The Road East to India

by Devika A. Rosamund

  I thought that the drivers were both English – but now I have discovered that the main driver (or boss!) is actually Icelandic. He seems to have a strong (but fairly nice) English accent and an English sense of humour. He is an ex-teacher and an obvious one at that! He talks to us passengers like school children (for fun, I suppose), and is the type of person that makes me feel annihilated in his presence, probably because he is such a very forceful, witty character. He has so much smug self-confidence that I don’t feel easy with him. He treats me like a privileged passenger because I am a woman alone, buys me coffee, and kisses me on the lips in front of the other passengers every time he passes. I suppose I should feel flattered, but such strong people frighten me. I don’t know what to reply to his quick, witty questions and comments. He sleeps on the back seat of the bus while the other driver is at the wheel during half the night.

  He invited me to sleep there with him. I ended up doing it! After trying to sleep cold and upright on my own seat for a few hours one night, I gave in to my weaker feelings and went to the back with Barry! Anybody who has ever slept upright in a cramped position on a coach seat for two nights will know why, and the nights were so cold. It was warm and comfortable lying full out on the back seat (with all my clothes on of course), first with Barry, and then the other driver when he came to lie down next to me at three o’clock in the morning! It was completely innocent and certainly I had two good nights’ sleep like that! I probably got myself a reputation with the other passengers. One of them asked me how long I had been working for the Sunshine Line. They thought I was working with the drivers! Now I’ve told everyone I am travelling alone, and people seem quite impressed. However, quite a lot of the men are travelling alone.

  Barry invited me to stay in his hotel with him instead of the hostel when the bus stopped here in Athens to pick up passengers. The other driver invited me to share his room free with him too! I decided to refuse both offers, but then I found that there were no beds left in the hostel and I had to sleep on a cold marble floor. I thought of the warm hotel room with regret, and last night, after having a beer (it seemed to go right to my head) I went back to Barry’s hotel room with him. He has a suite with a guest room. He might have been disappointed with me but I had not given him any illusions as to what I would do anyway. I am a virgin.

  Istanbul, Turkey

  Sunday, 14th March 1976

  To travel like this has been my dream for so long. It feels so wonderful.

  The bus has now stopped in Istanbul, in Turkey, and we are staying here four nights. I have come to know the people I am travelling with very well, and we have such good fun. There are about thirty people on the bus and I spend time walking about with different people every day.

  We are staying in a little old hostel called ‘Student Hostel’ which costs seven and a half Turkish lira a night – about twenty-two pence in English money. An old Turkish man runs the hostel and lives in a cosy little room with a warm stove around which we sit in the evenings, chat, and drink tea which he makes for us, although he speaks no English.

  I never thought Istanbul would be so cold and wet. I only have one woollen jumper with me and I wear it all the time. It must be filthy! A girl I met in the other hostel gave me an old cardigan which I also wear on top. It’s a loose old thing. But somehow playing the pauper makes the game more fun! Everyone here dresses as though all their clothes come from a jumble sale, but it would be impossible to carry many, or ‘good’ clothes while travelling. Smart clothes would be ruined.

  There is a cafe here called ‘The Pudding Shop’ which apparently is famous all over the world. All the young (freaky) foreign travellers collect there. The characters that spend time in this cafe are very interesting. I have done quite a bit of sightseeing here but many people sit in The Pudding Shop all day, where they actually can buy draught beer, quite something for Istanbul; however, I don’t drink it. Yesterday I saw one boy in the cafe wearing one laced boot and one shoe – that is not a very strange sight in this place in comparison with other sights! My shoes are so dirty (it is muddy here) that the shoe-shine boys that line the streets keep shouting over to me, and to the others. Their shoes are no better, but who cares about having shiny shoes here! At least none of my clothes are ripped like some people’s are, and I do keep my skin very clean. I use deep cleansing milk. The air is so filthy here.

  I feel free, as though I have at last spread my wings and am flying like a bird across the sky. I am restless to be flying further and further into the mysterious unknown, but somehow I feel protected.

  Monday, 15th March 1976

  How can I express the happiness I feel tonight both within and around me, a calm which fills my mind and soul? I am so thrilled that I have begun my journey to India. However, the cold rain and mud takes the pleasure out of sightseeing in Istanbul.

  Yesterday I walked with Mike to the Bosphorus River through the zoo and park. One side of the river, our side, is Europe and the other side is Asia. I found the zoo shocking. Even cats and dogs are kept in cages. There are many birds, wolves and one camel. The animals look unkempt and the cages are too small, but then isn’t any cage too small? In one cage there are about four bears – poor things.

  In the afternoon we went to a museum and also the Sultan’s Palace, a magnificent building, where we saw the Jewels of Turkey.

  Here I am again, sitting in the cosy little room surrounded by my bus-mates and the dear old man who owns the hostel. I’ll be quite sorry to leave here tomorrow morning.

