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...