Stories from the Road 2002
an ongoing travelogue

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I have arrived in Calcutta, which is now known as Kolkata. It's rather warm here -- 44 degrees Celsius, about 112 degrees F. Stepping off the plane onto the tarmac's frying pan, I thought about rotis and pancakes, scrambled eggs and French toast. These could surely be made here, just clean a bit of the concrete and "wallah!" "Hot chai?" No thanks.

"Welcome to India Baba!"

The taxi ride from the airport to the downtown area where I was planning on staying took about 45 minutes. No AC in these old Ambassadors. In fact, they are still cast from the British molds of the mid 1950s. Absolutely, no acceleration but nearly bombproof -- and a good thing at that with the way people drive here. This car is ubiquitous in Calcutta. In fact, it is one of the things that when landing here contributes to me feeling like I have entered a time warp. I would like to say more about this but for now I will leave the description to resembling a confluence of old Havana, Cuba and Marrakech, Morocco.

As we made our way to town, I saw things that I hadn't seen since the last time I was here, four years ago. They were things that had not been in the accessible part of my memory, things that screamed out, "Calcutta!" and then whispered into my ear, "Welcome to India." These are the things I can only make stabs at trying to describe in my broken writing ability. As I watched the world around me change as we passed by, I looked out the windows, little televisions of life in this new place, everywhere I looked I saw things that startled my eyes, squeezed the blood in my brain. I kept thinking, "I wish I had a video camera." "I wish I could record exactly what my eyes are seeing right now, everywhere I look."

If this wish could be fulfilled, the footage would be in 8mm, a bit choppy, a bit scratched, showing at slightly faster speed. Colors would have been altered as they sometimes do with age. It would resemble the mind's interpretations of past events, of remembering the visual sensory information that makes a place unique, of experiencing experience. It was in this way that I wasn't remembering this place from this lifetime or another but it was how I was experiencing it presently, at this moment.

We pass side streets into neighborhoods that are filled with pedestrians moving within the backlit dust of warm light from the sun low on the horizon. Bicycles pulling carts, people making their trips, walking along side the main roads.

Lines of white clothes, drying, blowing in the wind from the rooftops of cement buildings. Below them, bamboo thatch houserooms on short stilts, their rooftops covered in black plastic tarp held down by rope and old bicycle tires. Large cargo trucks pass by, belching out plumes of diesel so thick and black that white cars that pass on the other side of it appear dark gray. And the idea for James Bond's "smokescreen" becomes obvious in its origin. They are old and paintless, covered in muck layered over from what seems to be years of work. They roll along on a heavy slant, the tires wobbling, wire holds together its lights, its bumpers. Men sit atop the driver's cabin, cross-legged, their hair whipping back in the open air.

Beautiful women wearing saris of vibrant hues wait along the road, wiping their brows with an edge of the material that wraps around their bodies, looking for a pause in the traffic to cross the road. There are very few stoplights around here. Many intersections rely on the hand gestures of a traffic cop, motioning to keep moving or to stop with a straight-arm and open palm. Their calmness in the middle of all of the honking cars and trucks, the running pedestrians, and the choking exhaust under this scorching sun seems very Buddhist. It is the meditation of moving vehicles. It's of being relatively still in the midst of all of the chaos. All one needs is an overly tight uniform, a stylized hat, and a whistle. A handlebar mustache is a plus.

Swerving across lanes, taxis and rickshaws. The theory of merging traffic in India is still a mystery to me and I think most western minds. I think I read some mathematicians at Harvard were currently studying it as a way to better understand the nature of solar flares and their effect on satellite communication systems.

A pedestrian attempts to cross the road, three quick steps then a pause, three more, wait, then a mad dash across the last lane to safety. All the while, only a foot or two separates the woman from passing cars. Another one, a man, leans forward in a Graucho Marx stride, his palm open to the approaching cars, the cars don't slow, he puts it into a walking-on-coals mode to his safety spot, the center divide where he can wipe his brow and rest for a few moments.

Businessmen wearing slacks, nice shoes, and a pressed white shirt zoom along on motorbikes. Old jeeps from the 1950s, painted red serve as tow trucks, turquoise colored pick-up trucks with a narrow front end ride on three wheels, city busses nearly burst at the seams with people, some hang off the sides. Cars race forward, passing and merging. Two lanes are used for three not including bicycles and rickshaws. Next time you are driving, look out your window. How much space is there between you and other cars? Now divide that distance by 5 and you can mentally be here in this car with me! I try not to watch where my driver is going, to anticipate what he might be planning to do. But I can't help it. It's frightening and at the same time utterly hypnotizing.

I think about various jobs that a person might have in life and what comes to mind is a clear medal contender for the stressful job award: Driving Lesson Instructor in India. I don't dwell on this thought too long for it begins to make me anxious. My taxi rounds a corner and the driver uses the person who has just stepped off the curb as a pole in a slalom course to my guesthouse. Pedestrians have no rights here. I have seen cars actually speed up towards people trying to cross the street.

Signs and advertisements everywhere one looks compete for the attention of humanity. In an odd but very comforting way, there are no signs for American style fast food, plastic and able to be backlit. In beautiful Hindi and Bengali script, the names of businesses, all hand painted fixed over shop entries. Billboards for cell phones, televisions, banks, insurance, and sparkling white new homes loom over next-to-freeway slums as viewers ride along to somewhere nicer.

Public water taps are surrounded by many, one bouncing with the pump bar while another holds a bucket or a bottle. Laundry is being slapped against the concrete, soap is being frothily massaged into the scalp and over the body. Gossip is being exchanged by adults, in between little dancing bodies, naked, glistening in water, they rub their eyes, ignoring the passing traffic.

Everywhere I look, universes are opening up in my mind. And I have been here less than an hour. I am not sure what is happening, maybe I won't ever "know." I am certainly not in control and "whoa!" -- neither is my driver!