My First Bus Ride
from: Sat. Jan. 7
So, I've been using my earplugs a lot here. I use them back home for meditation and sleep. Here, I use them to find peace. India seems to have a certain hum about it, a sound that never ends, completely. Even late at night you can still hear it if you listen closely, more subtle and a bit elusive, but it remains.
We are on a bus now to Pushkar, supposedly a tourist bus, with 19 seats. To start, the bus arrives an hour later than we were supposed to depart. The driver loads baggage to the roof and straps it down with bungee cords. (Thank God I only brought my backpack.) Once we are finally on the road, after just five minutes we come to a halt. The driver yells to the street in Hindi and local Indian people begin the get on. There are only three seats left open and six people get on. The remaining people stand in the isles. We stop several more times until the seats and isleways are cram-packed with travelers holding onto whatever is within their grasp. Two older women and a small girl, 4 or 5, are told to stand so a business-looking man can sit, seats go to the highest bidder. The young girl stands beside my seat holding onto my armrest. I smile at her and say hello but she turns her glance downward. Her guardian smiles and nods. It seems what the driver is doing is telling the people who are in the extra seats to pay more rupees to keep them. If they can't pay, others take their seats. What a scam! The only clue that this young child is a girl are her earrings and skirt, otherwise she looks like a little boy, with short hair and dirty face. I reach into my bag as she watches to find the chocolate biscuits (cookies) I bought earlier. I take one out and hand it to her. Her eyes light up as she looks up to her mother for approval. As she starts to put it into her mouth the woman tells her no, save it, I assume. She wraps it in a paper towel she holds with other treats and looks back at me. I smile , she doesn't. As they exit the bus at the next stop, she turns back and looks at me. I smile, wave and whisper bye bye, but still no smile. I must look very odd to her and being so small she probably can't understand who I am and why I am in here riding her bus.
The bus is roaring along now, through desert land, music blaring from broken speakers. The terrain is dry with few trees and mountains off in the distant. The sky is blue but there is always a glaze of something yellowish-gray separating earth and sky. Our next stop an hour or so later is at a roadside platform where food and drink are served. Passengers have somosas, chai and Lays potato chips.
The road begins to climb, up, up, up, through tiny villages. Once we reach the outskirts of Pushkar the bus comes to a stop. Off the bus we are bombarded with business cards and offers for rooms. "Very nice", we are told, "only 50r". We now know that 50r get's you the bare minimum; bed with bath outside. So we start to walk towards the main town area. We found in the book a hotel called the Whitehouse Guest Hotel. We ask for directions and are lead in circles. The language barrier causes such confusion when asking which way so we believe this is not intentional and take it in stride. The book describes this place as clean and quiet with a tenacious mother/son owner. Bingo! She leads us, relunctantly to two rooms that she says are 500 r. The book says 300. No bargaining with her though, so we leave. We check out several different places before finding the Milkman Guest House with a sweet young woman who tells us repeatedly, "as you wish", and only 200r. We leave our things and venture out to explore this quaint little laid-back town, a peaceful retreat after spending several days in Delhi.
Lynne
So, I've been using my earplugs a lot here. I use them back home for meditation and sleep. Here, I use them to find peace. India seems to have a certain hum about it, a sound that never ends, completely. Even late at night you can still hear it if you listen closely, more subtle and a bit elusive, but it remains.
We are on a bus now to Pushkar, supposedly a tourist bus, with 19 seats. To start, the bus arrives an hour later than we were supposed to depart. The driver loads baggage to the roof and straps it down with bungee cords. (Thank God I only brought my backpack.) Once we are finally on the road, after just five minutes we come to a halt. The driver yells to the street in Hindi and local Indian people begin the get on. There are only three seats left open and six people get on. The remaining people stand in the isles. We stop several more times until the seats and isleways are cram-packed with travelers holding onto whatever is within their grasp. Two older women and a small girl, 4 or 5, are told to stand so a business-looking man can sit, seats go to the highest bidder. The young girl stands beside my seat holding onto my armrest. I smile at her and say hello but she turns her glance downward. Her guardian smiles and nods. It seems what the driver is doing is telling the people who are in the extra seats to pay more rupees to keep them. If they can't pay, others take their seats. What a scam! The only clue that this young child is a girl are her earrings and skirt, otherwise she looks like a little boy, with short hair and dirty face. I reach into my bag as she watches to find the chocolate biscuits (cookies) I bought earlier. I take one out and hand it to her. Her eyes light up as she looks up to her mother for approval. As she starts to put it into her mouth the woman tells her no, save it, I assume. She wraps it in a paper towel she holds with other treats and looks back at me. I smile , she doesn't. As they exit the bus at the next stop, she turns back and looks at me. I smile, wave and whisper bye bye, but still no smile. I must look very odd to her and being so small she probably can't understand who I am and why I am in here riding her bus.
The bus is roaring along now, through desert land, music blaring from broken speakers. The terrain is dry with few trees and mountains off in the distant. The sky is blue but there is always a glaze of something yellowish-gray separating earth and sky. Our next stop an hour or so later is at a roadside platform where food and drink are served. Passengers have somosas, chai and Lays potato chips.
The road begins to climb, up, up, up, through tiny villages. Once we reach the outskirts of Pushkar the bus comes to a stop. Off the bus we are bombarded with business cards and offers for rooms. "Very nice", we are told, "only 50r". We now know that 50r get's you the bare minimum; bed with bath outside. So we start to walk towards the main town area. We found in the book a hotel called the Whitehouse Guest Hotel. We ask for directions and are lead in circles. The language barrier causes such confusion when asking which way so we believe this is not intentional and take it in stride. The book describes this place as clean and quiet with a tenacious mother/son owner. Bingo! She leads us, relunctantly to two rooms that she says are 500 r. The book says 300. No bargaining with her though, so we leave. We check out several different places before finding the Milkman Guest House with a sweet young woman who tells us repeatedly, "as you wish", and only 200r. We leave our things and venture out to explore this quaint little laid-back town, a peaceful retreat after spending several days in Delhi.
Lynne
posted by Lynne | 1:38 AM
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