If the flight to India was short, the bus ride to and from Dharamsala makes up for it.
I have few regrets, but not taking the train is one of them. Jodha and I arrived at the bus station at dusk, the night heightening our suspicions of the other travelers. In a cloud of confusion we boarded, clinging to our backpacks sitting protectively in our laps and waited for our 12 hour journey to begin. We made it about an hour out of Delhi before the bus broke down. It was midnight. Too scared to leave the bus like everyone else we sat there, half waiting, half sleeping, and half eaten alive from the malicious mosquitoes. Three hours later another bus, a plain old city bus, showed up and took us the rest of the way.
It did not take long before I realized that my intense fear of needing to use the bathroom was in fact a reality. I thought about a Ziplock bag for a few hours, but luckily someone else had the guts to ask the driver for their own sake. We got off, stumbled around in the dark, half fancied there would be some kind of restroom nearby, and finally concluded that the nearby tree would have to do. It did. And boy it was a world better than the real rest stop. Jodha tried to use it. She was in there about five seconds before she came hurtling out, wide eyed, with an expression of pure terror all over her face. I can't help but laugh just writing about it.
Somewhere down the line something happened with the tire. Some men got out to help. One was thoughtlessly left behind. I am not a gambler, but if I could bet money on a car race I would not hesitate putting in all my savings on our bus driver. We swerved in and out of traffic like there was no such thing as lanes, the driver laying on the horn like it was his last wish. It sounded like beginning trumpet players warming up for the first time. He stopped for nothing, not even the cows mindlessly lounging in the middle of the road, never having to worry about being made into hamburgers. The whole back row was throwing up, especially by the time we got to the mountain switch backs of the Himalayas.
We got there. Fifteen hours later. I enjoyed watching the gradual sunrise, noting the faces of the other passengers. Hours earlier I did not trust them, mere shadows and projections of my own fears, but now I recognized them as fellow travelers and normal people. The annoying, foul mouthed teenage girls were now our friends, helping us figure out the right area codes for calling Delhi. There was the boy who woke us up when the new bus came. A guy from London that finally warmed up to Jodha, and another friend who made sure that we got our refund. (Yes, refund, it was that bad, even for the natives).
No longer such strangers, they became people, and if there was anything good to take from that bus ride it was that lesson.
Virginia
I have few regrets, but not taking the train is one of them. Jodha and I arrived at the bus station at dusk, the night heightening our suspicions of the other travelers. In a cloud of confusion we boarded, clinging to our backpacks sitting protectively in our laps and waited for our 12 hour journey to begin. We made it about an hour out of Delhi before the bus broke down. It was midnight. Too scared to leave the bus like everyone else we sat there, half waiting, half sleeping, and half eaten alive from the malicious mosquitoes. Three hours later another bus, a plain old city bus, showed up and took us the rest of the way.
It did not take long before I realized that my intense fear of needing to use the bathroom was in fact a reality. I thought about a Ziplock bag for a few hours, but luckily someone else had the guts to ask the driver for their own sake. We got off, stumbled around in the dark, half fancied there would be some kind of restroom nearby, and finally concluded that the nearby tree would have to do. It did. And boy it was a world better than the real rest stop. Jodha tried to use it. She was in there about five seconds before she came hurtling out, wide eyed, with an expression of pure terror all over her face. I can't help but laugh just writing about it.
Somewhere down the line something happened with the tire. Some men got out to help. One was thoughtlessly left behind. I am not a gambler, but if I could bet money on a car race I would not hesitate putting in all my savings on our bus driver. We swerved in and out of traffic like there was no such thing as lanes, the driver laying on the horn like it was his last wish. It sounded like beginning trumpet players warming up for the first time. He stopped for nothing, not even the cows mindlessly lounging in the middle of the road, never having to worry about being made into hamburgers. The whole back row was throwing up, especially by the time we got to the mountain switch backs of the Himalayas.
We got there. Fifteen hours later. I enjoyed watching the gradual sunrise, noting the faces of the other passengers. Hours earlier I did not trust them, mere shadows and projections of my own fears, but now I recognized them as fellow travelers and normal people. The annoying, foul mouthed teenage girls were now our friends, helping us figure out the right area codes for calling Delhi. There was the boy who woke us up when the new bus came. A guy from London that finally warmed up to Jodha, and another friend who made sure that we got our refund. (Yes, refund, it was that bad, even for the natives).
No longer such strangers, they became people, and if there was anything good to take from that bus ride it was that lesson.
Virginia
Oh, man, on a city bus? Your worst bus ride may very well top mine. And that's saying something!
ReplyDeleteWell, my first bus ride to Dharamsala was with a goat in my lap, seated next to a belly dancing supplies salesman. Don't ask.
ReplyDeleteSounds like you are in the real India. Keep your stamina up. Lots of fun to come!
I love it! Wish I was there with you!
ReplyDelete