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.