Uncertainty in Kolkata - A New Day in India

A scene from the roof deck of Afreen International Hotel along Marquis Street. Notice the smattering of yellow Ambassador Taxis which is (a color scheme) unique in Kolkata.

From Karunamayee, Salt Lake City area where Dhaka-bound buses depart and terminate, we walked towards a Pre-paid Taxi Booth in the dimly lit bus garage and paid around 100 rupees to get to Marquis Street, in the fringes of Sudder Street, the backpacker’s ghetto. Junaid, a Kashmiri doctor I met in Dhaka, has obviously done this a hundred times. There was no reluctance in his resolve, and I was just glad to tag along. I was still shaken from my horrific border experience.

We stopped right in front of Aafren International Hotel (10 Park and Marquis Street, Kolkata; aafreen@cal2.vsnl.net). This wasn’t even mentioned in my LP, but it deserves to be. We paid 800 rupees ($17.80 or PhP775.80) – a single double-bed, AC, bathroom, cable TV. If we split the bill, 400 rupees is painless. Since I only had 300 rupees with me, I excused myself and looked for a money changer. Junaid had paid, but I was going to hand him my share. I handed my passport at the counter (they photocopy this) and logged myself at their government-regulated logbook. This procedure is standard practice all throughout India. A rather intrusive list of details have to be filled up: passport details, profession, visa number, date and place of entry into the country, coming from and going to (destination), etc. Every detail has to be accomplished.

Our room was at the 3^rd floor. I was a bit uncomfortable sharing a bed with Junaid, but so was he, I reckon. Later that night, we slept with a pillow securely tucked at the center of the bed. But before bedtime, we decided to checkout our nearby surroundings.

Afreen Hotel, Marquis and Park Streets. This photo only courtesy of TripAdvisor's tiggeritto.

Our room at Aafreen Hotel (above) and the view of the roof deck (below).

Kolkata - then "Calcutta" - was the capital of the British Raj until 1911, and the country’s 3rd biggest city after Mumbai (22 million) and the capital of Delhi (19 million). Greater Kolkata is home to 15 million people. It was where Nobel Peace awardee, Rabindranath Tagore, thrived as an artist and a poet. It’s also home to Mother Teresa’s Sisters of Mercy. And for all intents and purposes, Kolkata is India’s cultural capital.

HUMAN-POWERED RICKSHAW'S IMMORALITY OF PATRONAGE

But a walk through its congested streets wasn't as threatening as I thought it would be. Yellow Ambassador taxis would occasionally stop for us. Rickshaws pulled by barefoot men were a common sight. There is a moral issue constantly questioning the aforementioned practice, so I watched the whole scenario with intense curiosity. Was patronage of it immoral? Honestly, it didn’t feel like it was. When the bigger picture starts intellectualizing, it paints a different perspective than what occurs in reality. That poverty allows these men to slave through by pulling carts with people on them is no different from seeing farmers persevere under the harsh sun plowing their fields. Yet no one labels the farmers' sacrifices immoral. When trapeze artists risk their life and limb to entertain a paying circus audience, the public calls it performing arts. But how different is it really from these barefoot rickshaw workers?

The cloak of fatigue gradually crept in as Junaid and I made our way into the night crowd. It had been an unpleasant 15 hours from Dhaka. We walked side by side in silence as we observed our surroundings. How do I figure in a historical city of 5.2 million residents? As the Hooghly River snakes through this West Bengali land mass, it was starting to dawn on me that transient as I may be, I was making my baby steps in “Incredible India”. Sooner or later, I’d be navigating strange new places in India on my own. For now, I was walking with a friend. And I was grateful for the opportunity.

Roti for breakfast. Mine was fried egg, dahl (below) and roti. The combination wasn't commendable. LOL

The next morning was a new day. I was excited. It felt like my first day in India ever. Junaid promised he’d take me to the Victoria Memorial, though I never asked. There was also a bit of tension surfacing between moments of conversation. I had shown him my tentative itinerary for the whole trip. If you travel, you have to have an adjustable skeletal framework of where you want to go. My plan was to stay for one more night, then head for Delhi the next day. But Junaid had planned on taking the night train to Delhi. This seemed to bother him. I was a bit sad. And how does that make a day fraught with excitement and sadness in alternating intensity?