  This afternoon I went for a Turkish Bath! We have only cold showers in our hostel and so I asked the Turk who helps our group and changes money for us, to recommend a place. It cost fifteen Turkish lira (forty-five pence), but it was to me worth much more than that. I spent three hours of sheer heaven there. The saunas of Western Europe have nothing on the real Turkish Baths. It is such an old building, just like old Roman Baths. The bathroom is a round marble temple with a domed roof. There are marble pillars all around and large marble bowls with hot and cold taps on the walls with a kind of step to sit on. The air is warm and steamy but not too hot.

  There were about five other women in there and I talked to an American girl who is also travelling alone. She ordered two teas for us. She has been teaching English in Tehran where it is possible to earn a lot of money apparently. Because the bath is not too hot like a sauna, it is possible to stay in the room for a much longer time, lying on the marble floor and ladling warm water with a bowl all over the body, throwing water everywhere. That appealed most to my childish mind!

  When I came out I had photos taken for my visas (in clothes of course!) and then I went into The Pudding Shop and met my Turkish friend in there – a student doctor who took me around the bazaar when I first arrived. The bazaar in Istanbul is supposed to be the largest undercover bazaar in the world. It is quite fascinating, and everything has to be bargained for.

  There are some wonderful carpets in the shops, also carved pipes and chess sets. There are many nut, sweet, and spice shops. I love the Turkish Delight sweets sold here.

  Some of the Turks are very poor. I have seen a few beggars. I feel sorry for the shoe-shine boys sitting in the mud at the side of the roads. Also I saw a ragged little girl selling bird seed on the steps of a large building. Some parts of Istanbul are quite depressing, especially in this cold and rainy weather. It is a very freaky city around where we are living, perhaps also because we are here, or maybe I should say – so many young travellers like us are here! There is a second-hand clothes shop where people buy and sell.

  Tehran, Iran

  Monday, 22nd March 1976

  My journey has changed completely now. I am now no longer on the Magic Bus! I need to recount my adventures from where I left off.

  In Istanbul, an American got on the bus and sat next to me. His name is Paul. We talked quite a lot for he is also interested in writing and in reading.
He suggested that we might travel together for a while.

  Eventually we decided to get off the bus and make the trip alone taking local transport. We thought it would be more interesting as well as more of a challenge. We are now in Tehran waiting to take the bus tomorrow morning to Karbol, a small town on the way to Meshad which is near the Iran/Afghan border. We cannot get a bus directly all the way at this time because there happens to be a religious festival taking place – the Muslim New Year festival, and Meshad is a holy city, so many Iranians are going there and all the buses and trains are full. Seats have to be booked a few days in advance. As we don’t want to wait so long, we are getting the first bus out to one of the towns along the way.

  Tehran is not a very pleasant city. It’s fairly modern, cleaner than Istanbul, but has little character. However, the women in their head dresses (like long cloaks) which cover them from head to foot, make it interesting. Very often they wear jeans beneath them. The material does not cover their face but as they walk along the street they hold it across their nose and mouth, especially if there are men around. Usually the cloth is made of cotton, is dark in colour but sometimes has small flowers printed on it.

  When we were on the bus, we passed through desert lands, very barren with a few small villages in remote areas. The people there are very cut off from the rest of the world, and very poor – they live in mud dwellings. We saw few women – but many men and boys. We stopped for half an hour in one little village. The whole town turned out, surrounding the bus (no women at all). Men and boys of all ages stood around cheering and shouting as we got on and off the bus and as we walked about the village they observed us with curiosity. Probably our arrival was the biggest event in their day.

  Some villages in Turkey appeared also to be very primitive, especially as we went further east. The women wear cotton pantaloons almost like pyjama pants with a tunic over the top of it, as well as the material wrapped around their heads and part of their faces.

  When we arrived in Tehran and decided to get off the bus, we asked for some of our fare money back, and I was able to sell my rucksack straight away. (I had been hoping to do this because, with its metal frame, it is uncomfortable.) Here I managed to get twenty US dollars for it, and probably I could have got more if I’d bargained correctly. The family were quite wealthy and offered us a room free for a couple of nights, which was helpful as the youth hostel was full.

  In the town I saw live chickens in metal rock-like cages in the street treated like lumps of meat as though they were dead. The cages were only big enough for their cramped bodies to lie in. Their heads stuck through the bars as the poor things stared out in fright and despair – it really showed in their eyes. They were carried by their legs unmercifully into the shops. I would not like to see how they are killed.

  That evening we were taken by the family to visit their friends who owned a chicken farm; two buildings containing thousands of chicks feeding and squeaking, set in a huge garden with fruit trees. We were told that when the chicks are about sixty days old, they are sold, alive, to market stalls where they are killed. I didn’t really want to go the farm at all, it made me sad. I didn’t tell them I was vegetarian. I wished I had afterwards. The chicks were so sweet. I don’t see why innocent creatures like these have to suffer through man’s greed; it seems so unnecessary when there are so many vegetables, cereals, fruits, beans and nuts to eat in this world, instead of meat.

  The next day we went on a bus to try to get visas but the Afghani Embassy was closed and yesterday we tried to hitch-hike out of the town. We made a pretty mess of the whole day really and spent far too much money on taxis going out to the road to hitch, and then to the bus station to enquire about buses. It seems difficult to hitch-hike here because many of the drivers demand money and ask for more than the bus fare. Also many Iranians were also asking for lifts because they have a holiday.

