Desperately seeking dacoits - Part 2

“Come on Rat, you want to go to Bihar and so do I. I’m bored of temples and people searching for themselves. I’m really intrigued by the dacoit stories in the newspapers. I know you’re not adverse to a mission. Think of the pictures you could add to your collection”

The rest of the journey passed without incident, beyond the usual chaos of night-time station stops and screaming children. Our new friends, despite my initial fears turned out to be very hospitable. Their smiles were wide, and their hearts were open.

Ajay and Hippy openly admitted to being dacoits, seemingly without fear. In a strange way this gave us great comfort that they would do us no harm. They refused however to have their photos taken, which is a shame, because their moustaches alone were worth recording. They were very keen however, to show us their guns. Then how to strip them and how to clean them. All very important we reasoned if we were going to join a dacoit training camp.

Finally at Patna station, beneath the great banyan tree yesterday morning in the sprinkling of early morning sunshine, I stood gawping at what was, even by Indian standards, complete chaos.

Never mind the construction work on the new Hanuman temple, this place makes the main station in Dehli look like a model Swiss village. Like bees in a hive people appear to swarm over each other. Blue tarpaulin shelters cling to hand railings under which massed ranks of beggars and urchins plead for alms, as they desperately try to prevent limbs being severed by the constant flow of rickshaws pumping out their plumes of acrid black smoke.

There was only one thing for it. We moved our packs into the attack position, closed our eyes to the heat and the light and leapt into the melee. Putting your pack onto your front, and taking the crowd head on is the only way to get around in crowded stations. It has constantly proved an invaluable tool for getting off trains. Forget manners, that gets you nowhere. The railway station waits for no man and indiscriminate of age, gender or even disability it is very much every man for himself.

We headed for a taxi rank, to get a ride to Mokamma, a small town further down-stream on the banks of the Ganges. It seemed a little ironic to me that Mole deems it too dangerous to travel by train in Bihar, having just made friends with two self-proclaimed thugs on the train.

Hippy and Ajay explained that they are based near Mokamma. The police know but are either scared of confrontation, or are receiving a healthy baksheesh (bribe) for their generously blind eyes. Ajay has invited us to visit the base and they will join us in a couple of days.

Our journey hit a snag however, as we were unable to persuade a taxi driver to take us to Mokamma. More worryingly, none will offer up a reason as to why. So last night we decided to decamp to a local hotel, for the night and try our luck in the morning. The local bar proved a perfect haven, until, after too much Kingfisher Strong, our reconnaisance meeting became too exuberant for the upper echelons of local Patnari society. Given that on average there is one person kidnapped in Patna every hour we decided the best course of action was to head for the sanctity of our hotel and bed.

Despite the inevitably sore heads, Mole and I were up and out early this morning. We were starting to feel a bit glum about Patna, so we decided to have breakfast before doing anything else. We may have had to wait forty-five minutes for our Masala Dosa, but not only was it worth the wait, but this wonderful country, yet again, produced one of those priceless moments that reminds you not too take it all too seriously.

Having waited for thirty-five minutes for our food, with raging thirsts and thumping heads, our patience was beginning to wear a bit thin. Just then a cow nonchalantly wandered into the restaurant. Immediately the restaurant owner produced a huge plate of food. Thinking it was for us the saliva started to gather-a-pace, but instead of tucking into our long-awaited breakfast we stood aghast as the cow gulped down the lot.

At this point I lost my rag: "Excuse me, we've been waiting thirty-five minutes and the cow gets fed first. How does that work?!"

With a simple head wobble and calming hand gestures our host replied:

"I am sorry sir, but you have come to breakfast with us for first time, but the cow, he comes every day."

After breakfast Mole successfully found us a driver. I must hurry now to meet them. We have little time left to get to Mokamma before sun-down, and our driver Prakash refuses to be out on the road unless the sun is high in the sky. He says it is too dangerous because of the dacoits. I hope to be able to conclude this tale on our return to Patna.

Desperately seeking dacoits - Part 1

We are using an increasing number of Hindi words in the English language. Pukka, verandah and apparently the word chuddy has even made it into the list of Oxford's finest words. Many people are probably unaware though that the word 'Thug' also orginates from India - from the word 'Thugee'. Thugee's were disciples of the of the Mother Goddess Kali who would sacrifice travellers by strangulation.

The British Empire eliminated almost all, but that doesn't mean India's roads are safe, far from it. If you are looking for low-key trouble forget Kashmir - you're more likely to get caught up in some ropey scam than a battle for disputed territories - no, the place to make for is big bad Bihar!

