy lined with lentil and potato and corn, and the occasional 'weed': pot plants taller than me. Blue skies, hills in the distance - and only rarely does a motorized vehicle pass by.

Just read a fascinating article in the New Yorker about an Indian named Madan Kataria who advocates and teaches 'laughter yoga.' It may seem to some that the Indians in this tale of woe on the open road had the last laugh, but as I remember us racing off in our bicycle rickshaws, I'm laughing still.

May Soro and Shiva be free from suffering. May we all be free from suffering.

Namaskaar!

Night bus from hell; part iii

(This picture was taken before we left the station, but we already look tired and uncomfortable.)

We'd never had dinner, and at some point late at night - maybe early in the morning? - we stop at a roadside 'restaurant.' Some fluorescent lights hang in an open air structure, moths flutter about, throwing strobe-like shadows. There are several picnic tables, where scattered late night diners nurse beers or small bevelled glass cups of chai (a milky sweet and spicy hot cup of tea). It's warm and muggy out, the air heavy with ennui.

Some minutes or hours before this stop, the bus driver stopped for no apparent reason. As mentioned he did that from time to time, so I don't at first think one way or the other about it. Then I see the direction his eyes are gazing: off to our left there is a tap stand - a faucet on a riser pipe about belly or chest high. There are some boys standing around wearing nothing but underpants - or maybe swimsuits, hard to tell in the light - and they are 'bathing', their olive skin glistening wet. A light shines, from high overhead, illuminating the scene. Moths flutter, cicadas chirp their almost preternatural helicopter sound, and the warmth and humidity rise in the stationary bus as we sit there, no breeze from the open windows. Shiva seems to stare intently at the bathing scene. Still, I don't think much about this, hardly noticing. Maybe he stopped (for a change) to light a cigarette - he'd usually do it while playing chicken. I was exhausted, my mind numbed by the night terrors, my now aching butt, and the late hour. So we've stopped, whatever. Time to relax a bit, don't have to exert my muscles to keep from sprawling akimbo across my boys as the bus careens from one near death moment to the next. And change my sitting posture from one rather raw gluteus cheek to the other, or reposition my posterior to the place in front of or behind a tiresome mound, about the size of a wallet, lodged under the seat.

After some moments/minutes/eons we pull ahead. And soon come to stop at the aforementioned restaurant. As you may recall from my first post, I don't have many rupees left, so I show the clerk what I've got and with limited Nepali/Hindi I mime and try to explain we'd like as many rotis - aka chapattis - as that would buy. They arrive after some minutes, and, well, these are not the best rotis I've ever had, but they aren't bad. Not bad at all in fact. In village days of yore, each night I'd have whole wheat ones, the flour ground that morning in the small mill by the stream - the turbine built of wood by hand - each one rolled and cooked in front of me as I sat cross-legged on the floor; they were tossed directly from the wood fire griddle onto my large stainless steel plate, next to a mound of savory and hot spicy greens - or in the height of the dry season, nothing but fresh ground garlic salt - my stomach aching with hunger at 9 or 10 p.m. Those, now those rotis, they were the best I'd ever had. The best naan I find nowadays in Indian restaurants are fine, delectable even, but don't come close to the culinary ecstasy that those intense hunger pang induced roti meals afforded. Well, these rotis - dripping with ghee (clarified butter) - they come as close as I can remember to the village gold standard. Not whole wheat, or as soft, but they are fresh and hot, and quite excellent. Our extreme adrenaline deprived hunger no doubt helps with the savor. We greedily dive right in. There are no napkins, so I wipe the ghee on my shirt and pants (still trying to get the stains out from that). They bring out some subjee (curried vegetable) which I hadn't ordered, and some daal (lentil) which I had. Some words, like most foods, are the same in Hindi as Nepali. They keep on with the food till we are stuffed (or perhaps in my boys' cases, bored).

Then comes time for a bathroom break. Bathrooms in the west have some things you probably won't find at roadside spots in Asia - or many other places for that matter. Clean running water for instance. Or toilet paper. Or how about a commode? Sorry, what you have is a small hole in the floor, about the diameter of a small roti, (isn't that fitting?) with two enamel foot pads either side on which to squat and do your business. Number one is not a problem - for guys anyway. Fortunately that is the only number that's called for this evening. In Nepal I'd never had any difficulty with such a setup - even the lack of toilet paper: you'd use a lota (pitcher) of water to pour bidet style to cleanse oneself with your left hand. This seemed far more hygienic than the smear that toilet paper... Okay, I'll stop here and consider that my audience may include some folks who were not in Peace Corps Nepal.

