Hjertesukk fra sjåføren.

-Etter en uke på indisk vei.

Det er egentlig ikke mye å utsette på de indiske hovedveiene. Vi kjører Grand Trunk Road og East West Corridor. Det er mange filer, flate og rette strekk, jevn og fresh asfalt, midtdeler, hvite striper. Deler av veien kunne lett sikra seg pallplass over turens beste veier. Allikevel har jeg sjeldent blitt så forbanna som når jeg kjører buss i India.

Det er ikke dét at vi må kjøre på feil side av veien og motsatt vei i rundkjøringer.
Det er ikke dét at inderne er gjerrige med veiskilting.
Og det er heller ikke dét å venne seg til å bruke tute som kommunikasjonsmiddel i en trafikk hvor de færreste tunge kjøretøy har speil. Vi har det moro med vår nye ansvarspost foran i bussen.

Ekstratute pa indiske veierBK horn Ekstratute pa indiske veier
Rollen som ekstratute. Her er BK i aksjon.


Uansett størrelse på veien, den er for alle. Sykler, mopeder og motorsykler lasta med hele familier fra bestemor til bebis, autorickshaws og traktorer med enorme hengerlass uten nevneverdig sikring. Kuer gresser hellige over alt. Esel og vogn, hest og vogn, vannbøffel og vogn, dromedar og vogn, biler, lastebiler med lasteplanet fullt av stirrende indere og busser som kjører som sinnssyke.

Jeg spør en inder om hvordan det er med vikeplikt og sånn. Vike fra venstre her, kanskje? Han ler. Det er ingen regler her. I hvert fall ingen som følger dem.

Våre kollegaer bussjåførene er de værste uansvarlige svina, hakk i hæl kommer lastebilsjåførene og bilistene virker heller ikke redde. Her er det ikke snakk om å beregne god plass for å foreta en forbikjøring. Bare det er akkurat plass nok. Det blåses i skrikende horn og gis blankt faen i esler, sykler og norske busser. Andre må bremse, andre må pelle seg, gjerne av veien. Det er som et bilspill hvor det er bonuspoeng i hver eneste forbikjøring og alle har lomma full av ekstraliv. Folk brenner etter å komme seg til neste brett, hva nå det måtte innebære. Fra mitt raseri får jeg lett mistanke om at det å kjøre så hensynsløst har en sammenheng med å tro på reinkarnasjon og at livet aldri kan verdsettes like høyt her som hjemme i gode Norge.

To ganger på seks dager får vi blåst av speila på høyre side. Begge ganger av lastebiler i avsindige forbikjøringer. Første gang har vi ingen reservespeil. og uten speil er vi blind elefant i barnehage. Speilekspedisjon utsendes med autorickshaw og kommer tilbake halvannen time seinere med nytt speil og ekstraspeil(som vi får bruk for to dager seinere).

Å slappe av med midtdeler, er ingen god idé. Med midtdeler er det nemlig ikke sagt at all trafikken på din side går samme vei. Når man ligger som best i 80 uten en eneste bekymring fordi veien er god og ganske trafikkløs, kommer det plutselig en traktor med et optimistisk duvende høylass kjørende imot.

Likevel må jeg bittert innse at folk faktisk er vanvittig gode til å kjøre på akkurat denne måten og det går opp for meg at det kanskje kan være mitt sinne og min nervøse fislekjøring som utgjør den største faren her.

Etter en uke på indisk vei, har vi allikevel tilpassa oss aldri så lite. Når jeg nå drar hjem til jul er jeg spent på hvordan det blir å kjøre bil. Hvem veit om jeg uten å tenke over det kommer til å stå på tuta mens jeg foretar hårfine forbikjøringer mellom Seljord og Bø?

Big Fat Indian Wedding

Finally: India. 12.000 km from home, and sort of our destination. Here is a story of the first days there:

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The border crossing was easy enough, and even easier after agreeing to help the Indian bureaucrats with a little baksish (some mild form of bribe). After leaving the huge crowds witch came rushing to see and cheer on the nationalistic border closing ceremony on both Pakistani and Indian side (This peculiar event is covered somewhere on Radioselskpet), it was getting dark.
Time to find a suitable place to park for the night. After looking for a hotel or truck stop along the tuctuc-, cattle- and rickshaw-filled road towards Amritsar, we decided to try a place called something like Punjabi Resort, hoping that they could accommodate us. This turned out to be a place for wedding parties, and not ment for tourists like us. But it was owned by an extremely friendly Sikh named Manjinder, who agreed to let us park inside his gates, and use the bathroom in his office. The only condition was that we had to be gone by seven the next morning, when the preparations for a wedding that day would begin.
Furthermore, he invited us all in, and sent some servants out for food, beer and some whiskey (sikhs do not drink themselves, so a very friendly gesture). Later, as we ate and talked, he extended the invitation, as we were very curious about the wedding. We would be able to see the wedding through the windows from the office, and go for a stroll among the guests at some point, having a discreet look around.