We had our breakfast in a food joint that served the usual – roti, dahl. I ordered roti just to conform, but I also ordered fried egg. In this congested little restaurant, everyone was enjoying a hearty breakfast. I picked pieces of my roti (see photo) while engulfing my eggs. Junaid was concerned. “Eat more,” he would encourage. But roti was not an acquired taste for me, the way other people consider steamed rice tasteless.

Kolkata, it would seem, was a small world. And Indians move in small circles. In its vastness of 1.3 billion population and 2.8 million square kilometer of land mass, people navigate almost within a common subset. How else would you explain fellow Kashmiris meeting each other in the far reaches of Kolkata. Junaid introduced me to his friend (photo below). Small world, indeed. Since it was close to noon, we’d need to check out from Afreen Hotel if we weren’t willing to pay another 800 rupees. Junaid’s friend suggested that we move into his room which was 50% cheaper and he didn’t need to check out until sometime in the evening. We moved our baggage.

Meeting Junaid's friend. He was Dhaka-bound.

Junaid took me to a store selling mobile loads and sim cards. He asked for my photo and thrusted an application form for me to fill up. He wanted me to get an Indian sim card so he could check on me once he’s gone. I didn’t have such plans until I heard his suggestion. But it wasn’t a bad idea, just in case I’d need help. Using my own Philippine-based sim for Indian use was expensive and SMS didn't work. I could make and receive calls, but no text messaging. In fact, whenever Junaid would text, he'd use his Bangladeshi sim card. I was to claim my new indian sim card after an hour. India, once again, follows stringent measures regarding purchase of sim cards.

Sometime in the afternoon, he finally asked me if I didn’t want to join him that night for his train to Delhi. It didn’t take an hour when I eventually made up my mind. The whole train system was new to me, and stories about it intimidated me. We went to a travel agency and bought our tatkal tickets. We were, understandably, wait listed. Train seats in this vast rail ways required reservation days ahead of a planned trip. We would know for sure if we got sleeper seats at 6PM.

Buying our Delhi-bound sleeper train seats.

Domino's delectable pizza!

We visited Victoria Memorial later in the day, which I will post separately. While the Indian sun gradually set over the horizon, I told Junaid it was my turn to treat him for dinner before we leave this city. Truth to tell, I wanted a hand on deciding for our meal. I was desperately looking for food that agreed with my constitution. Domino’s Pizza – a huge circular plate of Hawaiian, spruced with a lot of pineapple, anchovies, etc. Next door was a small cinema hosting Kolkata Film Festival. I was tempted, but I’ve already agreed to join Junaid en route to Delhi. Junaid actually looked smug for having convinced me to leave Kolkata earlier than planned. Turned out he was a favored son from an influential political family. He usually gets what he wants. In this case, I didn’t mind. It was to my advantage. We were bound to say goodbye in Delhi anyway. For now, I felt safe. It felt good to bask in the confidence of others, for a change.

This train ride will be something to talk about. I know it.

This is the Eye in the Sky!

Mother Teresa

Sweet tooth in Kolkata

Before leaving Kolkata, I had suggested to Junaid that he should buy a pair of shoes. His slippers were in their early stage of disintegration. He agreed. This was our shoe store visit.

Hooghly River snaking its way through Central Kolkata.

Up next: Victoria Memorial!

Immorality in patronage of human-powered rickshaws?

Benapole-Haridaspur Border – Horror from Dhaka to Kolkata: A Travelogue

In this post, I'll retrace my protracted and treacherous border crossing from Dhaka (capital of Bangladesh) to Kolkata (West Bengal’s most popular city in India), an adventure that ushered me into the realm of antipathy and dread on my way to “Incredible India” some 2 ½ years ago. I've since returned three times to scour through some of the most fascinating, albeit mystical sights on earth.

BORDER BLUES

I face every entry into new places with a degree of trepidation, overland border crossings particularly. Fear is always in the equation, but I always manage to conquer it everytime I head into the unknown. I've understandably read enough about the Benapole-Haridaspur border, including its notoriety – the presence of corrupt border officials from either side of the border. But hey, these stories aren't too far removed from other crossings in Southeast Asia (Hanoi to Vientiane, Savannakhet to Thailand, Thailand to Cambodia, Phnom Penh to Saigon, and so on). I always come out unscathed. I reckon if my entry is legitimate - and my travel papers are in order, I’d be alright.