Walking to and from the WC, however, is a bit more of a concern. The monsoon rains (rarely heavy, but relatively frequent) have left the puddles and potholes full of murky water. Sitting on the bus so long with my legs in the shape of various pretzels in our 'special seats' makes them a bit more rubbery - or spastic - than usual, so along with my cane, I need a son's shoulder to lean on as I walk. Once in the WC, I am on my own. And the floor is wet. There is a roof, so much of this wetness is likely anthropogenic (climate change notwithstanding). As I shuffle and do a Mr. Bojangles 'old soft shoe' over to the hole in the floor, I remember the article I'd read about the supposed benefits of ring worm for sufferers of auto-immune disorders such as MS. And my sister's suggestion to go barefoot in just such a place as this if the opportunity should present itself. Well, I'm not barefoot, but I'm wearing my ultra-comfortable ten year old (and they look that old, or more) leather sandals which do not come close to sealing against the potentially ringworm infested waters here. I think I'd rather not get ringworm just now, so early in our trip, if ever, so I shuffle slower. Do I have ringworm now? Will my MS fade away? So far, no signs, positive or negative.

We climb back on the bus, careful to remove our shoes as we do. Shiva asks us - by pointing - to be mindful of this (it is rather déclasé to have your shoes on a seat - it is considered to be 'polluted' in both India and Nepal), and given our bathroom run and the monsoon mud we have been negotiating, our cultures are in complete accord on this point. We leave the shoes under the driver's seat, sit down, and are joined in our cramped surroundings by a young man, who speaks a good bit of English, and introduces himself as the son of the driver. 'Might I ride front with you? Please sahib?' A plaintive grin.

He and the driver smile, the boys and I consult and agree that it would be okay. 'Sure, join us, there is plenty of room,' I say spreading my arms to encompass our legs, other splayed body parts, and piles of luggage. And I say that with only a hint of irony in my voice. I'm too tired to try to make it more obvious.

Soro Gupta and I exchange handshakes and smiles, and Shiva smiles wide then turns on the engine, puts the bus in reverse. Soro is friendly enough, but I am not exactly in the chatty mood he seems to inhabit. He's got an olive green t-shirt and side burns. He's twenty five, and his guess of my age I think is somewhere around 75. I am vague on this point, as I would often ask folks to guess if they asked my age (which is quite common in both Nepal and India). The guesses would range from around fifty to a high of 95! I think my mostly gray hair really threw them off. Maybe the cane, as well. Also, guessing high is perhaps safer in a culture that still respects the elderly. (For the record, I am actually only 49 years old...). We exchange some bio bits, and I mention that I have a girlfriend back home. He is not to be one-upped at that, he has 'many girlfriends, dozens even!' I ask him whether they are each aware of this surfeit, and he replies that they most assuredly are not. Nudge nudge, wink wink. I ask how he would feel if he was one of 'dozens' of boyfriends of one of his girlfriends, and he says that's simply impossible.

The guy is by turns annoying, smarmy, friendly, and amicable. What he is able to do, however, is translate what his 'father' says, or what we say back. Which is something of a blessing, but primarily a curse. Turns out it's not really his dad, but he's the son of his dad's friend. One of the recurrent items on Shiva's agenda, is that we need to pay something for the carriage of our luggage - let's just take a number out of the hat - right, 2000 rs! It's starting to sound like a very auspicious number (for Indians). But then no, he's just kidding. Then after a moment he really does need the payment. Back and forth. I reply that I already paid for the carriage back at the bus park - but in fact I didn't actually see the money end up in the driver's hand. Which is a point I don't share, but is reason enough for me to have my doubts. The money may have lined the micro-bus driver's wallet. It's back and forth, like this, but with laughter and smiles. And the occasionally terrifying game of chicken to mix it up a bit. I agree to pay at the end of the bus ride, when (if) we reach our destination - they have worn me down. Except I have no rupees. They'd all been made into rotis, and eaten. Soro talks with Shiva and tells me that $20 would be enough. I do the math, it is far less painful than 2k rs. would be, so I agree, and eventually hand over the note that I fish out of the pouch I carry hanging around my neck, under my shirt. A very helpful accoutrement in what is starting to feel like a den of thieves. This turns out to be hustle number one - the smaller one. Or maybe number two, or three? Or trial set ups?

