Kolkata...A Trial By Fire

Rajesh Tea Shop, Sudder Street
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       We were pretty tired when our old school yellow taxi from the 40's dropped us off in the middle of one of the poorest areas in Kolkata. We had been travelling for twenty-four hours and had spent a freezing and sleepless night in the Bangkok airport (saving money during a sixteen hour layover form Phenom Penh), lying on hard metal chairs. The heat and humidity was a welcome relief when we stepped of the plane in Kolkata and we were too excited about FINALLY being in India to care about having pulled an all-nighter.  We didn't have to wait long for the sights, sounds, and smells of this mysterious country to assault us. Our friend from New Zealand, Steve, had highly recommended travelling to India but had warned us that it would be "full on." We had an idea of what he meant, but after just one hour in a taxi, we realized that "full on" is the only way you can describe being in India. In fact, I don't think it's possible to be prepared for India - it's that intense. It makes a sardine packed Beijing bus look like a walk in the park. The first thing that we noticed was the constant honking of every vehicle on the congested roads. The horns here in India are at least three times louder than any other country and are used far more liberally than the brake pedal. Let's just say I have had a really bad headache since I stepped off the plane. Then there are the colorful buses and trucks that are hand painted with beautiful pictures, words (like, "Good Luck," "Danger," or "India is Great"), and designs. I have yet to see a truck or bus that wasn't aesthetically pleasing nor a bus that wasn't chock full of Indians yelling and shouting. Then, of course, there was the unabashed staring, which I thought I was used to by now, but found I was unprepared for the kind of stare that refuses to look away. These usually come from men, who, despite the presence of my husband, smile at me flirtatiously with amusement dancing in their brown eyes. In fact, later the next day I was walking alongside a railroad when all of a sudden a roar erupted from one of the cars of a passing train. I looked up to see a huge group of young Indian men leaning out of the car, smiling, yelling, and waving at me appreciatively. A bunch of flowers were thrown at me and I could only smile delightedly and put my hand to my heart. It's not every day that happens to a gal! My husband said it was as if it was World War Two and a train of soldiers on their way to the front had just gone by. I don't think he had the heart to be angry at them because I was clearly so pleased and maybe he was a little proud himself. I shall always remember it as "My World War II Nurse Moment."

New Market
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On that first day in India, the main thing that caught my attention was the beautiful saris and salwarkameezthat all the women wore. Every imaginable color and pattern was represented and put together uniquely and gorgeously. I have only seen a very small handful of Indian women dressed in Western clothing, and they were quite young. Most of the women wear the beautiful traditional clothing and they stand out as pure, clean, beautiful flowers amidst all the grime and confusion of the city. I still can't take my eyes off them and I had a wonderful time at the New Market choosing my own fabric for a salwarkameez(long tunic and pants) and being measured by a local tailor. When our taxi from the airport dropped us off in the middle of Sudder Street, I had a hard time getting my bearings. I was so hot and could barely breathe as the city is terribly polluted and the constant motion of cars throws fumes into your face at every moment. I nearly had my feet run over by the large wheels of the passing rickshaws, the thin brown men pulling them as their bare feet somehow had the will to put one foot in front of the other. Women, men, and children ran up to me with their hands out, mumbling requests in Bengali for food or money. My backpack felt as heavy as my heart with each step and  my hands gripped the straps of my purse, knowing it was being eyed by little wandering hands. An old, dirty, thin man attached himself to us, refusing to leave our sides and guiding us in circles as he gave us "directions" to the various guesthouses we were checking out. Even when my husband told him to bugger off, the old man refused to leave our sides. He still tries to get something from us every day, his white stubble on his face cleaner and brighter than the once white pants he wears. We finally found a guesthouse, but only after I was left alone for a moment with the man, who kissed my hand and asked if my husband would be jealous. He then proceeded to try to sell me some charras(hash) and promised he wouldn't tell anyone as it would be bad karma for him. We finally were able to get rid of the entrepreneur when we went up to our room, which was spacious and looked out at the surrounding buildings that were clustered up against our own. Delicious smells wafted to us from the kitchen windows of our neighbors and the wail of a baby next door pierced through the distant rumble of the city. We opened our shutters to the warm breeze and sunlight as the call to prayer of the nearby mosque began. All we wanted to do was sleep, but we realized that we didn't have any drinking water and so we had to venture out again.

