Adventures in Public Transportation with Kendra in Nepal



Adventures in Public Transportation with Kendra in Nepal

One bus, eleven hours and 300 rupees:

Adventures in public transportation in Nepal

May 16, 2003

Tin saye rupiya Bhairahawa janne bus ko laagi (Three hundred rupees for a bus to Bhairahawa)

It's not like it was my first exposure to the wonders of public transportation in the Third World, where indeed the wonder is that anyone survives the rollercoasting, leap-frogging game of chicken played by every bus, truck, rickshaw and bike on the road. Indeed, during my trip to Cambodia last year I quickly learned the best way to travel such roads is the same way I watch horror films--always ready to cover my eyes when the car careening toward me at maximum speed takes my threshold for fear into the red. In this part of the world each bus trip requires that I entrust my life to a driver whose only qualification is the ability to reach the pedals, jerk the wheel, shift and lay on the horn, all at the same time. Western driving laws are irrelevent in a land where horns replace blinkers and the rules of the road are as foreign as the language in which the driver shouts profanities. Those kind of laws don't matter when the 11-hour journey costs the equivalent of four U.S. dollars.

Anyway, my most recent experience with public transportation in Asia was to the eastern terai of Nepal. Optimism set the tone for the beginning of the journey as I quickly learned that the east-west highway of Nepal is actually paved, unlike the roads I was traveling on in Cambodia. The east west highway, with only a single lane in each direction, is an abstract scene painted against the backdrop of the Nepal's terai, dashed with all the beautiful and repulsive, amazing and repugnant colors of Nepali life.

I boarded the rather posh bus, known as the airbus, with my ticket to Jhapa, a district in the far eastern region of Nepal. This bus costs twice as much as the run-down public buses of Nepal because, as the name "airbus" implies, the vehicle is equipped with an air conditioner, supposedly. Instead of an A/C however, apparently the "air" in airbus refers to the hot air blowing my hair into a tangled mess as it comes through the windows. So, the extra cost of the airbus might not actually be paying for the A/C, but the extra fare does guarantee that the maximum passenger capacity won't exceed the number of available seats, which means you never have to share your seat cushion with a 5-member Nepali family. But in case the three whining kids are seated directly behind you on the airbus, never fear! The persistant and annoying kids will soon be drowned out by the even more persistant and annoyingly high pitched voice of the Indian actress starring--and oh, yes, singing--in the latest Hindi "flim" (film) brought to you by your friends at Airbus Nepal. Somewhere in the middle of the third Hindi film, which by the way had the exact same plot and dance numbers as the first two, I was about ready to rip the T.V. right out of the console mounted above the driver's head. Luckily for the other travelers on the bus, who were mesmerized by the Hindi actresses as if they were the Sirens themselves, I opted for the non-violent choice and simply invited John Mayer to provide an alternate soundtrack for my trip out east. Just 11 hours and a daal bhaat break later, I finally arrived in Kakarvitta, just minutes away from the border of West Bengal.

Days later when I showed up for the return trip aboard the airbus, I was informed very matter-of-factly that the airbus would not be traveling today. I'd have to wait until tomorrow. A wise person once said that life has no guarantees. I think that wise person coined the phrase while traveling through Nepal. I had no way of knowing that morning when I woke at 4 to make the 5 o'clock bus that a strike would be declared in Kathmandu or that such a strike would cause the airbus to cancel the trip entirely, despite the fact that over half of the passengers, including me, weren't even going to Kathmandu. But I rolled with the punches, as I have learned to do over the past couple months living in Nepal, boarded a bus outside of the Airbus fleet and embraced down home, fully exposed, hard core Nepali culture. As I looked for a seat I tried to ignore the dirt and stains on the half-way gone upholstery and the spit dried all over the floor and instead focused on the red lights and "Happy New Year" banner spread across the dashboard, decorating this shrine to Sai Babba. I took a look around at the millions of Nepalis who would be accompanying me on this journey, all of them squished like sardines into every last little corner of that rickety, run down, yet run of the mill, Nepali bus. And I, squished among them.

After securing my window seat a young Nepali mother and her 4 year old daughter claimed the seat next to me, which means they were sitting practically on my lap. I'll admit that as she sat down I wondered if this little girl would be annoying enough to make me long for a Hindi "flim." Luckily for me, she was an amazingly sweet little girl. I closed my eyes, put John Mayer back at the helm and drifted off to a deep sleep only to be woken by an urgent tapping on my shoulder. When I opened my eyes, the young mom in the seat next to me was pointing emphatically to the window. My first thought was hey, I woke up at 4 to get the window seat lady. Selfishly I flung to my seat next to the window, despite the fact that I hoped John Mayer had the power to sing me into a deep 11 hour sleep. But there was something urgent in her unintelligible Nepali, something urgent in her gesticulations that pointed first to her stomach, then to her mouth and over and over again to the window. The hand motions that express the words "I'm going to puke my guts out" are amazingly similar no matter the mother tongue. I dove out of the way and realized seconds later just how much more than me this mother needed the window seat and just how happy I was to give it to her. In my broken Nepali I asked her if she was okay and offered her some of my trail mix, the latter of which probably wasn't the greatest of ideas.

For 11 hours I watched this mother love her daughter--comb her hair, peel her apple, kiss her forehead and lead her outside, hand in hand, on all 8 of the pit stops, each taken in the randomest of places along the side of the highway. Back in the bus I watched as the mom shifted her daughter from knee to knee, as the mother's legs were certainly growing tired from the constant weight of her 4 year old girl weighing down on her thin frame. So, I wasn't at all mad when the mom asked me to scoot over (as if there was anywhere to scoot) so that we could fit a tiny rear on the seat along side of the two already occupying the cushion. I also wasn't upset when the shift in space pinched my right arm between the arm rest an my backpack, leaving a bruise that still has not completely faded weeks later and although I would have preferred to have some leg room, I didn't mind (much) giving it up so that three more people could fit inside the bus. Of course, it would have been more pleasant if all of the other passengers supported the deoderant industry as I do, but at least the obnoxious sounds of the Hindi "flims" weren't competing with the obnoxious smells around me. Just as I took a deep breath (via my mouth instead of my nose) and hoped that the man who had taken the liberty of turning my arm rest into a foot rest for his flilthy bare foot would soon realize that he was digging his toes into my ribs, the young mom next to me passed me a piece of paper on which she had written her name and phone number, welcoming me to dinner at her home if I ever happened through her town.

With this kind gesture the Nepali bus experience was complete. I realized then that the purest way to experience Nepali culture is to walk down to the bus park with 300 rupees and see how far it can take you. In Nepal, eleven hours on a bus won't take you half as far as it could on the freeways of America, but here in Nepal the ground covered is never something that can be measured in miles.