But hustles like this are small fry compared to Shiva's newest line of inquiry: turns out he - through translation by Soro - is very fond of Miller, and tells us this several times. And, he asks, could Miller sit or lie in a position - he pats the seat just next to him - that would allow Shiva to look at him as he drives? (If it hasn't dawned on my readers by now, you may recall that bus stoppage by the bathing boy tap stand; the incident is now front and center in my memory.) Miller says, repeatedly, 'no, thanks, I'm fine right here,' which is what I back him up on with no hesitation. If, on the other hand Miller would have agreed to change places as Shiva was suggesting, he would have remained fully within my field of vision, and with all the adrenaline rushing through whatever organs my adrenaline rushes through, I was in absolutely no danger of drifting off to sleep. (A scenario which might have allowed Shiva to 'fiddle about' or perform some heinous act on my darling son.) This line of questioning continues a few more times till I say, "listen Soro, my son said 'no,' and that's final. And, as a matter of fact, I would like you to just stop talking altogether. I'm sick and tired of this conversation." Full stop.

I've grown worried now about this insane THC crazed (possibly, or maybe it's amphetamines?) pedophile bus driver making verbal advances toward my youngest son. At one point he offers to buy him, or trade the bus for him! What a sorry sad joke. I check with Miller (who is reading during much of this, and is therefore oblivious, thankfully) and he said he would be okay being sold for $10 billion as long as he got half. (Which would go a long way to hire body guards and such to keep Shiva at arm's length.) So I make the counter offer, which effectively ends the issue of a purchase. After shutting up Soro, I confer with Eli, who has been alternately sleeping, reading, or just zoning out. In addition to the disastrous accident scenarios occasionally playing out in my imagination, now this: me attempting to hobble over and bludgeon with my cane a perp violating my child. My question to Eli is - after summarizing for him the conversations and my fears - 'if it becomes necessary, would you be willing to beat the living shit out of this guy? If I ask you to?' 'Sure dad,' comes his tired reply. His tone also conveys the message that dad, maybe you worry a little too much? However, it feels good to know that these strapping young men would have my back if push came to shove. Which it never did, thankfully.

Well, it's break time again. Take a deep breath, let it out slowly... I invite you back for more thrills and chills with Soro and Shiva in the (hopefully last installment) 'night bus from hell; part iv.' You may be relieved to learn that I'm starting to see glimmers of light at the end of this long dark tunnel...

Night bus from hell; part ii

Are we 'on the bus' or off?

Here we sit, up in our 'special seats,' the night quickly falling. We come to an unexpected traffic snarl due to some sort of parade going past, lots of saffron-clad women. We never learn what that was about, just that we have to turn this hulking mass of vehicle around and backtrack several miles.

As said, we are sitting right up in the front, our feet sometimes touching the large protruding windshield. If we look, all of India seems to be out on the road this night in their taxi, or motorcycle (perhaps with a sari-clad passenger sitting side saddle behind the driver), or bicycle, or tuk-tuk (with several passengers hanging onto windows and the back door, standing on the bumper), or a rickshaw slowly peddling along. Occasionally the bus screeches to a stop, just inches from an intransigent cow, or pedestrian, or vehicle. Easy to imagine we are riding the Jagannath, as devotees of Krishna throw themselves under our crushing path. The true wonder, however, is that in all our days and rides in Asia, with all of the close calls, we will witness not even a single fender bender. But we didn't have this hindsight yet, and our eyes and tummies lurch with each sudden stop.

Gradually it grows as dark as eternity, and the road becomes less crowded. And narrower. And often ridden with vast potholes impossible to steer around. To lighten the mood, our intrepid driver - I forget his name, I'll call him Shiva, or the 'destroyer' in Hindu mythology - he turns on some blaring Bollywood music. It's particularly loud as we are seated near the speakers up front. As the music plays, there is a plastic icon - Vishnu perhaps? - near the ceiling above the windshield, which emanates strobing colored lights to the sound of the music. A mallah, or garland of plastic red and black flowers is draped over and attached to the sides of the bus. Shiva particularly likes one or two of the songs and plays them over and over (hard to tell much difference - the screeching voices, tabla, sitar, and 'violins on meth' tend to produce a similar tonal effect, regardless of the lyrics; of course not knowing any Hindi doesn't help.) In addition, there is a skip or something in one of his favorites - or it mysteriously keeps restarting on its own. He asks me if I like the music - at least his body language seems to ask that - and I mime back 'it's fine [smile smile], whatever you prefer' - just keep your eyes on the road o demigod of destruction, please! Then I say - what am I thinking? - if you have any Beatles, or Dylan, maybe some Motown, that would be great. Having heard my request, he turns up the volume. We cover our ears.

