India 1993/4

Prelude: “One Night in Bangkok”

This report was written in 2013 a.m.st twenty years after my trip. I was only able to reconstruct many details from photos and postcards. It’s more a collection of anecdotes that left a lasting impression, although, in the context of self-discovery, it’s interesting to note what has stuck in memory. Described are the more exotic parts of my return journey from Japan overland (where I had lived for four years) as far as Vienna.

The pictures were taken with a Canon AV-1 and are scanned from paper prints.)
Prices throughout are quoted in the preferred everyday “Asian” currency, the US dollar, which was worth approximately 1.60 DM at the time. A skilled worker in Germany earned on average 9-10 DM/hour
(Real money, the sort of: “I can remember when you could go out, buy a new suit, have a night on the town, fish supper, taxi home – and still have change from a fiver.”) net then. This is an wage hardly achievable today after 25 years of neo-liberal policies driven by the “liberal party” FDP and “social democratic” chancellor Schröder [in office 1998–2005, the equivalent of Tony Blair and his “New Labour,” called „Agenda 2010“].1

I’d flown into Bangkok. Anyone who thinks the traffic there is chaotic today [2013] should have been there in the early 1990s, when the city’s highways on stilts were still largely in the planning stage and people said a subway could never be built because of the muddy ground, etc. Essentially, one had to leave at 7:00 a.m. if one wanted to do something in another part of town. From 9:00 a.m. until 4:00 or 6:00 p.m., there was no way back across town except on the back of one of those crazy motorcycle taxis (back then, nobody wore helmets). There were three or four trains a day to the old Don Muang Airport; otherwise, one had to rely on rickety buses, which, at best, only took two to two and a half hours from the city.2

Side note on renting a.m.torbike (without a license, helmet, or protective clothing) in Thailand: Two years earlier, I had met a bloke from Basel (Switzerland) on the island of Si Chang who was sitting in the sun bare-chested. He was sporting some very red, rough and long scars. He explained that a.m.st exactly one year earlier, in Bangkok, he had been hit by a truck while riding his motorbike. The result: a punctured and collapsed lung, a ruptured spleen, both legs broken, including a double open femoral fracture, plus a few “minor” injuries. In hospital they patched him up enough so he could be flown to Switzerland by rescue flight three weeks later. The receiving doctor, after reviewing the X-rays and medical reports, told him something along the lines: “If you had arrived here looking like that, we would have put you in the basement [the morgue] straight away.” Thai surgeons were simply used to dealing with serious accidents … I haven’t been tempted to get on a.m.torcycle since.

I stayed at the Hotel Atlanta at the end of Soi 2, Sukhumvit, which back then was still discreetly controlled by “the old man,” a German who came to Bangkok in 1947 (how? from what??) and who opened the first local hotel with a pool in the early 1950s (still a haven of tranquility today). In the 1970s, American soldiers made for good money on R&R [“rest and recreation” – sorely needed after slaughtering gooks in “the Nam”] — the then world’s biggest brothel, Nana-Plaza, was (as it is now), just down the street — although by the 1990s, the “action” was more in Patpong.4 Rooms without air-con cost around 10 US$. [Just the thought of their “Club Sandwich” makes me slaver to this day.]

The best thing at the Atlanta, apart from "personnel management German style," in those pre-Internet days (In Tokyo we used a 2400 Baud modem. To tranfer files to Germany we had to set it it to 1200 B/s which was the maximum permitted by the Post Office. The PC I used came with a 10 MB Hard drive!) was the travel agency in the lobby. They offered cheap flights all over the world, without having to worry about being sold a flight that never took off, like on Khaosan Road. At that time, you could get around Asia with Biman Bangladesh (no food served, just tap water) or Indonesia’s Merpati (on domestic flights still using DC 6 [?] with dents in the nose3) – don’t look too closely, they’ll always come down!

At the beginning of Sukhumvit, parallel to the railway track under the highway bridge, there were a number of cozy bars (like all in Thailand with ”ladies,” but less pushy than in the red-light districts), where you could simply enjoy a drink and play billiards. These bars were demolished around 1999 when a.m.jor Asian conference was taking place in the nearby convention center. Closing time was nominally 2:00 a.m., but this was only enforced when one of the numerous political crises was underway; otherwise, people paid the “friendly” police officers. I remember a newspaper article in which the minister in charge declared that since he couldn’t pay his police officers more than 3,000-3,500 baht a.m.nth, the men simply had to be a little corrupt. Foreigners caught with weed for personal use usually paid 500 baht – the higher the rank of the officer handling the case, the more expensive it was (if you were taken to the police station, the going rate was around 2000 baht).

Overstaying a visa was handled without any red tape. A fine of 100 baht per calendar day [today 500, max. 20,000] was imposed upon departure. (I paid once because I was late passing through customs at 12:15 a.m. An official 7-day extension cost 500 baht, half a day at the office and a photo. For this, one received the following stamp: “Application for extension of stay is denied. Applicant must leave the Kingdom by [7 days later].”) The nonsense of restricting alcohol sales (at night and between 11 a.m. and 5 p.m.) was also introduced later. A basic principle of life in Thailand is sanuk ("fun").

