This is the continuation of a story of a very ordinary
journey on an Indian bus, a journey without drama, without
crashes, rollovers or other theatricals, a journey that
millions of Indians make every day. Having escaped Pokara in
Nepal, the next job was to travel to Delhi.
The usual way is a bus from Pokara to Sunauli on the border,
a cycle rickshaw across the border, a bus from Sunauli to
Ghorakphur and then a train to Delhi. If all goes well, which
is improbable, it’s a thirty hour journey, as both Sunauli
and Ghorakphur are dusty, noisy, uninviting places to linger.
We had passed through Nepali Immigration quickly and
efficiently, and using the cycle rickshaw to carry our
backpacks, moved on to the Indian border post. Six officials
sat at a trestle table steadily eating their way through a
pile of peanuts on the table, scattering the shells hither
and thither, whilst we filled in the forms.
After a while, one man picked up my form and compared it with
my passport and a previous visa with a puzzled look, then
found the current visa and smiled happily. After a careful
and labourious check he passed it on to his superior who
checked again and then passed the form and passport over to
the ‘stamping man’. This accounted for three of the six
officials on duty, the other three obviously there to provide
backup if the work load was too heavy. This is known as
’employment creation’.
The rickshaw driver took us to the bus station, where all was
the normal confusion with dozens of buses parked in no sort
of order on a muddy plot of ground. But being Westerners
everyone was anxious to help and showed us the bus to
Ghorakphur, which was due to leave at seven o’clock. We were
lucky as it was now just five minutes before departure,
giving us time to get a quick cup of chai (tea) at a nearby
stall.
I had a seat behind the driver so was able to stretch my legs
a little and to put my pack on the floor beside the driver
and within my sight. I felt I was lucky to get this seat as
it is between the wheels, so one is not bounced up and down
so much with the hard suspension and rough roads, and also
being on the driver’s side is reckoned to be the safer side.
Promptly at seven, just as it was getting dark, the driver
started the engine, sounded the ordinary horn and the klaxon
horn a few times, revved the engine, slipped it in and out of
gear, sounded the horns a few more times, then turned the
ignition off. With a bucket of water and newspaper, he
cleaned the windscreen which was reassuring. Then back in the
drivers seat to start the engine, sound the horn a few more
times, slip gear into neutral and leave the bus with the
engine running. Then another man seated himself at the wheel
and he was the real driver, and the previous ‘driver’ was
only the conductor playing at being a driver.
Finally at seven twenty, after more engine revs and more
sounding of the horns, we moved off down the road. At last,
we optimistic fools, thought we were on our way. But after a
hundred metres, the bus stopped, the driver looked around and
seeing the the vehicle was only half full, reversed back a
hundred metres to our original position to await more
customers. This was an opportunity for the conductor to play
at driver some more.
We had been told that buses to Ghorakphur left every half
hour, but seven thirty passed. Then mysteriously, as though a
secret message had been passed around, at seven forty-five
many passengers crowded on the bus, the driver was in his
seat revving the engine and sounding the horns, and we were
unbelievably on our way. Indian buses are tough, built to
last and endure hard driving over rough roads.
The suspension is hard, there is no internal lining to the
metal roof and sides, no automatic transmission and little or
no power steering. The dirty windows may or may not slide
open, and sometimes a window is missing. This is an
air-conditioned bus. The seats are upholstered but this may
be torn, or the springs broken, or the seat loose on it’s
frame. In theory the backs are adjustable, but often this is
jammed. The seats are close together, so Westerners with
their long legs will have knees butting into the seat in
front. But fares are ridiculously cheap by Western standards.
The fare from Sunauli to Ghorakphur, seventy kilometres, two
hours, is forty rupees ($A1.60; $US 0.80; UK Pound 0.60)
Indians are a friendly, curious people and love to talk to
visitors from other countries.
My seat companion was typical, and once he knew that I was
from Australia, he wanted to talk cricket and especially the
recent Test Series which India had won. But his accent was
strong and pronunciation poor, making it difficult to
understand him. He would say a name which sounded something
like ‘Sanwan’, then repeat it, and I would say questioningly
‘Shane Warne’, and he would reply ‘No, Sanwan’. This
continued in a very frustrating way with several names, and
then thankfully the driver turned on the radio with Indian
music and drowned out any opportunity to talk. Radios on
buses are always on at full volume.
We continued on our way, picking up more passengers, one a
small girl with a chicken under one arm, a young man with two
sacks of rice and an old man with a goat. Soon people were
two abreast down the isle, a man sat on the gear box with the
floor gear stick between his legs and another man jammed
himself between the driver and the driver’s door. The driver
kept up a continual conversation with his friends crowded
around him, whilst watching for potential passengers in the
villages through which we passed. Sitting directly behind
him, I had almost as good a view of the road as he, and his
skill was amazing, although he still relied on the principle
of all bus drivers that might is right.
In the dark, he avoided other vehicles with one or no rear
lights, wandering cyclists, inane motor cyclists, vehicles
with headlights on full beam, ox-carts, bullocks, goats,
tractor trailers without lights, holy cows, rickshaws, and
worst of all, people, because Indians have absolutely no
traffic sense. We arrived at Ghorakphur ‘on time’ at ten
o’clock, and were able to buy tickets for sleeper berths on
the midnight train (which arrived at two o’clock in the
morning and in Delhi five hours late at seven o’clock the
next evening, but this is another story). And that’s just an
ordinary Indian bus journey.
If you would like to get in touch with David, who is
currently studying Italian in Perugia and has several other
stories we will be including in future editions of the
e-newsletter, please contact the
Beetle
