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!