It makes a sardine packed Beijing bus look like a walk in the park.

Zach and our guides
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Sudder Street is chaotic, but so is the rest of Kolkata. Tailor shops and convenience counters selling all manner of things are squeezed next to restaurants with the most delicious (and cheap!) food in the world. You can get most dishes for well under $1 and all manner of tasty breads and rice; we are in food lover's heaven. We passed stand after stand selling milk tea in small clay cups that are thrown on the ground after use and then collected at then end of the day to smash back together for re-use. Naked, dangerously thin children run around and beggars reach out their hands to passersby. The yellow taxis stream past men on bikes who have dead chickens tied to their handle bars. Men walk around chewing betel nuts in the sides of their mouth or smoking bidisas they yell and laugh with one another. Women clad in colorful saris look at the merchandise at the markets, comparing fabrics and vegetables as crowds push past them. Food stands offer curries and purior the delicious lemon sodas. These beverages rank among one of my favorites and are just as much fun to drink as it is to watch their preparation. A man grabs two glasses after quickly rinsing them in water. He puts a few chunks of ice into the glasses (this ice is precious and was carted over to him in big melting blocks on the back of someone's bicycle...he must cut the blocks with a serrated knife to make cubes before it melts in the intense heat). Then he adds some soda water from a fresh bottle. After this, he crushes fresh tiny lemons into the water with a press and puts sugar and more soda water...delicious!

Sudder Street is only a part of Kolkata, which is the cultural capital of the large state of Bengal. It is rightly associated with poverty, as the sight of some of the world's poorest is hard to ignore. Barefoot, in rags, dirty, sometimes hobbling on crutches or missing limbs...these people are the world's forgotten. But it's difficult to draw the line as a Westerner who is constantly approached. Today, I was sitting on a hard plank of wood on the street as I sipped sweet coffee in a glass outside of the stand labeled "Rajesh Tea Shop." Rajesh makes a good cup of Nescafejoe and he grills thick slices of white bread on a small "grill" fueled by pieces of coal. He has an assistant, a fourteen year old boy named Maltraesh who is already a little man. Today we found out that the boy's parents live in a far away province and that he came alone to Kolkata to work- he doesn't go to school. The sad fact is that he is one of the lucky ones and the constant smile on his face proves that he knows it. As we waited for our breakfast, many people approached us for money. Our "no" was answered with more begging and sometimes violent pestering and mocking. Today was the first day that I was cursed in Bengali by an old woman, who I'm sure was saying I would be born as a cockroach in my next life. It's particularly difficult with children because they don't understand that we refuse not because we don't have a few extra rupees, but because if we give them money we allow them to think that they have a future in begging. The older begging children are a scary sight- they have turned into pestering monsters and sometimes rove around in gangs comprised of mocking, pushy boys. I refuse to believe that this is the future of the children of Kolkata, but I know my refusal is the sign of my own naive and idealistic nature. I never knew that the poverty I saw in Cambodia would be wealth that these people could only dream of.