  The weather has been fairly erratic, sunny sometimes, and very cold at other times. One of our friends on the bus caught a cold and lost his voice completely as I have now done! Losing my voice makes me feel vulnerable. I feel like shying away from people because I can’t converse with them. I have spent more time reading the books I brought with me, The Hobbit and The Agony and the Ecstasy about the life of Michelangelo.

  Wednesday, 24th March 1976

  We are in Karbol, an Iranian town by the Caspian Sea, on the way to Meshad. We could not get a bus directly there from Tehran. Yesterday evening we were offered a lift from an Iranian (no, he was Turkish) but we are still waiting for him now. It seems that he has not shown up, so it looks as though we’ll have to stay here another night. Karbol is a sweet little town, although I think it is not so little for an Iranian town. The bus ride here was quite eventful. My voice was twice as bad, or should I say – non-existent, so I had to sit like a stuffed cabbage all the time. I could only whisper, and Paul couldn’t always hear me as there was so much chatter on the bus.

  We passed through the mountains and some beautiful gorges. The scenery reminded me of Switzerland. There was deep snow, and pretty little chalets dotted the countryside. This area did not seem nearly so poor or primitive as that on the other side of Tehran. The snow was so deep and the roads so icy that the bus had to travel at a very slow speed, and stopped about three times during the journey for half an hour. Each time a man had to get under the bus and fix something – then there was a flat tyre! No wonder the bus fares are cheap. The trip cost us 120 rials – less than £2.

  All the women on the bus were covered from head to foot and everyone took great interest in us. It was a pity that I could not speak to them, but only make a gruff noise in my throat! At the end of the trip, piles of nut shells, paper and orange peel covered the floor. In these buses everything is thrown on the floor!

  When we arrived here, we tried to find someone who could speak English. Of course, so many Iranians came up and chattered away in Parsi but we couldn’t understand. Eventually, by chance, we found someone – a boy of eighteen. He had learned English by himself at home by means of a grammar book. Very funny English he spoke. It must have been (in fact it was, for we saw it later) an old fashioned, out-dated book, full of polite phrases! He spoke very theatrically with much gesticulation and emphasis. The book even had mention of Queen Victoria, I noticed!

  This boy was very nice to us. He came to speak with us while we were sitting in a tiny cafe. He worked in his uncle’s photography shop next door. There are so many of these places – people must love photos! I don’t carry a camera myself.

  Someone must have told the boy that there were two English-speaking people next door. As always, we were the centre of attraction as we walked through the streets and wherever we went. The boy came into the cafe and introduced himself, bowing slightly and shaking hands. We asked him for some Iranian words as so few people speak English here.

  Later we were invited to his house for dinner. We had to walk down a muddy lane to his house where we met his family – mother, father, sisters, brothers, nieces, nephews – all sitting on cushions on the floor around a low table. They were all very fat and the women wore long, unshapely dresses that draped unglamorously from their bodies and old, unattractive looking cardigans.

  They led us into a second room, more luxurious looking, with a Persian carpet on the floor and a table laden with sweets and biscuits and oranges which they urged us to eat and eat. They brought tea also, but the dinner was taking so long to cook that after waiting for more than two hours we did not wait for the meal but left as we were both tired and feeling unwell. I felt guilty about leaving before the dinner was cooked but Paul insisted that he did not want to wait any longer.

  We booked ourselves into a little hotel for 125 rials a night – each. We are still here. There are no showers, only taps, but it is quite reasonable and clean in comparison to other places we’ve stayed. However, if we have to stay here again tonight this is rather a waste of mon
ey and time, as we could have caught the bus this morning. Food and accommodation is comparatively expensive here. Last night at about 9.30 pm, the Turk, Ali, whom we had spoken to before, came in and offered us a lift. We managed to converse with him through our few words of Parsi that we have learned, sign language and picture drawing.

  Paul and I had an argument last night – about sex of course! Since we came away from the bus we have shared a room but I realise this is probably a mistake. I like him but I am not in love with him. I don’t want to have a physical relationship with him.

  Thursday, 25th March 1976

  We waited yesterday for Ali all day. The car was not ready. He paid for our hotel again last night and also bought us tickets for the cinema in the evening.

  Just before we entered the cinema, we met the Iranian boy who had invited us to dinner. When we said we were going to the cinema, he immediately asked if he could come, telling us we were going to see the best Iranian film. Poor boy, he was mistaken about the film – he thought we were going to see a different one. I did too! It turned out to be a sex film as there were nude scenes in it, but it was very mild – I am sure it would never have been called a ‘sex’ film in Amsterdam. It was actually an old Italian film (about six years old) with Iranian sub-titles.

  I was probably the only woman in the whole cinema. When the lights went on at the end, all the men turned and looked at me. After the film the Iranian boy went off home quickly. Probably he was disillusioned with us.

  Ali has been very kind to us though I wish we had caught the bus. I hate all this waiting around. I want to get on with the journey!

  Chapter Three