I'd quite fancied the idea of Bihar for a while. Anywhere with Yadav Laloo as it's governing force is never going to be dull. Corruption, kidnappings, murder, and thats all before you've had your morning masala dosa. And then there's dacoits, the modern day Thugees. This lot don't murder under the shroud of devotion and religious calling. No smoke screen here. Just greedy, blood thirsty highwayman of the boldest kind.

Pick up any newspaper in India and you are unable to miss the stories of dacoity attacks on the roads and railway tracks of India's transportation arteries. India loves rogues, villains, and Robin Hood type figures - you need look no further than the mystique and soon to be legend of Veerappan for evidence. Even Bollywood is littered with men sporting outrageously large moustaches, wiggling their eyebrows in a mischievous manner.

Bihar is where it's at in dacoity terms. It is becoming rife in other parts of the country but the Bihari boys and girls make the others look like pre-pubescants playing cowboys and indians. It's not described as a lawless state for nothing.

And so it was that I was recouperating in Goa with some friends following my most recent Dehli experience. I knew my time on the beach was drawing to a close though. The conversation with wannabe hippies, couselling sessions with naive public school girls fresh from traumatic Ashram experiences, and the inevitable odd Dutch couple were beginning to become tiresome once more.

Devoid of ideas for places to go and something to break the staleness I made a beeline for the internet cafe. My nerves had been restored by a diet of Kings beer and tiresome travellers with tales of the coolest people they'd ever met, and then... bingo....

Sat there, sparkling away in my inbox was a message from a friend, Mole, who I'd met a year previously. Mole was in Varanasi, having returned from Nepal and was starting to get the hang of the travelling malarkey. The Maosists hadn't satiated his appetite for work-avoidance and he was looking for a new challenge. I also suspect he was avoiding Dehli. He'd always feared Dehli.

An affable character with an infectious smile, Mole is one of those people you meet on the road who has let the excitement and variety in India get the better of him. Inquisitive by nature he seems ill at ease when just hanging around the beach bars of Goa, with self-ordained hardened campaigners who clamour to tell anyone who will listen their tales of grand adventure. Even Mole would admit however that it can be a welcome break from the hassle of the streets from time to time.

He wanted to go and 'have a look round' Bihar. This seemed a flippant turn of phrase for a place Buddha predicted would descend into the age of the Kali Yug before anywhere else but I was intrigued.

Mole doesn’t go looking for danger in that way. He has a exuberant naivety instead, which blinkers the fact that he is actually heading for trouble.

He then went onto recall a conversation from the Titanic bar in Palolem a year previously. I didn't remember it, but he claimed we'd hatched a drunken plan to join a dacoity training camp. Now I don't remember the conversation and I'm sure it was full of hypothetical drunken bravado, but before I knew it I was wrestling my way off the Gorakpur Express at Varanasi station and into Mole's welcoming embrace.

Now before you start thinking we are either trouble seekers, mercenaries or just stupid idiots let me clear a few things up. We both fancied going somewhere a little less well trodden, and were anxious about going to Bihar alone. Neither of us said it but I assumed the idea of dacoity training camps was a figment of our inebriated and over-stimulated imaginations.

We spent a few days in Varanasi, planning our trip - which seemed to constititute buying train tickets to Patna then an illegal beer in the backstreets of the old town.

Two days later it was (and I'm sorry for splitting my infinitives here), time to boldy go! In retrospect it was more a case of 'naively go' but who's being picky.

Reading the newspaper as we waited for the train my mini-digital camera was stolen. 'Great fucking start' - I yelled. 'Thats it I'm going to get tooled up for this one'!

'You're what?' replied Mole
I ignored him though and made a beeline for Varanasi market to get myself tooled up.

I stormed off into the hazy, dark hot night, leaving Mole with my bag. The look on his face when I returned with a naff chain and a cheap kitchen knife was pure unconcealed mirth.

'And what do you propose to do with those - cook dinner?' quipped Mole. 'What good is a chain that would fail to lock down a bike in Coventry, and a prop from Ready Steady Cook, against big moustached men armed with AK-47's'. Although defending oneself against a troupe of blood-thirsty rogues with a kitchen knife and a flimsy chain is like attacking a military base with fire crackers, such minor points of contention seemed irrelevant. My cameras are my life blood.