I then booked a flight to Colombo (Sri Lanka).

Sri Lanka

Dec. 13.–28., 1993

The bane of every travel in Asia in the 1980/90s: “Departure Tax” was not yet included in the price of an air ticket but had to be paid usually after passport control and in cash in a Mickey Mouse currency one could not use anywhere else.

I arrived relatively late, although I don’t remember how I got to the city center near the harbor. Anyway, I was so exhausted that I took the first room I could find and initially just wanted to take a shower. On the other hand, I was incredibly thirsty. So, I filled my trusty enamelled mug, originally made in China, with water from the shower head. Since I didn’t have any water purifier, I used two drops of iodine from the first-aid kit … When I saw two roundworms, each about 3 mm long, sink to the floor, I reconsidered. There were no shops open. After about 20 minutes of wandering around, I found a stall where I could get two small bottles of Fanta. These, however, were the version suited to Indian tastes: sickly sweet! It’s not really drinkable “at room temperature” of 35+ °C and certainly not a thirst quencher. I took one bottle back to my room. About half an hour later, just before midnight, the seller knocked frantically. He’d been looking for me all over the neighborhood because he absolutely had to get the bottle back. I offered to pay the deposit – no way, it had to be the bottle! We agreed that I would return it to his stand by 9:00 a.m.

Indian visa issued in Colombo. 

There isn’t much to see in Colombo, so I spent the next day applying for a visa for India and getting train tickets. Outside the consulate, touts were selling application forms for 20 rupees. Getting the visa wasn’t quite so simple, since I had a German passport with Tokyo as my place of residence. In addition to the usual paperwork, I also had to pay a fee for a telex (mature readers will remember
“Real Communication makes noise.”) to the Indian embassy in Japan, which had to certify that there was “no objection” (!). The promised processing time was eight working days, which they kept, although I received only a 30-day visa instead of the usual 90 or 180.

At the harbor, next to the YMCA, is the Anglican Seamen’s Mission. Its lounge was open to everyone. My only connection with seafaring was six weeks as a 19-year-old on a cruise ship off Alaska. While I was finishing my second 0.75-liter bottle of Guinness alone, the priest came and tried to “convert” me. Now, South Asian Guinness at 11-12 % Alc. an the viscosity and color of engine oil, has only the name in common with the Irish product. To be honest, I could hardly string half a sentence together. At least there were excellent cigars (branded Thansher or something like that). On the way back to the dump calle hotel room, I heard the church choir practicing Christmas carols. I walked in: about twenty brown girls singing “Silent Night” in 35 °C heat!

I now had to wait two weeks before I could go to India. Initially, I’d wanted a flight to Trivandrum (now Thiruvananthapuram), but that wasn’t available, so I decided to travel via the Maldives. The lady at the travel agency warned me about the high prices there and I should have booked the connecting flight right away as she offered (much more on that later).

In the late afternoon, I took the train south (in the north and along the east coast, the Tamil Tigers were still firing live a.m.nition in 1993) to Ambalangoda (Hikkaduwa Beach). On the train (disused Chinese carriages), I let myself be talked into moving into a particular guesthouse. I was the only guest there – see picture of the beach. The family who ran the place wasn’t particularly experienced with guests; you had to eat there, too; the town of Hikkaduwa was a good 4 km to the south. This was just too lonely for me. The northern part of Hikkaduwa had already been “developed” as a package holiday destination. I found a room in a tasteful colonial-era house that, as I later learned, belonged to a lawyer in Colombo who let the two “resident house boys” rent it out. A word of thanks to the first family. I had forgotten my boots under the bed – along with the $ 250 hidden inside, which I got back the next day without any problems. I practically had to force a $ 20 “finder’s fee” on the husband. [Seriously annoying in Sri Lanka is that even the smallest hotels think they have to charge an additional 10 % “service“ to foreigners, even if no one in the building has the faintest idea what the word means!]

You can’t really swim on Hikkaduwa Beach, the place is popular with surfers. Even when the sea is calmer, the currents remain unpredictable. I went in the water twice in one week and the second time I was pushed so hard into the sand that I scraped my cheek. Christmas Eve (or December 23rd?) a helicopter flew low over the water. Shortly afterwards, the body of a German tourist in his 60s was recovered. As it turned out, he had had a heart attack. His brother was with him. Someone was smart enough to give the man a whiskey and then take him and his bottle to his nearby hotel. The body lay on the beach for a few hours. Two police officers walked by, one took his baton, stuck it in the dead man’s side and said something. I guess, ”That fatso really is dead …" - both of them shrugged and marched off. Sometime uring the day, the body was dragged under a palm tree and placed upright against it. At six o’clock in the evening, it was still there.

