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April 07, 2005
Arrival in Kolkata
Sitting in the Boeing 777, watching the map on the seat-back monitor, the circled centre of Calcutta, now Indianified to Kolkata, approached as 0500 drew ever nearer. The plane slowly descended through a delicate dawn, skimming the early risers in the shacks and hutments around Dum Dum airport. The plane's windows, once clear, fogged over with humidity, or was it a misty-eyed return to a much loved homeland?
The arrival at Dum Dum airport was a first for me, a pleasant experience after the hustle and bustle of Delhi's roaring throng, or even the calmer citizens of Chennai. Small queues, a friendly immigration officer, a long wait for the baggage; my Moss Bros umbrella, checked in against global terror, even arrived unscathed. Pleasantly warm, a little too humid. I changed some money, then straight through customs and out into the arrivals hall, where the 'pre-paid bus' mentioned in the guidebook seemed to be no longer in service, but the pre-paid taxi was still available, and the best option this time. Out of the A/C isolation and into India; the rush of expectant relatives and eager mini-cab drivers, the comforting line of yellow cabs that would take me on a 200rupee, well-worth the expense, no-bargain journey to my destination of backpacker-central, otherwise known as Sudder Street.
The Ambassador taxi sets off on its 40 minute ride to town, and I wound down the window for the cool breeze, and a chance to use that most under-used sense of the Western world, the sense of smell. The smoke from early-morning cooking fires, the engine-smell of petrol mixed with kerosine, the gentle smell of cow-dung, and then, when I was least expecting it, the sudden scent of India as a workman pedalled by smoking a bidi, that most distinctive cigarette of the poor, handmade by the poor. Back in India after a break of 2 years, and it seems as if I have never been away. So much is forgotten but familiar, and tugs at my sleeve in a series of rememberings as the day progresses. Crows pick amongst the piles of rubbish, a man washes under a tap, and in the gutters, another family awakes to a day of uncertainty. Trucks rush by, children walk to school, trolleys full of vegetables are pulled to market by straining coolies. The never ending sights of India unfold before me.
For now, though, the mechanics of travelling click back into my mind, almost automatically. Out of the taxi; he's not looking for a hotel commission, but there's others who are, and I soon pick up a follower who trails me as I walk down Sudder Street, suggesting hotels that will benefit him the most in private commissions, and then when I finally choose one I stayed in on a previous trip, discretely tagging behind and hovering near reception. I quickly disassociate myself from him, but still have to bargain down the offered price, inspect the room, ask for a receipt and a hotel-card, and check the dates as my details are entered into the vast, dusty hotel ledger.
Four hours 30 minutes ahead of British Summer Time, 5 hours 30 minutes ahead of GMT. Its light of course, but not in my head. My watch says 06:45 but my body says sleep, so sleep it is. Room and windows locked, money-belt secure, eye shades and ear-plugs on, and a final memory forces its way through as my eyes close; the whoosh whoosh of the ceiling fan, and the way its cooling breezes gently wash over my body.
Later, refreshed but still dis-orientated, I venture out for a walk to the Maidan, that glorious open space in the centre of Kolkata that gives the otherwise crowded city its lungs back, for a short time. The pollution index is running at 28%, officially classed as 'Unhealthy', but here at least there's a chance to breathe, to enjoy a cup of strong, buffalo milk tea and watch the many games of cricket, hockey, and others that spring up, organised or un-organised, across the browning grass.
Posted by travellingtim at April 7, 2005 12:32 PM