buses
No one makes movies about travelling through India by bus.
Trains, although faster and generally more comfortable (aside from that 10 hour trip in sleeper class with chilling winds and two rattling windows which refused to close, even with my socks and t-shirts jammed in the sill), don’t go everywhere you might want to go and, more to the point, require at least a couple days of planning in order to secure a reservation. We, being fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants travellers who prefer the out-of-the-way spots, have only been able to arrange convenient rail travel a couple times. Instead, it is through the bus window which we have watched the Indian countryside pass.
Buses in India have various degrees of quality and comfort, on a sliding scale of cost, and yet there are more important things which distinguish one bus ride from the next. The number of elbows in your face and the weight of bags on your lap, for instance. The relative humidity of the compartment, the smell of the passengers and cargo, the degree of cushioning on the seat, and the volume of Indian film music all contribute to the quality of any bus riding experience. We have also found that alcohol, sleeping pills, and generic muscle relaxers, when properly timed, can be employed to soften even the bumpiest ride.
Undoubtedly, there is a certain romantic allure to the lurch and rattle of a steam engine. But I’ve grown pretty fond of the diesel fumes and cobblestone bounce of the Indian buslines. Buses force a level of intimacy which even the most crowded passenger trains can’t coerce (local commuter transit excepted). If it weren’t for the bus, I might never have detected the subtle aroma of feni (a strong Goan alcohol) on the man who mysteriously passed out on my leg as we pulled into Ahmedabad, nor would I have had the pleasure of comparing skin color with the young autistic man in Rajasthan, and I certainly wouldn’t have been subjected to the countless crowded crotches riding my shoulder as our sturdy vehicle scaled the Western Ghats.
Buses go everywhere and everybody has to take them. There is a comraderie that arises when locals see tourists on their local route with them: they’ll give you their seat, share their food, even show you how to pee behind the wall at the bus stand. Everyone is friendly because you’re in it together. Buses are for the people, and that is how I roll.