Hikkaduwa Beach 

Overall, I don’t have particularly good memories of the tourists there. What was striking was, on the one hand, the huge portions, which you could get even in simple restaurants and, on the other, the boys who were constantly begging you for "bon bons" [which is German for sweets] — or so I thought (I never give to begging children). Only a few weeks later did someone enlighten me that "bon bon" was a corruption of “boom boom“ [in German „bumsen,“ i.e. “bonking”]; the lads, around 8 to 13 years old, were prostituting themselves. Still, it’s a pity to think that most of the locals probably drowned in the 2004 tsunami (although on large-scale maps, this particular area looks like it wasn’t badly affected).

Kandy, the ancient capital

Sri Lankan train ticket 

Since I didn’t find beach life overly stimulating, I spent three days traveling via Colombo to the old capital, Kandy, in the highlands. I didn’t arrive there until the evening and a very skilled young tout – he had pinned an “official” photo ID on himself – wouldn’t let me go. Unfortunately, I didn’t like his preferred place; my second choice was “full.” I ended up staying at the YMBA (Mahanuwara Young Men’s Buddhist Association) in a single room. It wasn’t exactly the Ritz, but it bearable for the price. Aside from the usual sightseeing (the small National Museum was worth seeing), there’s nothing to report from Kandy, apart from constant rain.

Colombo

Back to Colombo to collect my Indian visa. I spent my last night a little closer to the airport on my way to Negombo at the: Hotel California, which, whilst painted in authentic pink (but without champagne), also lacked a “mirror on the ceiling.” The service was lousy – I wished I could have used “steely knives” on the staff – and the breakfast was inedible. I was glad that my taxi driver actually arrived promptly at 10, as requested the day before. You weren’t allowed to enter the airport until three hours before departure; after customs, they didn’t accept rupees, only dollars, except for a stamp seller, so I still have a sizeable collection of Ceylonese stamps.

Maledives

28. Dec. 1993 - 3. Jan. 1994

5 Maldivian Rufiyah.

First of all: From the air, the Maldives really do look exactly like they do in brochures. The country consists of several atoll groups (20 atolls, 1,087 islands, 220 inhabited; 1992: 229,000 inhabitants; 1992 GDP: US$ 500). The capital, Malé (1990: 55,130 inhabitants), belongs to the North Male Atoll. If I remember correctly, the highest point in the country is three meters above sea level. Since 1978, the "democratically elected" dictatorial President Moh. Gayoom ruled [until 2008].

The flagpole in front of the presidential palace (where photography is prohibited [ban now lifted]) was pretty much the only sight in the capital. At the fountain in front of it, a few benches where one could enjoy the evening silence. Hardly anyone on the streets, no nightlife at all.

The airport is located on the separate island of Huluhle, about one kilometer off the main island, which can be reached by open longboats for 10-15 passengers. Departures occur when the boat is full, or every half hour. The fixed price was US$ 1. The dollar was also the common currency for tourist services. The local currency, Rufiyah (US$ 1 = 11 Rf.), was only used on the main island. Helicopter transfers to more distant tourist destinations cost US$ 80-200. [In 1998, construction began on the new, artificial island of Hulhumalé behind the airport island. Residential areas were built on it. It is nowadays connected to Malé by a bridge. Phase 2 of that development will be completed around 2024.]

The Maldives are inhabited primarily by shantidoots. When the Hippies visited the islands in increasing numbers doring the 1970s, the Kathmullas were so horrified at the sight of bare-breasted European women on their beaches that some islands were designated “tourist destinations.” These, in turn, were leased entirely to large international chains, which then flew in their package tour groups. Only there, for example, could you find bars with music and alcohol. Non-believers (kāfir) are not even allowed to visit mosques. The entry stamp – appropriately marked “Employment Prohibited” – entitles visitors to stay on the main island or a booked tourist resort, which would cost [1993] between $ 90 and $ 250 per night. I had no booking and no connecting flight. My passport was confiscated at border control and I had to book a hotel in Male (hotels on offer ranged from $ 20-80, an exorbitant price for South Asia) in the lobby of the airport, present the receipt and then enter the tropical paradise. Visiting “islands of natives“ required permission from the Ministry and was only granted if you have a job there (e. g., as a teacher). Even to tourist islands, boats only take you if you obtain an invitation from the manager.5 Many visitors come to dive/snorkel, which I can’t due to my nearsightedness. There is no beach at all on the main island. [There are now two small artificially created patches.]

I checked into the guesthouse I’d booked for three days ($ 20 p.n.). It was also the overnight accommodation for the Lanka Air staff, the manager was a Paki. It was located right next to the main mosque, something I soon discovered – as it was Ramadan. So, not only were there five daily calls to pray, but also additional “breakfast wake-up call” at 2:30 a.m. followed at 5:55 a.m. by the reminder that the sun would soon rise … well, “Sweet dreams!“ (A sensible way to solve this problem can be found on youtube, 1 min)

Just like a photo calender 

he next day, I first tried to book a flight. The route to Trivandrum (a 45-minute flight) was served only by Indian Airlines, the government-owned Indian domestic airline (to be distinguished from Air India) [IA went bankrupt in 2011]. At the time, the airline had an extremely bad reputation. There’s ONE travel agency in Malé. I was told that the daily flights for the next two months were fully booked and that they could only put me on stand-by waiting list. I got number 400-something otherwise, I should come back the following day.

