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'...