A STANDING-ROOM-ONLY GOODBYE

My day started as I was winding down my visit in Dhaka, the bustling capital of Bangladesh. I was happy to be leaving. I needed to get away from all the staring and the thousand questions from friendly strangers. The day before my bus departed, I visited my friend Karin (a Swiss surgical resident) in her guesthouse to rid myself of some taka (Bangladesh’s money) in exchange of her Indian rupees. I didn't need a lot - just some spare change for when I’d need to buy food or drink on my way to Kolkata. I could exchange my US dollars once I am there. 

Karin walked me at the foot of an overpass. We exchanged email addresses. While making our final goodbyes, albeit cheek to cheek, a good crowd had gathered around us - surrounding us! They were gazing as we intimately exchanged our good lucks. It was hilarious. Bangladeshis don’t have qualms showing their curiosity. Most societies that I know content themselves by stealing glances, but in this intense capital, Karin and I were a circus show, replete with a full circle of crowd gathering around us! I half expected a round of applause.

300 RUPEES

That said, I had 300 Indian rupees in my pocket. That’s a measly US $6.70, a speck from the declarable amount of $10,000 in US money or its equivalent in local currency. This rule is quite universal in most border crossings. Carrying an amount less than what I mentioned is never a felony. After all, you have to show any legitimate immigration counter that you have adequate funds to feed yourself while visiting their country. Some quarters even require that you show your money before entry.

Dhaka's Shyamoli Station: the check-in counter. You also deposit your baggage here.

DEPARTURE

Next day, I woke up at 3AM. It wasn't because I needed to, but sleep was shallow and in between, I had a nightmare set in a war zone. If it was the shape of things to come, I didn't realize until much later. My hotel arranged for a rickshaw to take me to the bus station for a measly 5 taka ($0.06 or PhP2.70). 

I got my one-way bus ticket worth 900 taka ($12 or PhP531.50). Had I flown, it would have set me back by $90 on Biman Airlines, the Bangladeshi flag carrier. Dhaka is a mere 90 kilometers from the Benapole-Haridaspur border, then you travel further west - 320 kilometers from the Haridaspur border onward to Kolkata. With a distance covering 410 kilometers, most people use the long-distance A/C bus services that run between Dhaka and Kolkata and vice versa, changing buses at the border. That is a few hours of transit between two countries. And not too much of a wait not dissimilar to a 287 kilometer train ride between Paris and Luxembourg.

My bus was the Shyamoli-BRTC Bus. Shyamoli is a well run private company while BRTC is government-run. This collaboration ushers into the provision of better service, I was told. At 6 AM, I was at the station. Estimated time of departure was at 7 AM. 

Not having had breakfast (no restaurant was open at 6), I was anxious. I proceeded to the waiting room. By 6:30 AM, I found a queue outside. Carried my backpack and queued to “check in”; deposited my bag at the storage closet then went through a door that lead to the other side of the building. The bus was there, gleaming in red, with white and yellow stripes. I was the first one inside. My seat was a couple of rows from the back.

IMMIGRATION FORMS

It didn't take long for the bus to fill up. We were handed a meal box that contained 2 pieces of roti (wheat-based flat bread), dahl (a thick curried stew of dried lentils, peas or beans that's a basic culinary item in the Indian subcontinent), a banana and a bottle of water. I was pleased sitting on a comfortable aisle seat, with good AC inside the fresh-smelling bus. This should be painless, I thought. 

Right across me was a tall young guy who kept stealing glances. I’d noticed him earlier from the queue because he was a head taller than most. Once on our way (the bus left at 7:30 AM), the bus conductor started distributing Immigration Forms that we had to fill up: one for our exit pass at Benapole (the Bangladeshi border) and another for the entry pass to Haridaspur (the Indian border). Benapole-Haridaspur is a popular border crossing, accommodating thousands of trans-country students, businessmen and some tourists. Aside from the Indian tourists (couldn't really tell the difference from the Bangladeshis), I was the lone Asian in the vehicle. No Caucasians were in sight either.

We were plying along Jessore Road when I decided to open my meal box. It was 10:15 AM. The short time I was sitting there had created an atmosphere of comfort. I carefully and slowly completed my immigration forms. Have you tried writing on a moving vehicle? I didn't want erasures because it might call unnecessary attention on me. Besides, I wasn't sure they'd give me another form without having to pay for it. Little did I realize that the guy beside me was paying close attention. He had great eyesight for he actually read through my profession and started chatting me up! 