I did find a “greeting from home” in Malé: the entire new sewer system had been paid for by German taxpayers as “development aid.” Even the small signs that indicate fire hydrants and water pipes in our country were imported. (According to an information board, the Australians paid for the fishing port. The concrete tetrapods for coastal protection came from Japan.)

Visa № 1/94 from the High Commission of Pakistan, Malé. 

After this uplifting experience, I continued on to the High Commission of Pakistan for a visa. Rumor had it that such was difficult to obtain in Delhi due to political tensions. It was after 10 a.m., the gate open. I marched into what looked like someones living room, except for portrait of Djinna on the wall plus an old desk near the door. After several times loudly clearing my throat, a gentleman appeared after about ten minutes and declared himself to be in charge. I was supposed to bring the completed form, photo and receipt from the bank the next day. Because of Ramadan, the bank closed at 11 a.m., so I should pick up the visa two days later. We had a very pleasant chat the next day. Unfortunately, he forgot that January 1^st is also a public holiday in Pakistan (not in the Maldives), so my knocks were in vain that day.

Malé is a small tow. In the market they sells only the catch of the fishing boats (mostly small tuna). Otherwise stock is mainly imports from India, including a lot of tinned goods from Nestlé (“Made in India”). Even the few “restaurants” offered little edible food. In the evening, I splashed out and went to the restaurant of the only decent hotel in town. I had a reasonably good meal for $ 7 (after sunset! “Allah ul-akbar”). As a coffee drinker, I was pleasantly surprised to find espresso on the menu. (Black coffee is virtually nonexistent in South Asia.) To round off the meal I ordered it at outrageous $ 2. Looked good in the small cup, too. The first sip proved me wrong: Nescafé (a wee reminder: “Nestlé kills babies” still applies in 2021.) concentrated! The friendly waitress was visibly embarrassed by my complaint.

That evening sitting by the fountain, I met another tourist who fared even worse. She was about 28 years old, very educated (law degree in Kyiv) and travelling alone. Problem was, she came from Dhaka (Bangladesh). Despite having enough money, she was interrogated at the airport for three hours because: “there are no tourists from such a poor country!” She was then allowed to enter for three days.
She had already inquired about getting off the main island. We hooked up for the next day and she negotiated a 45-minute boat ride to the nearest tourist island for $ 40 return. The beach, water, coconut palms and peace were perfect. We then walked around the island twice. The staff were all imported labour from Pakistan and Bangladesh as it turned out. It was New Year’s Eve and I was in desperate need of a drink. (A jolly Christmas in Sri Lanka had already cancelled.) While my companion powdered her nose, I managed to get a double Johnny Walker at the beach bar of the resort for $ 9. The boat took us back at 4 p.m.

During my daily, increasingly desperate, visits to the travel agency, I was informed that I’d moved up a few places; by day 3, I was already at number 283 on the waiting list. At that pace, I would have left in three weeks and, unless I died of boredom, would have ended up without any money (in 1993, travelers' checks were still in use; Western Union didn’t exist and I didn’t have a credit card – Japanese banks don’t issue them to foreigners!)

Then, in the evening, another unpleasant surprise: My landlord had moved my belongings, without asking, into a smaller room (without windows) for the same price. As before, there was a television; the local channel broadcast prayers and mullah interviews practically nonstop. An Indian channel was barely audible because of the grainy image. Time to get a.m.ve on.

My first and only 1st class boarding pass.

On January 2nd, I first collected my passport, then back to the travel agency. By now, I’d had so much fun in Malé that I would have taken any flight, like Air Italia to Zurich for $ 700. At some point, I had the inspiration to ask how long the waiting list for first-class travel to India was. The lady looked at me and said, “That’s no problem, but you won’t make the flight today. For tomorrow it'll be $ 80.“ I could have strangled the bitch …

For the first and only time in my life, I flew first class, which with Indian Airways meant nothing more than cloth napkins under your plate. You weren’t even allowed into the lounge at Male Airport with that airline’s boarding pass. However, I did one little revenge on the local rip-off artists. When I boarded the boat to the airport, the captain cast off immediately – I’d been warned that they often do this to strangers, charging them $ 20 for the crossing instead of just a few dollars with a half-full boat – “Don’t pay the ferryman until he gets you to the other side!” So, as we docked, I pressed a $ 1 bill into the crook’s hand (the mandatory fee) and marched off without looking back, with him yelling behind me. The a.m.d guard at the airport entrance thirty meters away stopped him and explained to him that it was his problem if he was sailing empty …

Conclusion: The Maldives are not suitable for individual travelers, but if you can get a cheap package holiday and don’t mind lying comatose in a hammock for a few weeks, it’s perfect.

India

January 3^rd to February 4^th, 1994

Exchange rate in January 1994: 35-36 Rs. to 1 US $. For certain transactions, such as good hotels, train tickets with a foreign quota and airline tickets, an official exchange certificate was still required. Occasionally, the amount spent was noted on the back.

