In Transit

By Scott Cantin - “Turbulence is normal,” I said, feigning more assurance than I felt as the plane banked and shuddered across the sky between Dhaka and Calcutta.

Photograph by Nana Chen

Jen-Pei and I had met while travelling across Asia and had fallen into a relationship, a result of the joy of discovery, loneliness and the forced intimacy of budget travel. A few weeks into it, our differences emerged steadily to form cracks on the veneer of vacation romance.

We commenced our descent.

The first thing I thought on landing at what was then called Dum Dum Airport (see note) was how much more enjoyable it is to begin a journey by descending those great staircases that roll out to meet the plane. It’s only a few steps down to the tarmac and destination. No need to plod like a herd of international cattle through a tube bolted to the plane, into a modern, anonymous, climate-controlled arrival lounge. This airport speaks of its country and says, "Yes, you are in India. This could not be Frankfurt, or Chicago."

After clearing immigration and customs, we exchanged our money into Indian rupees. A quick count reaffirmed the notorious reputation of the airport moneychangers and I asked for the difference. The teller didn't even bother to feign remorse and mechanically handed over the missing rupees. Presumably, they operate by the law of averages.

Once I’d figured out the pay phones, I called Arunima, a friend from my last trip to Calcutta. She insisted we move to her beautiful apartment in the South end, where we were treated to incredible Bengali food and hospitality. Though she and her family made great efforts, Jen-pei couldn't seem to rise to the occasion. Privately, he confessed that India was “a lot dirtier than he expected,” and that Indians “disturbed him.” Publicly, he maintained a sort of forced, mostly silent agreeableness that I think even he began to see through after a few days.

Calcutta was in the middle of a horrible pressure system that seemed to trap all of the smog at ground level. Every evening, we blew our noses to clear out the black soot and washed away a fresh coating of unintentional eyeliner. To escape the heat, we went to the large park in the city center and took endless ferry rides along the Hooghly River. After a few days, it was clear the oppressive weather was intent on staying, so we decided to press on.

I was wary of the ugliness in Jen-pei’s reactions to India and mentioned separating, but he seemed genuinely scared of being alone. I felt a measure of responsibility for his presence since he’d abandoned his own plans for the beaches of Southern Thailand after I’d persuaded him to give Goa a chance.

Photograph by Nana Chen

I went to the train station and after fighting unbelievable crowds – an Indian train station crowd is a phenomenon unto itself as the term "mass of humanity" is given full and obvious expression – confirmed that there were no reserved seats heading west for the next five days. It was the week leading up the Purna Kumbh Mela, which takes place every twelve years in Allahabad. Twenty million people were expected to join the “largest gathering of people in history.” Despite the government adding trains to augment the regular service, securing reserved train tickets would not be possible.

Although I knew it would be uncomfortable, I bought two unreserved, second class seats to Varanasi on a train leaving later that evening. With a rush of hurried good-byes, a quick dinner and a fight with Jen-pei: "I'm getting a little tired of this attitude," "I'm getting a little tired of India," we were off.

The unreserved class of seating with its hard seats is universally avoided by everyone whose means permit a step up or two in accommodations. Here, people clamour for seats and shove body parts, baggage, children and animals into bizarre, unlikely contortions to lay claim to any available surface area for support. Plagued by a belief in being polite and waiting my turn, I missed out entirely. So, a very bedraggled and by this time, utterly silent Jen-pei and I settled in for the sixteen-hour trip with only our backpacks as comfort.

We squatted in the aisle and even though there weren’t any stops for the first two hours, an endless stream of people continuously climbed over us. Then, a large man with an even larger mustache loomed over us and boomed in Bengali-accented English: “These people are guests in our country and we must show them better hospitality than this.” The people and livestock sat unmoved. He then tore into the people directly beside us with what sounded like an extraordinarily violent series of threats. This resulted in much squashing and a pair of postage stamp-sized seats for us. I began with effusive apologies and protests of not wanting preferential treatment, but he silenced me with a wave of his hand. Meanwhile Jen-pei, accustomed to life in over-crowded countries, scrambled for the larger of the two spots. [Continue...]