His name was Junaid who then diligently ushered me into his India; the India outside travel books. He hails from Kashmir but had been studying Medicine in Chittagong (east of Bangladesh). He was visiting coming home. For a change, it was nice to have someone to talk to. What's interesting was how hospitable he was, curiously taking me in like the unexpected guest that came through the backdoor. I didn't want to bother him with too many questions lest I wear out my welcome. Moreover, I was acutely aware of the contentious possibilities of meeting strangers in a land so far away from home.

WORLD'S LARGEST BAY

Sometime that morning, we arrived at a port. I was told this was a tributary that drains directly to the Bay of Bengal. I was thrilled! Before this moment, the bay was nothing but an iconic body of water I only read in books or watch in documentary shows, much like the Mekong, the Thames or the Seine. 

The bus drove into a ferry and we floated westward, crossing this massive expanse of this seemingly placid waters. I have read countless articles about raging storms in this piece of tranquility. The Bay of Bengal is the largest bay in the world, forming the northeastern part of the Indian Ocean (see map below). It occupies an area of about 2 million square kilometers and is the drainage to some of the most influential bodies of water in the region: Brahmaputra, Padma, Jamuna, Cauvery, and even Myanmar's Ayeyarwady which I've gotten closely acquainted with in Bagan. This particular strip of the bay was narrow as it flowed south.

OFF THE FERRY

During this bay crossing, I was tempted to get off the bus. A few seconds later, Junaid stood up and invited me out of the bus. With little trepidation, I did. But scenarios were playing in my head: what if he pushed me off the ferry? Silly me. 

These days, I’d remind him of our serendipitous meeting while we laugh about it. The bay looked peaceful, but sadly, charmless and without character. There wasn't anything in this crossing that I could talk about. There were a few boats across the bay, and the thin strips of land (or isle) nearby were mostly flat and deserted. We bought bottles of water from a shop, but Junaid wouldn't accept my money. We went back to our seats 30 minutes later. At 2 PM, we reached Benapole – it had been 6 ½ hours from Dhaka. Ninety kilometers for 6 hours? Something’s amiss.

Bay of Bengal

STAMPING OUT AND IN

The succeeding events were a blur. We got off our bus upon reaching Benapole, and since it was a free-for-all immigration system, I  followed Junaid who dictated what I should do. Signs were in Bangla characters. When it was time to line-up at a counter that looked like a makeshift shop selling candies (first photo above), Junaid asked for my passport and immigration papers for my stamping out of the Bangladesh. Piece of cake. We got back to our bus and drove on until we reached what might as well be a proverbial war-zone! Heavy artillery, thick border walls, soldiers in full battle gear. I was transported back to my nightmare. This was Haridaspur!

LOST

I wasn't sure what to do. Junaid gave my passport back, and I was suddenly on my own. He was nowhere in sight. The procedures were again not written in English, nor were there helpful officials who would guide you through the process. This was clearly a place not meant for leisure tourism. I was lost. 

A few seconds thereafter, I caught the bus conductor who would point me to desks. Mostly, I was on my own. I followed the movement of the crowd. Sometime in this chaotic mess, the conductor told me, “Your friend in trouble!” Huh? Up to this day, I never knew what happened, and I didn't want to dwell on something close to traumatic. I found another counter that looked like an immigration counter. My passport was scrutinized, and this took forever. I was anxious.

WHERE CARRYING LOCAL MONEY WAS AN OFFENSE

At the next room, there was another counter we had to submit ourselves to. The uniformed officer, wearing a thick bush of mustache and speaking with a gruff unwelcoming voice, took a long look at me. I was ordered to open my backpack. They inspected every nook and cranny then asked, 

“You have any Indian money?” “Yes,” I replied. I had 300 Indian rupees – the one I exchanged from my friend. “But you’re not supposed to carry Indian money. It's illegal,” accused the dimwit who thought I was born yesterday. He wanted to confiscate my 300 rupees! He then asked me, “Where is your money bag?” My wallet? I’d be an idiot if I gave him my dollar! Was I to travel all over India penniless? I said, I don’t have enough money because I planned on withdrawing from an ATM in Kolkata! Had it been a different immigration counter, they’d have thrown me out because tourists are supposed to have “show money” – as proof that you can afford this trip! But this was different! He wanted me to hand him my wallet. I don't have plans of giving it to him. 

Then like magic, without batting an eyelash, all the intrusive inspection and inquisition suddenly halted! But not before I noticed my bus conductor whispering to the officer's ears.What was going on here?