When checking into any hotel, the C-Form had to be filled out in triplicate. This registration form required not only the name and address, but also the father’s name, as well as the passport and visa number, the place of issue and validity of both plus previous place of stay and future travel plan.

Back then, people in India were proud – not without reason, in my opinion – that there was no Coca-Cola! Nor were there any imported cars. The only car built under license was the Ambassador, a British sedan from the 1950s. Tata built trucks and two-stroke motor rickshaws (“tuk-tuks”). On long-distance trains, the conductor would come and ask what you wanted for lunch. At the next station, orders were telegraphed (morse coded!) and an hour later, fresh food was delivered to your seat. White people are always addressed as “Sir,” and the occasional beggar would even say “Sahib.” One can certainly get used to servants, but they lack any flexibility. The tea-wallah ONLY brings tea, the dhoby-wallah only carries the laundry, etc. (“XYZ-wallah” means “someone who does XYZ”). Until 1968, in the Chomwalla Palace of the Nizam (King) of Hyderabad, there were two dusters for each of the 18 crystal chandeliers, each responsible for his own chandelier.
Drivers of steam engines in India remained on “their” locomotive for life. Even today it is not uncommon for hotel staff not to have their own beds (no one dreams of staff rooms anyway), but instead push tables in the dining room together, with six or eight guys huddled together. Around 1986, efforts to “reform the economy” began, i.e., to introduce neo-liberal predatory capitalism along the American model. While this has encouraged the emergence of a small middle class (approx. 10 % in 2010), the vast majority of the population continues to live in poverty. The associated globalization, combined with the internet, has also led to job losses in the USA and Europe (keywords: call centers, outsourcing of bank “back rooms,” cheap clothing). The economic decline of the Federal Republic of Germany since the time of the Kohl/Lambsdorff government (both criminals convicted of corruption (Bei Kohl wurde – getreu dem Motto „die Kleinen hängt man, die Großen läßt man laufen – das Ermittlungsverfahren eingestellt gegen Zahlung von 300000 DM. Der „nie käuflich gewesene“ Herr Doktor Kohl – auf eben jener Anrede bestand er in seiner Arroganz – sammelte dann Spenden, um zahlen zu können. Otto Graf Lambsdorff wurde wegen Steuerhinterziehung zu 180.000 DM verurteilt, das Bundeswirtschaftsministerium erstattete ihm 515.000 DM für seine Anwaltskosten. Dies ist der Mann, dessen auf lange Wirkungszeit angelegtes Lamnbsdorff-Papier die Zerschlagung des Sozialstaats (aus Geldmangel, weil ja nicht genügend Steuern reinkamen) forderte, was dann von Helmut Schröder („Ha, ha, ha“) als Hartz-„Reformen” umgesetzt wurde.)) is obvious to anyone who wants to see.

Trivandrum

Trivandrum’s airport seemed to have been built sometime in the 1960s; the tiles were falling off the walls, etc. Not too many flights arrived. The daily arrival from the Maldives made the place an “international airport.” Passport control was quick and so was the money exchange. My tuk-tuk driver was determined to take me to the hippie beach in Kovalam, but I wanted to take him to the train station and to Quilon (now Kollam; 65 km to the north) and the “backwaters.” As we sped toward the city at high speed, another tuk-tuk driver suddenly appeared on our left, gesticulating wildly. He shoved a wallet under my nose as we drove! It turned out that it had been left at the exchange counter and they thought it was mine. In fact, it belonged to a Frenchman who was now driving 2-300 meters ahead. On went the wild chase, now two tuk-tuks at breathtaking speed!

A train to Quilon soon left the station. There I quickly found a decent hotel. Only drawback was that the facade was covered in scaffolding and a scaffolding beam protruded through the bathroom window for support (much to the delight of any burglar). In the lobby, there were two middle-aged German ladies (type primary school teacher) who didn’t find the place fancy enough. We met again the next day on the tourist boat through the backwaters (120 Rs instead of the 20 Rs on the local ferry). The two turned out to be quite nice. The backwaters are a long lagoon, famous for its coconut products and its peculiar fishing nets. The state of Kerala, along with Bengal, was the first in India to have an elected communist government. This meant that somewhat less money flowed into the pockets of corrupt politicians. There is a decent public health and education system, hence the lowest illiteracy rate in India (only 6 %).6

“Backwaters” von Kerala 

The boat trip ended in Alleppey (= Alappuzha), onwards by train to Cochin (now: Kochi), then Calikut (= Kozhikode). The following day, I took the afternoon bus towards Mysore. This was the classic Indian zero-star bus. No windows except for the windshield, the rest wooden bodywork.
The route leads over the Ghats mountain range that runs behind the coast and through a national park. The trip dragged on into the night. I had managed to reserve the seat behind the driver for a few extra rupees. In the middle of the national park, where thugs were said to live in the forest, the driver suddenly slammed on the brakes, which was murderous even by local standards. Not ten meters in front of us, a herd of wild elephants crossed the road and the lead bull bared his tusks in the headlights, looking rather disgruntled. A sensation for the Indian passengers as well. On the other hand, if we had stopped half a second later, there would have been fatalities, but certainly not amongst the elephants! They're damn big when you stand right in front of them.