So far, so good. What am I talking about, you may ask, 'bus from hell?' All this is child's play... Right you are - uncomfortable seats notwithstanding - but wait.

On the open road, Shiva drives erratically, slowing down or speeding up with no apparent reason, or sometimes even coming to a complete stop. Though vehicles generally drive on the left (India having been a British colony) our driver usually barrels down the middle of the road, only moving left when there is an on-coming vehicle. Or a median. Spencer said it was like playing chicken: we'd come upon a slightly slower bus or truck, Shiva would move fully to the right hand lane and floor it. This being a heavy Tata bus it didn't have much oomph, so we would begin the long process of passing. Ahead of us, we would see one, two, or four approaching lights. One or two was not especially worrying, but the four light combo meant that our mirror image was approaching us. And though my eyes rarely shut during this long night, these were some of the moments when they did. We would just barely pass the slower vehicle, and quickly swerve back in front of it, just in the nick of time - as our mirror image would do the same. Chicken, sure, but everybody wins, right?

There I sit, and cross myself, offer up a prayer to St. Christopher, patron saint of safe travel; then cross myself in the Hindu manner - sort of hold your right index and middle fingers in a sort of relaxed scissors position and brush against your forehead then chest and mumble, 'hare raam.' Then take a deep breath, notice the miracle of just being here, hurtling through space and time, on our way to Nepal, my sons surrounding me. Fleeting moments of ecstasy between images of face-plant-skid collision-accident-scene-forensic-investigations-black-and-white-and-red-all-over. One final prayer: s'cuse me, while I kiss the sky!

Stay tuned for the rest of the 'night bus from hell...'

The night bus from hell.

The night before the night before was rough enough, the main event having been a 14 hour plane ride from Trenton to Delhi. My seat was on the aisle next to a woman and her young daughter, and they asked me if I could trade seats with their husband/father who had the middle seat in the row ahead of us. I answered that given my neurological condition, it was important to be on the aisle - to get up and move around, use the lavatory, etc. - but if the woman in front was willing to move to the middle, then sure. Well, the young woman was not willing. Let me also point out that the rather large plane - seats ranged from a to j - was populated mostly by Indians, or, at least, Indian in appearance. Including the aforementioned parties.

So, I sat with that situation for some minutes, and it didn't feel so good. And what is the big deal anyway, a middle seat? There are kids starving in India for goodness sake... So, I said sure, I'll switch, and did so. Well, as if instant karma were at work, after I settled into my seat, the young unwilling woman's seat to my right did not function, and would not tilt back, no matter how hard we and the flight attendant pushed on the button and seat back. She was told it could not be fixed until a ground crew could get to it, there was nothing that could be done. No free drink or plastic wings lapel pin. Nada.

So, I felt a brief moment of self-righteous smugness, but that only lasted a few seconds. I soon discovered my compassion rise, and compel me to offer to the damsel in distress, that during the flight we could switch off. Which we did, she sitting upright to watch various Bollywood features (on the surprisingly well-stocked movie/tv show/game screen on the seat back in front of each passenger), while I would catch a few seconds of bobble-head airplane sleep. Then I would read or watch a movie while she dozed. And truth be known, there really wasn't much difference in the comfort of our seats, regardless of the slight tilt.

Touch down in Delhi, pass control, baggage, customs, and we are there. It is going on eight p.m., I don't speak much Hindi (some overlap with Nepali - like the difference between Dutch and German maybe), and we have no plans or reservations. Which is exactly the kind of travel I love. My teens don't share my passion for such 'dukha travel.' In fact, I would imagine few do. But getting there has always been at least half the fun for me, and it was good to see that hasn't changed with the slowing of my step, the graying of my hair.