GUN PLAY AT THE WAR ZONE

I was turned away. I hurriedly zipped my backpack, then went out of the building! My body was shaking. My bus had been waiting outside. Five feet away from my bus, three soldiers carrying AK47's shouted at me. More alarmingly, they pointed their guns at me - and I just froze. Here I was with my backpack, walking towards my bus! Once again, the bus conductor intervened. He was fast becoming my savior. I joined my bus-mates clearly shaken. I headed back to my seat, I saw Junaid on his!

One of the two-step Benapole immigration counters. The other one is seen below.

BRIBERY AND DISAPPEARANCE

Before resuming our trip, an armed guard went up our bus and individually checked us. It was unnerving. When he was about to leave, I noticed the guy seated in front of me secretly sneaking $100 bill on the soldier’s hand. With the money pocketed, we heaved a sigh of relief. But 10 minutes later, another soldier came in and ordered the 5 people seated behind me – as well as the guy who bribed the other soldier - to get off the bus. And off we went! 

This scenario happens in places like Iraq, Pakistan or Afghanistan, or so I thought! To this day, I still wonder what became of the men who were left behind. I was glad I looked Asian or I’d probably get picked to get off the bus by mere proximity to my bus mates. Who knew?

Everyone fell silent once we traveled onward. Junaid constantly played songs from the movie Yuvraj (a CD that I've since enjoyed). We exchanged email addresses, swapped stories, and a bottle of water spilled on Junaid's bag. Oopps! Honestly, I was still reeling from the border experience.

A FRIEND SHARES HER BORDER EXPERIENCE

Karin, my Swiss friend, wrote about her eventful adventure in Bangladesh: 

“On the way to Chittagong, my bus hit a cyclist who was fatally wounded. Then a few hours from the place, the bus broke down. What a pleasure!” I wasn't sure if she was being sarcastic. Karin had to eventually go back to India overland instead of taking the plane like we discussed. All of her credit cards were declined “because they were not issued in Bangladesh or India” thus she had limited finances. 

She wrote, and I quote: “Like you I didn't have this change of route permit...and it was such a hassle. I had to speak with about 4 important people. They all asked me really strange questions, like what my favorite food was in Bangladesh, what hobbies do I have, etc. Then there’s the questions about money. Finally I bribed them with different Swiss coins that one of them collected. Haha. What a joke!” 

My horror story was in Haridaspur. Hers was in Benapole! Now read this link below for a similar experience by an Ausie traveler:

http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/will/no_end_in_sight/1141239600/tpod.html

Corollary to that, here's a news report sometime 2003:
http://www.thewe.cc/weplanet/news/asia/bangladesh/illegal_travellers_due_to_harassment_of_custom_officials.htm

SAMOSA AND POSSIBILITIES

Now back to my journey to Kolkata: The bus made a stopover at 6 PM. Junaid lead me to a shop that sold food, nothing heavy. He called it “samosa”, a potato stuffed pastry common in the Indian subcontinent. I just followed and told him that I wasn't into spicy things – and basically, I was in trouble since I am really in the land of spice and chili! That wasn't a complaint. I somehow thought that there’d be food for people like me. Anything is possible in India, right? It’s a land of possibilities as much as any other societies.

Samosa with chutney

We finally reached Kolkata's bus depot in the dark of night - at 8 PM. What should have been an easy transit unravelled like a harrowing tale of heart-pounding suspense thriller on corruption and harassment! Why isn't the Indian government doing something about this?

SPENDING NOTHING

I claimed by baggage while Junaid made himself commander of the pack. I was just glad for the company while I was still a bit dazed from the intrusive border crossing. I didn't bother with my list-making, I got lazy because I knew I had someone who started taking in charge. Junaid felt I was his personal visitor when in reality, I just met him that day. We took a pre-paid taxi to Sudder Street where the huge concentration of backpackers’ accommodation conglomerates.

It was rare sharing a room with a stranger who didn't want to accept any amount of money nor share expenses for a cab or a room. What do I do with my precious 300 rupees? More importantly, what did I do to get me so lucky?

After a blood-curdling experience at the border from hell, I was being rewarded with having a generous friend.

This was Indian hospitality first-hand!

Horror, Harassment and Hospitality all in a day's journey!

This is the Eye in the Sky!

Our room in Afreen International Hotel along Marquis Street.

Kolkata at night

Kolkata's Howrah Bridge

Human-powered rickshaw, a popular sight in Kolkata.

Map of our journey from Dhaka to Kolkata, encircling the passage through this narrow part of the Bay of Bengal.