Mysore

I arrived around 10 p.m. Due to a local festival, there were hardly any rooms available. At one hotel, they showed me a box-room type room: with a.m.ttress on the floor but clean, but then they didn’t want to rent it to me. They did find an overpriced bed, but in retrospect, it wasn’t bad.

The princely state of Mysore was one of the four great “independent” princely states of British India. Maharaja Krishna Raja Wadiyar IV, who ruled from 1902 to 1940, was extremely Western-oriented, open to the technology of his time and progressive. In 1929 it was stated: In education, social legislation and economic activity, the Governments of the progressive Indian States are far ahead of British India. Mysore, Travancore, Cochin and Baroda have the highest percentage of literacy in India. In economic and industrial matters, Mysore, Gwalior and Kashmir Governments are active in the interests of their population. In the 1930s, travellers compared the efficiency of the a.m.nistration positively with that of Italy - which is not really saying much, even if under Mussolini the trains supposedly ran on time. Like all Indian rulers, the Raja was also concerned with external representation. He combined this with his love of technology in a way that continues to this day. He had the exterior of his palace covered with strings of lightbulbs. Every Sunday evening, after dark, they are switched on, accompanied by a.m.litary band playing marches like “Rule Britannia.“ The effect is spectacular.

The next pleasant surprise came the next morning in the bazaar: a coffee merchant offering various types of beans. I bought two pounds and was supplied with a.m.lk- and sugar-free caffeinated hot drink all the way to Delhi. I also bought a.m.niature immersion heater, which probably didn’t meet any VDE standards, but served me well for years.

Bangalore

In 1994, Bangalore was already on the rise as an IT hub, but not quite India’s Silicon Valley. Nevertheless, it boasted numerous international technology companies. The place was (by Indian standards) very clean and well-organized. I found a centrally located, pleasant hotel with a sit-down toilet in a single room for 110 rupees. First, I had a stamp cutter make me two rubber stamps for 65 rupees each for the tedious C-forms: one with my name, date of birth, address and the other with my passport and visa numbers, etc., all with the correct line spacing. While this “German efficiency” caused one or two doormen to frown over the next few weeks, it saved me the nightly paperwork.

At the Immigration Office

I had come to Bangalore to extend my visa, which had only been issued for 30 days in Colombo; the local office had a good reputation. Now, as a tourist, I was explicitly warned that taxi drivers were required to use their mechanical meters; if they didn't, I should contact the police. Fares were set by the municipality. However, these were frequently increased (inflation in 1993: 11 %) and not all taxi drivers were able to have their meters adjusted in time. Thus, it was common practice throughout India to have official “fare adjustment tables” showing the old [displayed] and the corresponding [payable] price. Now, nothing prevented the driver from pulling out an old table (e. g., the one with the previous, larger increase) or from having the meter adjusted, but continuing to shove the essentially superfluous table under the tourist’s nose.

I then visited the immigration office by tuk-tuk, for 13.50 Rs, punctually, as befits a German, at the announced opening time of 9 am. I should have been first in line, but the official in charge didn’t show up at first. After 1½ hours of sitting around and chatting with a not-so-pleasant American woman, later joined by two Israelis who, as is often the case, initially identified themselves as French, I’d had enough and bought a coffee around the corner, but the official still hadn’t arrived. I quickly went back to the hotel to get a copy of my passport and an additional photo and shortly before 12 o’clock, HE was there, me now last in line. After some back and forth and inserting a “processing fee” into the back of my passport for the extension, which was otherwise free, I was told I could pick up my form the very next day, instead of the usual three days. (I had been too generous with my Rs 200; the man had a salary of around Rs 3,000, as I later found out. Government of India Salaries in India [as of 2013])

The next morning, a friendly, smiling official returned my passport plus 30-day extension. I found another tuk-tuk; I’d already done the same trip five times, each time for 12-13.50 Rs. Including tips, I gave 15 Rs every time. The taxi driver took me to the hotel. The clock read 12.50 Rs. He loudly demanded 18 Rs because of an alleged “fee increase,” waving a chart. I handed him the exact 12.50 Rs – he threw the money into the gutter and started getting really loud. I got out, picked up the money and walked toward the hotel entrance. He followed, grabbed my shoulder, cursing. A few minutes of fruitless discussion followed – by then he wanted 22 Rs. Not 80 meters further on, a policeman was standing in the middle of an intersection directing traffic. I went over and explained the situation to him. “Yes, sir, there has been a fare increase as of today.” A quick rough calculation. “You should pay 13.25 Rs.” That was exactly what the good man got from me. The English word for his facial expression is “dumbstruck.” We had been arguing about 3 pence! But that wasn’t the problem I had with the situation, rather the permanent tourist-can-be-ripped-off-with-impunity attitude most WOGs display. It’s about making a deal and sticking to it. It’s about treating someone fairly and not trying to take advantage of them. It’s about being respectful. The waiter in charge of my hotel floor on the landing had obviously watched the whole scene from the window and grinned at me approvingly as I came up. Word about the incident must have gotten around the hotel, because the service was excellent for the remaining two days of my stay.
Onwards by night train to Margao and then on a hopelessly overcrowded bus to Panjim in Goa.