I saw all kinds of poverty throughout my second day in the city. After a visit to the wonderful planetarium (enjoyable not only as an awesome celestial show, but as a cool dark respite from the hot day), we took a walk to the Hoojli River, using our Lonely Planet map that proved to steer us in the wrong direction. We were walking for quite some time on the wrong side of the honking, dirty street. There was no end in sight and my head was throbbing. To say my spirits were a bit low would be a gross understatement as our budget is so tight that a taxi was out of the question despite the fact that we were lost. Two Indian boys were tailing us and Zach, my husband and travelling companion, decided to put them to good use and grant their obvious wish by asking them directions. Their faces lit up and they charged ahead, speaking in a combination of Bengali and English. A few metres down the road another young boy joined us, his good humor and constant smile made for welcome companions on what was clearly becoming a journey. I frowned, wondering if it was a good idea for two goras(whiteys) to allow three over-confident boys to drag us through what appeared to be the industrial section of Kolkata. We neared the first slum I have ever seen and I started talking to Zach the way I do around my youngest brother: "Hey, it looks like we might get r-o-b-b-e-d." Zach looks at me like a kid in a candy shop as he replied, "I know, but I think we have to just go with it. How else are we going to see the real Kolkata?" As a traveller I couldn't deny the validity of the statement- there weren't any white people around and my mantra has been "If you see white people, go the other way." I think the fact that we lit an incense stick for the Buddha not long ago was a good decision because no one in the slum bothered us. I tried not to stare at the appalling poverty around me. A small community of people seemed to have made their home under a freeway. Dirty, naked children were cradled by tired women in torn saris. Old women tended to beat-up kettles of chaiwhile men sat around eyeing us curiously. Once we had made it through the slum a man on the other side of the road eagerly showed us what he had caught out of the river. The catch looked like over-sized prawns with long crab-like appendages and I think the man wanted me to take a photo so he could charge a few rupees. Unfortunately for him, I don't think that's a photo to send home to Mom.

We continued on our way, despite the fact we had walked many miles and the hours were ticking by since I had eaten. We had run out of water and my migraine was begging me for caffeine. I dimly acknowledged that I felt a bit dizzy and I am ashamed to say that despite the poverty I had witnessed, I was extremely dismayed to find that my feet were black with dirt. If there is one thing I am, it is a clean freak (thanks Mom). Finally, we found the river we had been searching for! Now we were surrounded by young men with boats who were loafing or bathing in the river - they all looked at my breasts in my loose fitting shirt. I guess my small bumps were better than nothing, as they weren't chastely covered with a sari. I crossed my arms over my chest and scowled at them as best I could. The young boys refused to leave our sides even though we knew the way and they continued to jabber to one another over the trading cards they held. One of the boys explained that the cards represented "Indian heroes." Zach looked at the pictures of flamboyantly posed and over dressed Indian men and he replied, "movie stars?" The boys nodded enthusiastically...they were probably going to go practice the newest Bollywood routine when they had finished with their current adventure as tour guides.

"Hey boys, are you going to the river anyway? If not, I think we have it from here. Please, take ten rupees each- we really appreciate your help." Zach tried to hand the boys the equivalent of 25 cents each, which we had wrongly assumed they would have asked us for anyway. Instead, they each blushed and shook their heads vigorously, "No, no. It's OK, No!" We were shocked and thankful when, later on, we spotted an ice cream shop. Little boys can't say no to ice cream and so we treated them to a tasty cone each and then we continued walking in our little group down the side of the river, which had now become a sidewalk covered with poor families. Each group had a tarpaulin that they sat or slept on. Most of the men were brahmins that were either on a pilgrimage or homeless. Either way, the riverside was their home or hotel. Women made tandoori roti and dhal over makeshift stoves while some of them men got a shave from a "barber" who had nailed his mirror to a tree and set up shop (this is a common sight in the cities of Cambodia and India).

We returned home just as the minaret of the mosque called out that the day's fasting for Ramadan was over and everyone could eat (loose translation from Arabic....very loose). Anyway, since our first night we always sing about Allah wanting us to eat puri and samosas when the call goes out at sundown and so we join our Muslim brethren at one of the delicious local restaurants. We have to walk gingerly around Sudder Street, as hypodermic syringes and large rats run around while little hands grope and drug dealers wheedle. Two days in India and I already feel like I'm figuring things out - even if it has been a trial by fire.