Blog

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

In September a few Globies `took over’ a youth hostel and
explored the delights of Dovedale for a weekend. With
beautiful scenery and a pub that also served food only five
minutes walk away it was a perfect location. In true English
fashion the weather was the usual sunny periods, scattered
torrential rain.

On Saturday, daunted by nothing, we went off in 3 groups, the
scramblers (very keen), ramblers (enthusiastic) and amblers
(laid back). No sooner had we (the ramblers) set off when the
heavens opened and we dashed for shelter and this is when it
all began. Whilst struggling into wet weather trousers a
mobile phone got dislodged and buried in the undergrowth. The
loss was discovered some time later during a food stop (and
shelter from another downpour). No worries. It was near the
start of our walk and we knew roughly were it would be if it
hadn’t been stolen. We’d look for it on our return.

The scenery is spectacular in this part of the world and we
went about the business of walking and chatting, so much so
that we took an unscheduled detour by turning left turn too
soon resulting in a very arduous climb up a slippery hill.
With no signs or stiles in view and a valley between us and
the direction we should be heading we decided on the safest
bet and went back down again. Our original 8 mile circular
walk was changed into a six miler because of the weather but
finished up as 8 miles due to unforeseeable circumstances!

When we got back to the hostel the phone hunt began. The
owner and a friend went off armed with another phone so they
could make the lost one ring. Clever eh! Close to the spot
they rang the missing phone only to get a shock as someone
answered it. ” Have you lost your mobile? It’s here at police
station”. They closed in 10 minutes but when we explained
that we were only in the area for the weekend they agreed to
wait for us to pick it up. We jumped in the car and shot off
to Bakewell, about 25 minutes away (if you put your foot
down).

Something good always comes out of something bad. Just round
the corner from the police station was a bakery selling
Bakewell puddings and it was still open!!! For anyone who
hasn’t tasted this culinary delight, a thick spongey almond
topping on a base, it is absolutely yummee, but only
available in this town. It is nothing like the heavily iced
Mr Kipling’s variety. We left the shop armed with bulging
bags and salivating mouths.

Time flies when you’re having fun and the weekend was over
too quickly. This is the first weekend away to be organized
by a Globetrotter and those who went are game for another
trip, possibly near Easter next year. So if your free come
and join us.

Oversees readers – This is a very scenic area to visit with
good hostels offering inexpensive accommodation. Its good
walking and cycling country with picturesque villages and
Manchester is not that far away for shopping sprees and a bit
of culture.

To get in touch with Gill, please contact the Beetle

Twelve countries will introduce Euro notes and coins on 1
January, 2002: Austria, Belgium, Finland, France, Germany,
Greece, Italy, Ireland, Luxembourg, the Netherlands, Portugal
and Spain.

The UK, Denmark and Sweden, who are also members of the
European Union, are not part of the Euro area and neither are
any countries outside the EU, for instance Turkey and
Switzerland. Euro notes will be identical for all countries
and usable in all EU countries.

Each EU member country will produce their own
coins, with one common side and one national side, but
they can be used in any of the Euro area countries. Cash
dispensers will dispense Euro notes and national notes and
coins can be used until 28th February 2002, except in the
Netherlands, Ireland and France.

Euro notes can be purchased from most banks and Bureaux de
Change from 1st January 2002. If you have existing foreign
currency for EU countries, unless you intend to visit these
countries very early in 2002, you should exchange them now.

Don’t wait too long as you will not be able to use old
currencies by March 2002 at the latest.

Source: http://www.fco.gov.uk/

Tibet is the land of spectacular mountains, majestic views,
yaks and where Harry Potter is a subversive. My first
experience of Tibet was coming into Gonkar airport over a
barren, rugged landscape. As you come down the aircraft steps
you feel the altitude, shortness of breath and a pumping
heart. Once through immigration you collect your bag and have
them x-rayed. This is where the fun starts, the stern woman
customs officer couldn’t have cared less about my Lonely
Planet and detailed maps, what caught her eye was my copy of
Harry Potter. She spent twenty minutes turning every page,
not that she could read it, before grudgingly handing it back
in a semi dog-eared state.

It takes around 3 hours from the airport to get to the
capital Lhasa. Two enormous gold yaks stand guard on the
first roundabout and on the left is the Potala Palace. The
city has been taken over in every way by the Chinese, only 5%
is still Tibetan. This 5% is centred around the Barkhor. The
Barkhor is a lane which surrounds the wonderful Jokhang
Temple. You can spend hours wandering(Clockwise) around the
market, which is mainly full of tourist kitsch, you can buy a
complete set of monk’s robes or an “Antique” in the
wonderfully named “Ancient Thing store”!

After doing the Kora or circuit, stroll into the Jokhang
which is usually packed with pilgrims, some of whom have
travelled hundreds of miles, for their once in a lifetime
visit. You will remember the Jokhang’s ethereal quality,
incense and prayer wheels long after your visit. Go up to the
roof for a fantastic view of the Jokhangs golden roof, look
across to the Potala and see the city spread out below. The
Potala Palace takes a good five hours to visit. The Potala is
a warren and is best visited with a guide and a torch.
Without the aid of a guide the hundreds of chapels would have
no meaning and without a torch you would miss the frescos
down the dark passages. The Norbulingka Palace, where the
Dalai Lama fled from, can be seen in an afternoon, you can
see where the Dalai Lama slept, lived and meditated, all just
as he left it, 1950’s furniture, old radiograms and even his
bath with the “Made In England” still visible.

Food in Lhasa is not for gourmets and vegetarians may starve.
The Dunya Restaurant, run by a Dutch couple during the summer
months is worth a visit, a mixture of Chinese and Western
dishes are offered in pleasant surroundings.

Lhasa is a fascinating city to visit, just make sure you get
there, before the Chinese take over the remaining 5%.

Kevin can be contacted on Kbrackley@yahoo.com

Next week, Japan by the Travelling Stoat!