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