We wander a bit, Eli prodding me 'where are we going dad?' or 'the taxis are outside, what are you doing?' I answer that he may prefer to take a few steps away and pretend that he is not related to me. He seems satisfied with this plan. Then an angel appears in front of me. She is middle-aged, has an American accent, and is waiting for her family. They live in Delhi, and work for some NGO or other. She tells me about a very reasonably priced hotel/hostel, and how to pre-pay for a taxi ride to it. Two taxis, that is. Oh, and the hotel is very close to the swank 'Vasant' which the taxi drivers will know. It is a very long trip - well, not that long, maybe 30 minutes - and the taxi drivers manage to find only the Vasant. It's late, we've had a rough time of our day/night/day, so what the heck. One night sets us back $350. I charge it, and vow to make up for it in the days to follow.

At this hotel, I discuss with the concierge how one might travel overland to Nepal. C.P. Sharma had a soft and friendly mannerism, wore a navy blue suit, and due to a childhood accident had a very shriveled right hand. We talked of life - our respective lives, that is - then got down to business. He would arrange a 'micro bus' (what we call minibus) to the bus park where we could find the bus to Nepal, and the ticket would cost a government set fee, maybe a few hundred Rupees each. The micro bus would cost 2000 rupees (about $60). Okay, now we had a plan: we would have a late check out at three, and catch the micro bus at four p.m.

Went back to our room. There was an English language channel showing The Sting. We watched perhaps for half an hour. We all love that movie, never tiring of the stellar portrayals, the so very clever plot, and the vindication of the 'good guys.' Packed up, went downstairs for some mango lassis, samosas, and a game of cribbage as we awaited our transport.

The concierge introduced us to the driver who wore a gray v-neck sweater, a detail I remember because it matched his hair. And in my memory, there are very few Indians with gray hair. Perhaps this is simply not the case, or maybe the population is so much more heavily weighted in the direction of youthful black hair. I wouldn't think it is due to a greater use of hair 'rinsing' products, what with the Asian reverence and respect for the elderly, etc. Anyway, he got us to the bus park, and walked us a good long distance - the boys lugging the bags, and me lugging myself - past rows and rows of rather worn and dented gray busses. I kept imagining rounding the corner to find the sparkling new shiny and tall luxury bus section. Didn't happen. I remember back in the day finding such a relatively comfortable, air-conditioned bus, that took us all the way to Kathmandu.

So it's about 6:00 p.m. when we get on the bus - dented, dingy, hot, and crowded. Pretty much all the seats are taken, but the driver says we can sit on the 'very comfortable' seats way up front next to him. Take the normal bus seat, shorten its back, and remove the area to put your feet on the floor, and you more or less have the picture. And then all of our luggage has to go on and around this area as well.

After buying the tickets - which to be fair to the aforementioned Mr. Sharma cost only about 250 Rupees each - our drivers (of the micro and macro busses) haggle over what it will cost to transport our luggage. Yes, the luggage we are more or less sharing our 'spacious' seats with. The number they arrive at is Rs. 2000. I check my wallet and pouch, could have sworn I had several five hundred notes just moments ago, but no, they are gone. So I ask Mr. Micro if he can make change for dollars, he answers yes, and I give him $60. The first time I see some green stuff vanish. At this point, I should have heard the strains of Scott Joplin's The Entertainer starting up, but no, it would be some time before such insight would dawn on me. (Which is the soundtrack of The Sting. And which is getting ahead of things.}

After sitting in our already only semi-adequate seats for 45 minutes - though I must say here that at any given time there was space for approximately 1.3 boys to lie out in some semblance of reclination - the driver climbs aboard. He has maybe a seven days' growth of beard, an easy - if mildly manic - smile, and a hacking cough, which he will self-medicate with perhaps a dozen or so cheroots over the course of the trip. Not a chain smoker, but close enough. As we head off, his driving style - which I will come to realize is not really all that different from any we will find in Asia - actually seems to have been inspired by another smoked inhalant, something in the cannaboid family. It is perhaps not common knowledge, but the word 'assassin' derives from the word hashish: apparently assassins in ancient Persia or somewhere would take large doses of the herbal extract - from a houkah perhaps - before going off to perform the deed, in an attempt to quell any fear. Which wouldn't work for me, if ever I become an assassin, because the herb often just makes me feel paranoid. (At least that is what experiments in college taught me.) No need for any capitally criminal plot participation. In any event, this tangent was merely conjecture on my part, and we find ourselves on the clogged streets of Delhi, putting toward our destination: a border town with Nepal's Mahendranagar.

And this post grows long: I need a break. Perhaps you do as well. Stay tuned for the next episode of 'night bus from hell'...