On Death and Discomfort: Part I of a Comedy of Tragedies

Dearest Friends,

In the not-so-distant winters of my High School career, I traveled on a few occasions to frigid Chicago, purportedly to develop debating skills in Model United Nations. In reality, it was a prime opportunity to miss school and hang out with friends in a fancy hotel (sorry Mom). Unsurprisingly, we had bizarre adventures and got into trouble. It was superb.

However, the journey was always horrendous. For over three hours we were on a single school bus, some three to a seat, every spare space taken up with luggage and coats. We were crammed in, alternatively shivering and sweating as the temperature maddeningly, impossibly jumped from the two extremes. Knees were pressed up against seat backs, heads rattled against chilly window panes, and everywhere were numb extremities from the lack of space in which to adjust position. On top of this, everyone was required to be in formal wear.

So I sat there, miserable, unable to sleep, and cursed busses as a form of transportation.

I am proud to say that my hatred transcends cultural, linguistic, and geographical barriers. In this upcoming story, I will refrain from saying “literally” because I am opposed to it on principle, but I assure you that there is no exaggeration present in this story of misery, terror, and indignant irritation.

It began as an auspicious day. I was to see a bona fide Indian wedding, known globally for frivolity and dancing. My friend and coworker Pranjal told me that it was five hours away, that we would be taking a car at three in the morning and to meet at the office. Naturally, taking full advantage of my situation in a foreign country with people to meet and things to try, I played video games and skyped my friends from eleven pm until it was time to leave. I thought I could sleep in the car and be totally fine! Right? (Foreshadowing: I was woefully mistaken in this assumption).

Some of you may find it fascinating to note that, due to politics and history of which I have absolutely no idea, one is required to have all sorts of documents just to cross state lines in India. At 3:30 am, after twenty minutes of searching, Pranjal gave up the search for the vehicle registration, and we drove instead to the nearest bus stop.

Five of us set out that fateful morning. Three Indians and two clueless Americans, each with a bag of clothes for the wedding, me with two because obviously I needed to bring a few books.

After fifteen minutes of standing in the depressingly muggy New Delhi morning, the bus finally came. We got on, each taking a row of seats on the relatively empty bus. I tried to lay down, but there were a number of reasons why this was foolish. Firstly, I was too long and stuck out in the aisle, so I had to curl up. The seats were very narrow, and so I almost fell off several times. I had to reach out and grab the seat in front of me in order to lay down without constantly sliding forward onto the ground. Lastly, one must never overestimate the infrastructure of a developing country. Due to intermittent slamming of the brakes and constant bumping from the poor road quality, I frequently slammed my head into the plastic seats and metal wall. Despite this, my exhaustion managed to net me about thirty minutes of sleep over the next three hours.

At this time we stopped for a break, an entire public bus pulling over to a roadside food stand. My friends ordered me a parantha, an amazing greasy Indian food filled with something that tasted delicious. I began to cheer up. The weather was good with a not-too-hot sun and generous wind, I had eaten for the first time in ten hours, and I had even managed to sleep a bit. Most importantly, (and you’ll want to note this key detail, audience), according to my timeline, we were only two more hours away.

We got back on the bus and I opened my window, and spent a long time gazing out at the countryside. It was beautiful, really, with the early morning sun and incredibly green fields. The buildings were humble, but in a dignified way. Built of stone and nestled perfectly into their settings, they looked natural. Suffice it to say, I was in a very good mood.

I had begun reading by the time the bus stopped and we all got off, me scrambling to gather my belongings. I was somewhat confused when Pranjal lead us to another bus, but I followed without question. We got on, again to an almost empty bus, yet this time the very back seat was open. Straight, unbroken cushion. I didn’t want to be ‘that guy’, however, so I sat in the middle and pulled out my book. Imagine my glee when Pranjal told me to go to the back to try and sleep. I humbly complied with his wishes. Giddy with exhaustion and excited to sleep, I quickly claimed my bed. From the tone of this story’s beginning, the astute reader might guess that all did not go according to plan.