I suddenly saw the funny side of my purchases. Never send me shopping when I'm angry.
'And anyway the chances of us running into any dacoits before we reach Patna is miniscule', Mole reasoned as we picked up our bags to ready for the ensuing melee for the train. I tucked my chain and knife into my bag nonetheless.

I awoke 6 hours later, the fan above my top level bunk, whirring in chorus to the men selling 'chai' and 'kaffee'. I looked down and saw Mole sat there very pale. I immediately thought he must be ill and have had one of those dreaded nights on the squat toilets, being flung from side to side, whilst trying to maintain the strength not to let skin touch anything below.

His eyes told a different story though. They flicked suggestively toward the bunk below me. I leant over and was met with the biggest paan stained smile I have ever seen, two of the biggest ugliest men I have ever seen, and then horror - two of the biggest guns I have ever seen.

'These are my new friends', said Mole, though clenched teeth. 'This is Hippy, and this is Ajay'.

I rolled back over and lay on my back sweating.

A day in the life of a Gora

An amusing moment to share with you from yesterday outside Victoria Station in Bombay

For a fleeting moment I thought this blog had received global recognition:

'Gora, gora - you want a taxi? Where you going gora?'

Just there in that instant I thought this gora had gone global. Then I remembered why I hate Bombay.

I smiled, tipped my imaginary cap and scuttled away inwardly fuming, unwilling to let him know his derogatory tone had got to me. I hit him where it hurt and ignored his battered wasp like taxi.

Incredible India's double edged sword

Incredible !ndia is the Indian Tourist Board's slogan. A place of colour, dreams, and the mystique. A land of economic growth, where magnificent historical buildings provide the cornerstone of the tourist industry.

The authorities would be perfectly happy if every visitor came to be chauffeur driven around India and only made contact with the affluent, blinkered middle classes. Everyone is aware of India's darker side but the government would rather continue to conveniently ignore it.

I have been asked many times by people back home how I deal with the poverty. At first I wondered myself but like most other people, once the initial shock had worn off, I slowly became numb to the vast majority of the deprivation I was confronted with on India's streets.

I have heard many travellers and Indians alike answer this dilemma in a similar manner. Simply that they do not have to deal with it. They see it but every evening they can return to the sanctity of their own home or hotel, and shut out the horrors of the streets. This may sound callous but it is the bare truth, and it provokes hatred within me towards the upper echelons of Indian society, other travellers and most of all myself.

An incident recently put the magnifying glass over the issue and the Indian middle classes' insensitivity towards the poverty which surrounds them and the suffering of others.

Delhi is unavoidable if you travel the vast rail network in India for long enough. It is the central hub linking north, south, east, west and central, and consequently I frequently find myself back at the Anoop Guest house on Paharganj for a couple of days, taking pictures of the beautiful and interesting people of Delhi.

It is almost always guaranteed that I will end up at Connaught Place for an afternoon stroll. It is a good place to escape the mayhem, as it is the preserve of the middle classes with it's trendy shops, water fountains, green lawns, big cars plus there are no cows to sidestep.

Despite these strolls though, the middle classes (and women) are a weak point in my archive of the faces that make up India. It is not through any lack of contact with them, it is just they hold no fascination for me. They are so wrapped up in themselves that very often that the conversation lurches from pleasantry to pleasantry without ever progressing, and I am not going to waste my film on people who bore me. They are also more likely to refuse the glare of my lens and I hate people who say no.

One afternoon as I walked back from Connaught place along the tree-shaded avenue which joins it to Paharganj I spotted a man lying with his lower half slumped in the road, whilst his torso and head were baking in a uncovered sun spot on the pavement. He seemed peacefully unaware of the rickshaw, taxi and bus drivers just about mustering the consideration to swerve round his splayed legs. Was he stoned, pissed or dead?

I had seen him many times on my strolls and often he had thrown me a brown-toothed smile from beneath his matted mop of dark hair. I had taken his picture on more than one occasion. We were probably of a similar age, and whilst my belly is starting to bulge from alcohol, he was immaciated with ribs like a xylophone. He always smiled and posed for a photo though, and believe me getting your average Indian on the street to smile for a photo is not an easy task.

I approached and him and asked if he was alright, with the hope that he would suddenly realise his legs were out in the road and make his way back onto the pavement. As I leaned over him he turned and stared at me blankly. The right side of his skull near his temple was missing and his exposed brain was black with maggots and flies. The brain had become concave where the parasites had eaten it away. I am no expert but this was not a new injury.

