Kolkata Here I Am!

Turbulence. The wing of the plane tips and reveals the massive Hooghly river, as it winds and twirls creating a sprawling pattern of spaghetti tributaries. The land is portioned into squares that from the sky resemble the manicured green patchwork quilt of the English countryside. The main difference is that this Indian quilt has been hollowed out to create row upon row of watery oasis's. Gradually the roads stretching out from Kolkata begin to appear, hosting no heavy traffic but rather the odd multicoloured dot, randomly scattered and which appear immobilesed by gravity as we soar above them. The plane drops and my stomach follows, it approach the ground and we passengers wait... Bang. We are expelled from the sky, delievered back to land and pushed forward as we seem to collectively lean backwards. Noise as the airport flies past the window and the Captain appears to release an imaginary airbag behind us. Suddenly flight number IX956 from Bangkok rolls to a slow meander and is welcomed to Kolkata airport. I count eleven foreigners. We do not blend. Quite the opposite. Within minutes I have been able to idnetify the nationalities – one French speaking juggler, his batons poking out of his rucksak talking energetically to what must clearly be another French speaking loner. A British couple, with matching Northface multipurposed, multipocketed trousers. A Spainish girl covered in piercings and her German boyfriend. A long-haired nonchalant Scandinavian. A wilded haired Japanese guy. A wide eyed Korean girl and – Me.

Looking around like a goldfish in a new bowl I already know that I love India. Premature? Not at all. Everyone seems friends although they clearly are strangers, and even us 'strangers' are welcome. The only exception is the airport staff, who are viewed with continuous suspicion as the conveyor belt remains stationary. The scene reflects perfectly an email from a friend, who predicted:

You will land in the worlds smallest international airport, and you are going to
wait for your stuff at one of the three belts, for about one and a half hours,
while the luggage boys drink chai.

About half an hour early, my fellow passengers had decided it was time to collect their luggage and converged upon the smattering of airport staff. Raised voices flowed from Hindi to Bengali to English and back again and after about one and a half hours passengers and luggage were reunited and we all left the airport. One Korean, one Japanese and one Me. A bouncy bright yellow taxi and one very loud persistent horn. Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. Cars reversing down the highway, trucks covered in paintings of Ganesh and Shiva, the odd filthy pig meandering like a startled dog across the road and of course the Holy Cow, using the highway enroute to the next concrete corner of grazing. I gazed through the open window, feeling the hot thick air trying to build up enough of a breeze to hit my face and reassured by the taxi divers obvious commitment to his sturdy wheel as he swung us around corners and delivered us safely through this urban farm. I watched as men washed at the side of the road. Soap in hand, flip flops underfoot as they shared the communal water taps. I watched the men sitting on tables playing cards, drinking chai, laughing, relaxing, or barefoot and running along the road pulling along behind laidenned rickshaws. Sweat pouring from their backs, as they competed with our yellow speeding taxi for the right of way. So many men, dirty children and invisible women.

We arrived where all the backpackers arrive. Every city on the tourist trail must have one. A street or area dedicated solely to making the traveller feel 'at home' in a place where they are clearly not. In Kolkata the local translation of 'tourist area' is akin to 'Sudder Street'. Painted signs advertising rooms, photocopied lonely planets and local interpretations of 'western pizza' and 'burgers' next to modified originals of curry and tropical lassis. Women with babies strapped to their backs pleading for baby milk, men with no arms or legs, offering plastic cups held between remaining boney teeth. Security men marking the entrance to each guest house, sleepily moving an arm to open the door as other backpacks struggle through. I consulte my friends email for a recommendation. The taxi drivers doesn't understand my interpreation. I show him the name. In perfect English he pushes my hand away and snaps at me to read it again. I have embarrassed him. I have embarrassed myself. Eventually we arrive. Its full. Across the road? Sure. My new friends are unimpressed. I take the room. They leave.

First impressions? Still impressed – not necessary with the room, but the purple colour scheme does well to hide the iridescent mould, that is of course until I switch on the mega watt strip light - I am impressed as a women travelling on her own, and one with bright yellow hair at that. So far, my first day in India has been a walk in the park. And not the sort of walk I had taken in a Bangladeshi park, which left me feeling like the pied piper. The people I have met today in Kolkata have been so incredibly helpful, friendly and not at all threatening. Even the beggars, stopped and ask names and countries regardless of whether or not their requests had been refused. During a flash rain storm, the security guards and bell hops spent nearly a full hour talking, laughing and coincidently, exploring my lingering grasp of Nepali, with me. They also shared the reputation of Nepali workers as , "the most trustworthy workers" – with the exception of the Indian maintenance man who was also included in the party, who was of course "very very very" trustworthy or rather "deri deri deri" trustworthy. And here in Kolkata I . Was I going north they wanted to know. To Nepal I asked? No to their homeland, Darjeeling, "India".

I fall asleep, exhausted, excited, and still saying to myself, "I am in India. Finally. I am in India."