Then there was the big stop for a snack at a street side hole in the wall. And when in Rome, I decide to partake in a traditional Indian male rite of passage: just take a piss on the side of the road. Don’t try to be subtle and hide behind a tree – just stand there and go.
The stop also involved impromptu repair. Some guys crawled under the bus with a large reservoir grease gun to do something with the drive train or axle and hopefully not the brakes.
Was the chicken bus worth it? Yes. I’ll admit that I was anxious when I noticed the bus would be making stops. I wasn’t sure if the luggage compartment was locked (it was) and if someone would walk off with my bags. I might like to do it again, but without luggage and with a local companion to assist in the adventure (preferably one that speaks Hindi, or better yet, English, also). It’s hard to play tourist without a guide.
I have officially concluded that Mom can never visit India. During her rides through the narrow streets of Boston or wide avenues of Manhattan, when we visited the east coast, she made an audible gasp when traveling under the speed limit and with ample clearance – both of which are still uncomfortable to her. Mom’s reaction to three motorcycles weaving in the 50cm gap between our taxi and the three wheeled scooter carrying eight passengers may produce a short scream. Add the rule-free traffic circles, roundabouts, and rotaries with the rare (but fun) figure-8 versions and we’re moving into the oxycontin & xanax cocktail epi-shots territory.
In Delhi, the taxi ride between the hotel and conference center lasted 15-30 minutes, depending on traffic. Of course, when the commute was bad, it was really bad: one day’s was over 90 minutes. We could have gotten out and bought from the street vendors.