I recoiled away and began to gag. I gulped some luke warm water down to ease my stomach and composed myself. I approached a man selling cumcumbers from a cart and asked him why no one had helped this man. His answer made me feel sick again but in an all together different way. With a dismissive wobble of his head he nonchanlantly said - 'Sir, this is Dehli, and we really don't have a history of helping people you see'.

Here was a man in a sickening physical state, just a few minutes walk from the central plaza, in the capital city of one of the world's largest civilisations, next to a McDonalds, a brand new billion dollar metro system, Mercedes cars driving by, and not a soul would help because it was not in their history. Believe that if you will.

The truth is people are too scared of touching the lower castes. Too wrapped up in their pursuit of gain to consider the people who for millenia have propped up society by doing the jobs they considered beneath them. The snobbery within the Indian middle classes is putridly palpable.

The only reaction I saw that day was from a lady in a pink sari with a bulbous belly, who glanced over as she bought some cucumbers to wobble her head, as she winced at the distressing sight before her. Not one person stopped. The cucumber seller said simply, 'what can they do?'

I then found myself in a painful dilemma. What could I do? This down-trodden urchin was near the end despite his bodies' desperate will to survival. He had maybe a day or two left at the most. Even if I got him to a hospital what could they do?

Should I record this situation in one of my portraits? I'm sure many people would find this idea abhorant but it wasn't a question of any desire to take the picture but a feeling of necessity. It seemed strange but the hardest thing was that I knew I couldn't ask for his permission.

"Excuse me sir? I am well aware that you about to imminently leave this existence but would you mind awfully if I recorded your encroaching death, as an illustration of the disintegration of human kindness for future generations? Your death will highlight the need for love and compassion in the world. Sorry sir, what was that... you'll have to speak slower and louder as my Hindi isn't very good".

I cautiously stepped foward, my inner monologue screaming it's apologies for what I was about to do. I had preset my camera - 200asa - 250th - f4. As I set myself the man rolled his head back over exposing his injury once more - and then he died - right there in front of me. I took one frame and walked away. As I walked down the road I broke into to a trot as I agonised over the picture I had just taken.

I returned 30mins later like a criminal to the scene of a crime. Five policeman were dragging his body onto the pavement. Only when he was dead did anyone think to stop.

That evening I left for Goa. Like the rest of India I just walked away. Like them what could I do?

Later that week, I was with another group of Europeans who found a dog lying on the beach gasping for air. He had a hole in his neck probably inflicted during a fight. The wound was infested with flies and maggots. We arranged a vet for him and fed him daily. A dutchman put his hand into the wound to apply cream to it twice daily, and eventually he recovered.

We called him maggot.

Welcome back

I passed through immigration no problem. I Proceeded through to the baggage hall and I collected my ruck-sack. This is a bizarre juxtaposed routine now - worryingly yet comfortably familiar. I then ‘haggled’ a taxi from one of the booths. Agreed price - 250 rupees. I found my cab. I waited for the driver. It may be the middle of the night but there are no dramas to report.

As I made my exit from the pre-paid taxi stand I bumped into a lady - or did she bump into me? She had shoulder length fair hair, she sounded Scandinavian and she looked flustered. I asked her if everything was ok? She replied, “yes, I’m ok”. It was her first time to India, that much was obvious, and she was definately not ok.

She stared at me through her rectangular ‘D&G’ designer sun glasses - she was old but pretty. She had a annoying squint though. Her nose pointed purposefully to the night sky and she asked me. “What is that smell?”. I replied, “don’t worry, that's just ‘Delhi’”. She said to me, “no you don’t understand - there is a strange smell in the air”. She obviously thought I was trying to be amusing. I repeated myself, “yes I know - that's just Delhi”! I could tell she did not believe me.

Dehli has a unique smell. It's own nasal footprint, or dialectic odour. Delhi smells of thirteen million people, who all live far too close together.

I decided a change of tack would be necessary. “Do you need help?” Her shrill nervous, “No” belied her her response. Her squint annoyed me even more.

I looked staight at her, into her dark sun glasses and I smiled. At first I thought fuck you then. Then I remembered the distrust you are programmed with by seasoned campaigners who warn you of everything especially seasoned campaigners. She didn't want my help, and I wasn't going to force her. I knew she would learn as everyone does, that once you've been ripped off, driven 15 km out of your way by an opportunist from ‘Nizzamudin’ in his desperate attempt to earn another 200 rupees from you before he goes home to bed. I just politely replied, “ok then”!