Laying down flat was heavenly. I will admit to this. I turned a few times to properly settle in to my precious resting place, finally ready to catch up on my sleep, when the bus stopped violently and I cracked my head on the seat in front of me. I sat up, looked forward, and watched nervously as people started to board. Not too many, though, so I was safe. Thus self-assured, I attempted napping once more. Again we stopped suddenly, but I had taken precautionary measures and my arm was braced against the seat. I tried to continue with my nap, but I heard a worrisome amount of shuffling feet. Blearily, I cracked an eye and saw a large number of people coming toward the back of the bus. Sighing, I sat up and leaned against the window, taking up two spaces instead of five. Several people sat down next to me and again we were underway.

I was severely concerned at this point. My friends were all at the front of the bus, and I was rapidly losing leg room. My bag was with them, along with my book. Before I could make a move to halt the dead nose-dive that my situation was taking, the bus stopped again, and I again smacked my head into the seat. More people boarded, and by the time they had settled and we had resumed progress, I was crammed against the window with seven people sitting in a space intended for five. It soon became sticky and hot. The person next to me leaned forward, stretching out his arms in front of me. The person two seats away from me stretched out his arms behind me, essentially trapping me in a truly uncomfortable position.

It was in this moment that I began to realize the immensity of the situation.

Fortunately, I was far too exhausted to fully experience every agonizing minute of this trip. Unfortunately, being exhausted was also horrible, seeing as there was absolutely no possibility of sleep. For four hours I sat there. In a way, it was like a carnival ride. The entire thing was cheap, grimy metal. I had a window seat, so I had a decent amount of wind in my face. Unfortunately, and also similar to a carnival ride, it smelled horrible; both the pungent odor of the humans inside and the overpowering scent of manure and cows from the countryside. Incidentally, this countryside had transformed from the idyllic Indian farm life into the most depressing poverty. Whether this was my state of mind or a reflection of actual transition, I cannot say. Most reminiscent of those metallic deathtraps, however, was the bone-shaking, headache-inducing death rattle. I am convinced of two things; that shock absorbers do not exist in India, and that their roads consist entirely of boulders.

Dust blew in my face, the sun was beating down, and I was most definitely contributing to the smell. I gave up on any lingering sentiments regarding personal space and just tried to relax into the tangle of limbs and metal. No book, no sleep, and now thinking about it, I’m not really sure what I thought about during the trip. Maybe I was too exhausted to form many coherent thoughts.

Finally we arrived. I stumbled off of the bus, too numb for relief. I followed Pranjal to what looked like another bus stop. I sat down. I didn’t say anything. Grant, the other American, sat next to me. The Indians bought us bottled water. I took a couple of sips. I was resigned to having to get on another bus, and just stared off into the distance. I noticed the town, and that it was very busy and very poor and very dusty.

A beggar came up to Grant and me. He was very odd, dancing, getting very close. I suppose, now, that he was doing some sort of performance. Grant was certainly in a very tight spot, but our Indian friends made him go away. Actual anger showed through, as though he had some sort of righteous fury at us for not giving him money. In the moment, however, the surrealism escaped me.

Finally I gathered my courage, preparing my hopes for utter dejection, and asked Pranjal what the plan was. Imagine, if you will, my utter joy when he told me that a car was coming to pick us up and take us to the house! I was ecstatic, and managed to show my immense enthusiasm by smiling slightly.

I suppose I tempted fate with that smile, for soon the car pulled up. And it was, indeed, a car. An unusually small car with a drivers seat, a passengers seat, and three seats in the back. Again, those astute readers will note that there were six of us and five seats. Foolishly I voice my concerns. “Is there another car coming? Are we taking two trips?”

So, three Indians and I piled in the back seat. Allow me, dear reader, to stress the fact that even two people in the back seat would have been uncomfortable; the vehicle was practically a smartcar. The air conditioning was torture, just enough to tease my face with hints of coolness while the rest of me was in direct contact with three other people.

I was told 15 minutes.

Indians have a bafflingly loose sense of time.