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Andreas taking over the wedding buisness

Next morning some of us got up at 6.00 for a football match with some of Manjinders friends (something they did 6 times a week!). After the quick awakening and male bonding with these turban-wearing players, we came back to find the bus half buried in flowers and stuff for the wedding. These were moved, and Atilla moved outside this lovely green garden.
The wedding was supposedly not a big one, as they expected only 500 guests. Really big ones can have up to 3000 guests. Manjinder told us that this could get a bit crowded, and he preferred the ordinary size with about 1500.

Big Fat Indian Wedding

The discreet look from the office (of course) turned into all of us being invited as guests by the families, and placed at a table being constantly served every kind of delicious Indian food imaginable, while watching a dance troop performing for hours beside the married couple. Also a bunch of bachelors was dancing and throwing money notes around. The bride and groom were on display on a separate stage, where they were constantly being professionally photographed and filmed with different family members. In the end we ALSO got invited onto the stage, and will now end up in the official wedding album (a very kitchy, and important thing for Indians).. Guess we became sort of an attraction in this beautiful, colorful setting.
The wedding party ended, and after the (arranged) bride left in a tear-drenched crying ceremony, we ate some more. Some of us almost exploded from the last sweetest-dessert-ever.
The next couple of days we relaxed in Manjinders company, seeing the famous Golden Temple in Amritsar, and enjoying the fantastic hospitality of this 24-year old man, and his family.
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When time comes, and we head home, he has convinced us to call him ahead, so that he can arrange "something special".. Looking very much forward to this, whatever it means.

Pakistan

NB: Posted by Ingrid, but written by Maria.

At the mountain pass between China and Pakistan the road becomes one third narrower and the landscape numerous times wilder. The turquoise river and yellow leaves stand fluorescent against the massive amounts of beige and gray rock.
We slowly drive needle-sharp curves on steep mountainsides. Some small landslides and springs cross the road.

We arrive in Sust after dark. The friendly border-guards have been waiting for us and guide us smoothly through customs.
Here we get our first close look at the pakistani trucks. They are thoroughly decorated marvels with expanded carved fronts, colorful flowery patterns, wildlife motive miniatures and dingely stuff made of fabric and metal. In short, they make dusty Attila look even more grey.

The next days we spend walking the hills of Passu and Gulmit. We get especially exited by the suspension bridges. Wind pulling our clothes, we walk on wires and airily distributed sticks and boards with pounding hearts and grinning faces.The cameras are running hot trying to capture the overwhelming landscape.

Next stop is the ridiculously scenic town of Karimabad. We drink tea and say superlatives about the scenicness. We feast on chicken. We drink tea and play Trivial Pursuit. We get a guided tour at the Baltit fort. We drink tea and chat with the shopkeepers i Bazaar-street. And of course we need to climb the hills up to "Eagles nest" to see the sunset over Hunza Valley from a birds' perspective.
The hospitable locals, fresh air and great scenery (and tea) makes us want to linger. But as we have a date in Kathmandu in not too long and the situation in Swat is getting more than tense we decide to get moving.

In Gilgit we meet up with gentle Abbas. Anders met him on his way down KKH, and passed his phone number on to us. Abbas works as a guide, mostly with trekking, and it soon becomes clear to us that he's the man to have aboard for a secure journey southwards. He agrees.
We also hook up with Bashir, a merry smart-mustached gentleman we met in China. After admiring his fruit-garden we have a grand evening of drinking tea and solving some world-problems.

Abbas goes with us all the way to Lahore, with overnight stops in Chilas, Besham, Abbotabad and Guirat. The landscape, vegetation, hats, robes and beard-colours are changing rapidly along the way, sometimes even from one village to the next. The temperature is rapidly rising. As is the amount of spices in the dall.
When we turn on the TV in Guirat to watch the news, all the news channels are dead. Musharraf has declared state of emergency, and Cecilie in Bejing can inform us that the Broadcast building and High Court in Islamabad are surrounded by the army. We decide to drop sightseeing in Lahore for this time around, and head straight for the border the next morning.

Pakistani border: A guard askes "May I borrow a ballpoint pen, sir?". He may, and writes on the side of the bus; "I love Pakistan Rangers"