Goa

Goa’s capital is not particularly interesting. The small region was the capital of Portuguese India until 1961.7 In the 1970s, it was one of the Hippie trail destination, where a culture of freeloading, nudism and drug use was celebrated. That was already over by 1994. However, the “Union Territory” still had very liberal alcohol laws by India standards and was therefore a popular destination, especially for the residents of Bombay. Men apparently also liked to come and stare at bare-breasted European women on the beach. Goa is also one of the few places where you can get pork and beef (water buffalo?).

Tour groups, especially from England, were already arriving in 1994. Especially in the north of Goa, one could still find quiet corners and the occasional remaining hippie. One day, a German man approached me at the market. Dressed in white, with a Jesus beard, the only thing missing were flowers in his hair. He reacted rather sourly when I gave him “only” 10 Rs (Indian beggars received 3-5 Rs), which would have easily been enough for 1 kg of carrots. After just a few days, I had already made friends with a group of Englishmen with whom I sat at the beach café during the day (in the evenings, they were too aggressive for me when they were drunk), including one who had already spent three winters in Goa. He knew the fellow mentioned who had apparently been there for years …

Side note on alcohol in India: Mohandas Gandhi, as a traditional Hindu, was also teetotaler. For the colonial masters, the alcohol monopoly introduced in the 1880s was an important source of revenue. After 1947, several Indian states enacted more or less strict liquor regulations. In Tamil Nadu, for example, one could only get alcohol in the dark back rooms of liquor stores. In Maharashtra (Bombay) and Kathiawar (Gujarat), several regions were completely “dry.“ [This has been liberalized in recent years.] The only beer that’s really drinkable is Kingfisher. Otherwise, places often called “English Wine and Beer Shops“ sell the liquor white man gave to Indians [in this case the tomahawk-variety, not the curry-type as in the rest of this chapter], which makes one wonder if one will go blind after the second sip. A liquor made from cashew nuts called Feni is a.m.st exclusively found in Goa.

Goa 

I had a nice room on the top floor of a guesthouse north of Anjuna, but it got very hot during the day because of the corrugated iron roof (the electricity and therefore the fan were turned off during daylight hours), so I spent my days at the beach cafe (there was only one, actually a.m.st 300 meters inland along the road). One afternoon, a Land Rover suddenly appeared on the veranda. The driver had crashed through the low concrete wall; no one was injured, but it took six hours for the police to arrive and another two days for someone to tow the vehicle away. Other guests I remember include a hunchbacked Englishman who constantly spoke loudly and was determined to antagonize everyone around him. More interesting was an English first lieutenant who was on leave for a new posting after a year in the Persian Gulf (the first US war of aggression against Iraq As seen by Japanese school children, 1991:
had not long ended). Quote: Camels are the foulest animals on earth. What people who kill for a living do when they're bored: Take lighter fluid, squirt it into a circle in the sand and light it. Place a scorpion and a.m.ngoose in the circle. Who kills the other each time?/p>

The women who spend all day in the heat delivering fresh fruit to tourists with wicker baskets on their heads are a.m.rable. You only realize how heavy these things are (about 20 kg) when they ask you to lift the basket back up.

Continuing north, I bypassed Bombay on a night train to Aurangābād.

Aurangābād

Whilst South India is comparatively relaxed in terms of the people’s disposition, things get more stereotypical north of Goa. Onc in the “Hindi Belt” one gets constantly hassled, much more dirt and stench that puts so many people off India.

The day before I arrived in Aurangābād, there were riots; people were advised not to enter the city center; there had been a shooting, leaving two dead. [I believe this was because of the renaming of Marathwada University to Babasaheb Ambedkar Marathwada University, making Ambedkar an “untouchable.”]

One of India’s major luxury hotel chains had placed ads with special offers during those days. I drove to the hotel outside the city and treated myself to two nights, for just under $ 30 each, of the kind of luxury Indians call “world class:” a filthy pool, occasionally functioning air conditioning, indifferent staff and a lousy chicken tikka in the otherwise empty restaurant. Murray’s Handbook stated back in 1911: As a rule, the food supplied in hotels and railway refreshment rooms in India is not very good. Outside the really large places and cantonments, the meat, with the exception of bullock hump, is often lean and tough, the fowls are skinny and the eggs ridiculously small.

Plenty of books are written about the Aurangābād caves, which served as Buddhist hermitages, describing their history and art better than I could here. It’s remarkable that the caves were carved from the top of into the mountain, so the entire work is carved “from a single piece.” This complex is not quite as famous as the caves of Ellora or Ajanta, but it’s still impressive8 There are busses from town.

Höhlen von Aurangābād 

Jaipur

From Aurangābād I travelled overnight by train to Jaipur with a change in Delhi.