After half an hour of this, I yearned for the bus. Since we were traveling on back roads, the ride was even bumpier. They had speed bumps. Who in their right mind has speed bumps in the middle of nowhere. Clearly they were doing nothing except tormenting motorists, because absolutely no one was slowing down, instead choosing to plow straight through. We almost ran over little children and bicyclists, but I noticed this in a very passive way. “Oh look, another vehicular manslaughter charge narrowly avoided. Bravo.”

We arrived at some point, and I almost collapsed on the ground. Thankfully I did not, and as a result I avoided plunging my face into cow dung. The temperature had managed to trump my assumption that it was already hotter than hell, and rose again. It is about noon at this point.

I was told the wedding would begin at noon.

We walked to this area, with smallish buildings all around but most things outside. There was an open air parlor, with plastic seats that we sat down in. And that’s all that happened. I waited. I asked about the wedding, was told that it was delayed. Then I pulled out my book. The unfortunate thing about open air parlors, however, is that they allow for intense heat and maddening flies. There are very few things that frustrate me more than multiple flies, and a pack of five especially determined ones would take their turn landing on me in various places, and I could do nothing about it.

I was asked if I would like to take a bath, “freshen up.” I chose to decline, and instead just splashed water on my face, changed my clothes (I did not travel in my wedding attire), and reapplied some much-needed deodorant. Grant also chose to wash his face, using his white t-shirt as a towel. When he pulled it away, it had black smears on it from the dust that had blown in our faces constantly. We ate then, a simple standard Indian meal. I thought it a bit strange that we were not waiting for the wedding to eat. Afterwards, I was told to take some pictures, having been assigned the role of photographer for the trip.

Slowly I began to look around. “Wait a second,” I thought to myself (because I’m basically a 90s sitcom character). “There isn’t really a place to hold a wedding here.”

Terror slowly rising, I asked Pranjal. Sure enough, the wedding was to be held at another location, meaning we would have to brave the ‘roads’ (I use the term lightly) once more.

Thankfully, there were two cars at this point. I was to ride with two young Indian men whom I did not know and one Indian guy from work, named Obed. I was optimistic. Things were looking up. Though I had been misled once again, at least it would be a car and at least there would only be two people in the back seat. And, at least I was told it was only to be an hour ride. (Foreshadowing: I should not have been optimistic).

These two guys driving really thought that they were pretty cool. If the tone is not obvious, I did not think that they were very cool. It was a really crappy, small car, but the entire trunk was devoted to a makeshift speaker system, a sad attempt at being ‘gangsta’ (as the kids are saying these days). We got in and Obed plugged in his phone to the auxiliary cord and played some music, the only one singing along. It was a very poor quality speaker system. Though my window was permanently cracked open and the AC was verging on pitiful, I soon fell asleep, head awkwardly rolled back and mouth open. It was not a pretty sight, to be sure.

Half an hour later I began to stir, sensing that we were no longer moving. After a bit I cracked one eye, then jumped. A pack of children were right outside my car window, staring at me. They laughed at my surprise. I looked around in amazement: we were in the middle of nowhere. Then, for reasons yet unbeknownst to me, another person got in the car. I very nearly wept.

He was dressed nicely and smelled fine, but due to the size of the car, he was pressed against me, and the struggling air conditioner could no longer overcome the heat. For the next hour I tried in vain to sleep again. Unnervingly, the new guy kept looking at me. What’s more, when I caught him at it and stared him down, he wouldn’t look away, and I would have to break eye contact out of sheer discomfort. Somehow I really doubt he was staring because of my dashing good looks, mostly because at this point I had neither slept (properly) nor showered in 24 hours.

Eventually we stopped for petrol. I got out, immediately withering somewhat from the heat. I had clearly not given that air conditioner proper credit for its valiant efforts. I walked over to Pranjal, also out of the car. Blinking in the raging sun, I turned my focus towards not sweating so much. It was unsuccessful. Pranjal saw me struggling, and apologized for bringing me in such a manner. He then proceeded to spin me a very complicated story, which I will not repeat here. In short, the groom wanted the Americans to be there because we were a novelty. Pranjal knew it was a bad idea, that it was too far and not worth it, but no, Mr. Bigshot Groom had to have some white people to show off. I’m not bitter, don’t worry.

