India: A rollercoaster of first impressions

This country frightens me.

People have always said that India is shocking, but those first few hours shook me to my very core.

We arrived in Kolkata by air around 2am and made the 15km drive through the dark streets to our backpackers. The overpriced, pre-paid taxi took us past concrete buildings so decayed they were crumbling outward onto the road, patched up with any available material. Aluminium scraps, sheets of plastic, or old billboards and posters were all that kept the occupants safe from the elements.

The streets had been swept of rubbish which now sat in piles along the roadside, but still, the roads and pavements were thick with a dense slimy layer of blackness. Shutters hung from windows, dangling above awnings piled high with food scraps. I hoped these were the slums and not how most people in Kolkata lived.

We passed endless hospitals and clinics advertising test tube babies, surrogacy services, eye surgery, and dental work. And even more training institutions for medical clinics. Most were comparable in appearance to the institutions of Gotham City.

Where markets would be the next day, men unloaded painted trucks filled with human height sacks of something unrecognisable and smaller bags of onions and potatoes.

As we drove, the buildings got bigger and less decayed but no cleaner. I kept hoping for a sudden transformation to tourist standards, but it didn’t happen.

When we reached the area where we were to stay, our taxi driver drove up and down searching for the backpackers. Eventually, he pulled into a filthy alley blocked by huge iron gates. He climbed out of the car, his right foot sinking into an oily black puddle as he did. He spoke Bengali to two men who were shrouded by shadow behind the gates. Aggressive street dog barks filled the air. Unwelcome was the news that our hostel was down an unlit back alley behind them. We thanked the driver, heaved on our backpacks, and pushed through the unlocked gates.

Two emaciated dogs stood at the entrance to the second smaller alley, barking viciously and baring their teeth. One made a sudden lunge at Regan. He dropped his small bag lower to protect his ankles and slipped past. I clumsily stumbled along beside, using him as my human shield.

Rats scarpered up drain pipes and in behind bins as we made our way down the alley. I was gagging at the smell of festering food remains when we spotted a tiny entrance where a man slept. I suppose he was the night watch for the hostel, as he let us in through the retractable iron cage and into a tiny, achingly slow elevator to the third-floor hostel. A surly staffer (fair enough, it was 2.30am) checked us in and showed us into the closet where they had managed to stuff two, three high bunk beds.

By now it was 3am and I was overwhelmed. As I crawled into bed, trying not to wake our bunkmates, I couldn’t push down the sick, unstable feeling in my stomach. I fed my fears, imagining what it must be like during the day when the soiled streets swarmed with people.

No point in guessing. I would find out the next day.

The next day:

I love India!

What a magnificent place filled with affectionate people, vibrant colours, and so so much activity. Everywhere you look there is unexpected beauty and humanity in its most unpretentious form.

The buildings that had frightened me the night before became the characterful backdrop for the lively activities of the day.

Women hung vibrant lengths of gold embroidered saris in rich reds, warm yellows, and emerald greens from their windows to dry in the hot sun.

Gatherings of grubby little children giggled delightfully in dusty courtyards as they played with simple toys. Stopping to wave frantically and yell ‘hello’ as loud as their little voice would allow, as we passed by.

Tuk tuk drivers weaved daringly through gridlock traffic like they were practicing for the World Rally Championship and the annual Tetris Competition at the same time.

Ripped awnings became shelters for the extraordinary art of chai making. Groups of gossiping men stood around chatting feverishly as the chai makers poured frothy chai from great heights between jug and pot before splashing the delicious tea into beautiful handmade pottery cups.

Roadside stalls sold an alluring array of sweet syrupy treats that explode with caramelised goodness when you take a bite.

Shoes were being brought back to life by elderly men at little polishing stands that consist of little more than some newspaper, a box of tricks, and years of experience.

And the fruit stands, my goodness. Immaculately stacked pyramids of aromatic fresh fruits that conjure fantasies of pulling out the bottom fruit in the pyramid and watching it tumble.

Mens tense stares would turn into enormous grins when you smiled and everywhere you went people proudly welcomed you to their city.

One second you might smell an on street rubbish dump, the next some fresh papaya or orange made more fragrant by the heat, then animal excrement, and then freshly fried samosas and bubbling chai tea.

India has a way of making you feel simultaneously happy and horrified. It is smelly, chaotic, imposing, and everything else I hoped it would be.

On an unrelated note: Everything is better after tasting a true Indian street chai.