Traveler Notes 5 In India - Travel Notes

A young tourist bus driver had fun flirting with the girls from his company. A ticket cost about 800 rupees.

The tourist bus on which we were to ride was a private company, small and nimble, with beautiful and new seats. Developed a decent speed, had air conditioning, video in the cabin. Our boss for the household, a financial officer, was a wise and economical person. Soundly judging that the driver was too inexperienced, we transferred to an older bus. It was a semi-express train, large and bulky. No air conditioning, no video. But cheap is only 90 rupees.

The new bus took off and remember the name. We sat and waited until a large bus lounge was filled with people. An hour later we left. A couple of sighs sat in front, the wife scolded her husband for greed that he also first chose the first bus, and then decided to change to the old one. A third of the way she sawed him, he tried to answer something, but fell silent, unable to calm the waterfall of words, of his half.
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It was stuffy, the bus stopped every twenty kilometers, part of the pa.s.sengers went out, unloaded their bales, the other part came in with suitcases, took a long seat.

Having traveled about a hundred and twenty kilometers, the road turned out to be blocked for some time by the traffic police. We are waiting, pa.s.sing, slowing down, we see on the right side there is a new, tourist bus, with a dent so where we were supposed to sit. Broken gla.s.s. A little broken tractor, traces of blood are visible on the seat. As our bus driver said, this happens often. Tired peasants, farmers return after work from the field to the village. A dirt road crosses an asphalt road. Tractor drivers do not look around, immediately accelerate forward. In an accident, people immediately run away from the village and begin to arrange a showdown, block the road. To settle the matter, you have to call the police.

After this incident, the Sig shouted at his wife and she, having seen the accident, was silent for a while.

Dark, no street lighting. Road, two strip. In some places, the sidewalk is made of red broken bricks; in some places it slurps greasy dirt. Heavy Tata trucks are driving along a dark street. They s.n.a.t.c.hed out from the darkness figures of pedestrians who come with the lights on. From a distance, it seems that a small street sparkles with thousands of lights of fireflies.

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Small towns rush in, where only the market squares are blessed with bright light, popular music plays. There is no blink of light, the amba.s.sador car rushes on

Suddenly a sudden stop. Roadblock. Close border with troubled staff. Sandbags, concrete blocks. Armored personnel carrier. A machine gun barrel sticks out of the bags. There are about 20 police and military men in camouflage. Checking doc.u.ments and cars. We have been waiting for half an hour. Our turn comes. A foreigner? What is doing in a closed area? Have doc.u.ments and entry permits? They ask to get out of the car, check luggage. They look with a suspicious look. All the papers are in order, having seen a large help with the official seal from the security department, they spread in smiles, a heavy look dissolved in the night darkness. Ok, you can go, welcome!

We are going further. The same landscape, trees, roadside cafes, small towns. And again the checkpoint, the same procedure. And there are many such stops every twenty to thirty kilometers.

So we arrived, the campus doors open slowly, two sleepy faces of the guards look at us, show the driver, they say they need to go there.

Here's the canteen, on the trays are bananas and chapatis, a couple of bowls of boiled rice, which will soon be turned back and a whole tray of stewed some obscure vegetables. And a large one-piece steel jug of water from under the filter.

The year of interns.h.i.+p in India has begun.