I watched her as she walked aimlessly through the car park. Why wear sun glasses at night? I callously chuckled to myself as I realised she had no idea that the ‘three digit number’, that was clearly printed on the front of her taxi cab ticket, related to the same three numbers that were also printed on the number-plate of the taxi cab that she was supposed to find. Perhaps she couldn’t see the number? It took me three visits to India to work this one out. My callous chuckle to turned to one of empathy.

I wanted to help her, I really did, but perhaps it’s best for some people to find out about India on their own. Make your own mistakes! Only in this way do you learn. It is important to ask questions in India but even then, Correct information can take a while to find. Be patient. Information will not be offered, it has to be skilfully acquired.

01.28am

My driver eventually arrived. He was a young man, slight in stature but his eyes exuded confidence. His brown shirt worn thin from Dhobi Wallahs attempts to remove the chutney stain around the belly. I asked him is name. “Hussain, sir”, he replied and together we both lifted my heavy ruck-sack on to the back seat of his cab and we left the airport.

As we drove away he turned his head towards me and as he stared at me he said, “welcome to India...is this you first time in India sir”.

"No, this is my seventh time in India".

He was surprised, “Oh, so many times’. Although he smiled and wobbled his head happily, I could tell I’d thwarted his plan to fuck me over and drive me to a hotel of his choice miles away and gain a hefty commission for his services from the hotel.

Never let these cab driving bastards at the airport know you are ‘new to this city’. Once they know you are ‘green’ here, you stand no chance. They will eat you alive!

For those of you thinking who is this bigotted idiot, who turns up with a colonial hangover and thinks everyone is beneath him, India has a cruel way of biting you on the arse and showing the true nature of humanities' smile. India has a view of the west, and in one of the world's fastest growing economies people see no reason why they shouldn't join in with the rest and make as much cash as they can when the opportunity presents itself. The average Indian cabbie has no interest in showing you the path to inner fulfillment and happiness. If they have to make you look like a mug to help them buy out the lease on their cab, and send their kids to school they will. And quite frankly, why not? If you don't want to hand over your entire wallet though, treat it as a game, otherwise you will have a burning desire to throttle every cab/rickshaw driver you come across.

The drive towards, ‘Main bazaar’, was uneventful for the first five minutes, Hussain was a good driver. He did not drive too fast! There were no cows asleep in the middle of the road for him to avoid.The roads were quiet.

After fifteen minutes we approached the diplomatic area of New Delhi, where the embassy’s are situated. Hussain looked in his rear view mirror, then he looked at me disappointedly and he said, “police”! I said, “what do you mean police”? He said, “police sir”. I replied to him, with a cigarrette hanging out of my mouth. “What fucking police”? He leaned out of his window and he said loudly “POLICE”!

I turned my head and I looked out the back of the cab, all I could see behind me were flashing blue lights. I lost my head! I panicked. I dropped my fag, the red embers flew around the cab like a ‘Roman candle’. For a few seconds it looked like a bonfire night party. I yelled, “drive!”

That poor little sod looked at me with terror in his eyes. He put his foot hard down. The cab did not change its speed though. It just groaned. He tried his best to speed up but his cab had no grunt.

I leaned out of the cab through my left hand window. The flashings blue lights were slowly catching us. They really were chasing me! I’ve done nothing wrong. I haven’t brought any illegal drugs or contra-band into this country, I’m not a fucking terrorist or fucking murderer, I’ve only just arrived here! Why were they chasing me?

It was too late, the game was up, we were at an island and we had to stop. The police pulled up behind us. Two police me got out of their car, they ran towards us screaming brandishing rifles. They were shouting at Hussain. I didn’t have a clue what was happening, neither did he. One of the police men lifted his rifle and butted the windscreen with handle. The windscreen cracked in the corner. To my astonishment Hussain calmly applied his foot to the gas and pulled away from the police, he crossed the island, he calmly pulled over onto the grass verge at the side of the road and we waited.

"Fucking hell’. What was all that about’? I could hear my heart saying to me as it drummed in my ears.

We sat there, it was quiet again. Hussain asked for a cigarette. I gave him one. Then as I passed across the matches a huge ‘goods vehicle’ screeched around the corner behind us. The smell from its burning tyres filled our cab when it passed. The lorry was closely followed by a police car a few seconds later, then another, then another, then another. We both sat there open mouthed and we watched the blue and red flashing lights disappear into the distance towards the dark centre of Delhi. Hussain still hadn’t lit his cigarette. I stared at the broken windscreen, I looked at him. I said the only word appropriate, “sorry”.

I cleared my throat. I whispered to myself, “welcome to India”.