After this revelatory pit-stop, I am more attentive. No longer trying to sleep, I just gaze outside the window, in general just reflecting on how bad of a situation I was in, without purpose, as a self-centered toddler might do.

As if to punish me for my bad attitude, the two kool kids in the front seats started smoking. Of course, they asked me if I minded, and of course I said no, go ahead, because they were not really asking. However, they were polite enough to offer me a cigarette. I declined. Then I tried rolling down my window. It didn’t work. Shocker.

We soon pulled over again, and the young guys got out. Obed offered to get me a banana, and I accepted. I kid you not, I was so bored that I just wanted something to do, so I opted for ‘eating a banana’ as my choice of car ride activity.

He got me a whole bunch, and I was peeling my first one as slowly as possible when the driver and his friend returned. Said friend sported a brand new bottle of whisky. I stared at it. “No, surely not,” I thought to myself. “No one is that stupid, selfish, and irresponsible,” (again, my life is a sitcom).

These classy gentlemen had neither shot glasses nor tumblers. Fortunately, though, they did not just sip from the bottle. That way, I would not have known exactly how scared to be. No, they opted instead for the flimsy clear plastic cup. I estimate the volume at about two shots. Maybe more.

After they poured out the first drinks and downed them, I was concerned. I didn’t say anything though, because I figured we must be close, that this was just a little “pre-game” if you will. Thirty minutes and three drinks later, I was legitimately concerned we were going to die. My eyes were manically fixated on the driver, bugging out slightly when he poured himself another drink. This was a manual transmission car. The music was turned up at this point, and both men were singing boisterously in Hindi. Of course, being admirable hosts, they offered me some. I stiffly declined. After the sixth drink (at least 12 shots), I was thinking back to my favorite parts of my life. I cannot stress enough the fact that I am exaggerating nothing, and thought I would die there in the Indian countryside. My hand was gripping the handle above the window in a death clamp. I was viciously (mentally) cursing the driver. I was desperately hoping we wouldn’t hit anyone. And, by that point, I was also desperately wishing I had taken the whiskey when offered to me. This would have served the duel purpose of taking some away from the driver and perhaps affording me the miracle survival that seems to grace drunk drivers in car accidents.

At this point, a brief description of the driving conditions might be in order. It was a dirt road, with gigantic stones in it. There were speed bumps every mile. Moreover, there were hundreds of motorists, bicyclists, and pedestrians on this narrow, one and a half lane back road. Gigantic trucks and packs of school children provided ample obstacles for the inebriated driver. Unbelievably, we were the fastest ones on the road. We passed everyone. He honked constantly, and we swerved left and right, bounced painfully, and were generally just having a hellish time.

At this point, I ventured a look at my sober companions. The new guy looked like he could be in a doctor’s waiting room. I wondered if he would even be surprised if we crashed. Obed, trumping this impressive display of nonchalance, was sleeping. I actually turned around fully in my seat to more closely observe this. I was in shock. His head hit the window every ten seconds, and yet he sat there snoring quietly.

As for the rest of the trip, I suppose there is little to say. We grazed a bicyclist. The car ride ended up lasting another two hours, for a total of four. For the duration I sat paralyzed, with alternating fury and fear. Spoiler: I live.

Seeing as this has become a diatribe of over 3000 words, I will continue the story in my next post. It will detail the events of the wedding and my return journey. Don’t worry; for those of you thinking that I have wasted all of the danger in this entry, I promise at least two (if not more!) life-threatening situations in the next one.

A disclaimer: I truly am enjoying my time here. This trip was just an example of how I am adjusting to a less comfortable life. I would honestly do it again. I do not mean to sound overly negative, and hope that you find at least some degree of humor in my situation. I certainly was laughing when I told this story in person, and I would like you to be entertained rather than worried.

With laughs and good cheer,

Tristen