Arriving early in the morning in Jaipur – the city is known as the “Pink City” because of the sandstone used in its construction – I first went to the Palace of the Winds (Hawa Mahal), so named because the openwork stone window panels allowed a breeze to enter the Maharaja’s harem. The ladies, imprisoned there for life, could “enjoy” viewing the market activity through the small openings without being seen.

I don’t have any pictures of the interior of the not-so-large palace museum, but it was definitely worth the entrance fee. I remember two man-sized “vases” made of solid silver.

I only stayed in the retiring room (65 Rs.) for the day and took the next night train to Agra.

Agra and the Taj Mahal

Travelling to India and not having seen the Taj Mahal is probably like a Japanese person coming to Europe and then not having been to Rothenburg ob der Tauber. The touts at Agra station know this too. I hadn’t even touched the second step of the train when I got off when I was already being grabbed by three of them - they weren’t the halfway good-natured type you meet elsewhere, but really aggressive types who didn’t want to get out of the way. I had already been warned that if you take a taxi in Agra you have to add 10 Rs to the negotiated price because all foreigners are ALWAYS dropped off at two different shops where the taxi driver gets a 5 Rs commission for each trip. With the 10 Rs you could buy your way out of such forced stops and be driven directly to your destination.

In the early 1990s, the government realized that the exhaust fumes from numerous small-scale industrial plants – India has large coal reserves, which provide inexpensive fuel but have an extremely high sulfur and ash content by international standards – were corroding the Taj’s marble. As a result, several polluting plants were forcibly closed, which was done in a rather authoritarian manner – hitting the small ones first. The large industrial plants were too important to the local economy and also had enough money to defend themselves legally.

Since it was still chilly in the morning, I set off on foot. But I couldn’t walk more than 20 meters without being harassed by a tuk-tuk driver, so I took the bus to Agra Fort. The red sandstone fort is at least as impressive as the one in Delhi. I then walked to the Taj and arrived around 2 p.m.

My first impression after walking through the gate – you’ve seen plenty pictures of the Taj –and that’s all? Pretty small! The “Wow” experience arose only after I’d spent a few hours exploring the grounds. The inlay work is exquisite. Mumtaz Mahal’s coffin is surprisingly small9

Agra 

[For several years now, the "you travel, you rich, you pay" discrimination, which already triples to tenfold the prices in all other Indian museums, has been perfected. In 2012, Indians paid 25 Rs, foreigners 250 + 500 "special tax"! In 2021, the price to see the tombs was 1100 Rs + 200. Indians, on the other hand, pay only 50 Rs. Given this rip-off, it makes more sense to buy a nice photo calendar.
Now an then one meets Western tourists who, when faced with such practices, argue: “But it’s fair that we pay more because we’re soooo rich.” However, these are usually people who (normally the dried-up spinster type of females who get “triggered” by the word Negro), whenever the situation turns around, utter "that’s insulting/racist" or something similar. I have to answer them: Why doesn’t the German government introduce the following for museum entrance fees? Any visitor with black, oily, wavy hair, a high forehead, a sly look, a hooked nose and glasses pays ten times as much because “everyone knows that THESE people have money.”]

In the Taj I met an American woman travelling alone. Given the amount of hassles she was subjected to during her trip, I had a quiet walk in the park. She had real red hair down to her waist. Now, an estimated 99 % of Indians have black hair; the only red you can see is in the beards of older men who dye them with henna. She was constantly being stopped to pose for photos. Even in the Taj, which (see house rules) is free of touts and advances, middle-class Indian families (who could afford cameras) constantly came by and asked. While we were together, I was allowed to ask for baksheesh, true to local custom: “You want a picture? Five rupees. One picture, you pay rupees!” Very few people got the joke. The American woman took it in stride. After sunset, we took a tuk-tuk together; she was good at bargaining. 25 + 10 Rs for the seven kilometers. Halfway there, the driver wanted money. For once, not as a rip-off, but because he had to fill up exactly one liter (18 Rs.) to get to his destination. She then enjoyed the truly excellent Retiring Room shower before boarding the night train. I woke up the next day to a sound I hadn’t heard since I was about ten: the "chuk chuk" of a steam locomotive, which was actually on the platform.
For readers born after 1975:

Delhi

In the capital, I spent a few days at Paharganj Bazaar near New Delhi Railway Station. The actual purpose of my stay, however, was to apply for an Iranian visa. I had been warned that this was generally difficult for Westerners due to the political situation. So I looked up the address of the embassy, ​​which, unlike a.m.st all the others, is located in the diplomatic quarter (Chankyapuri), which is a bit outside the city. The tuk-tuk driver with whom I negotiated the price didn’t seem to know this. At first, he tried to charge a high price for the long distance and he didn’t budge even when I explained where he had to go. His excuse was ”heavy traffic in Delhi.” I could only laugh at that – I had been in Bangkok for a few weeks! We eventually came to an agreement. As I feared, I discovered at the Iranian consular office that the entry permit ($ 80?) had to be approved in Tehran, which would take at least six weeks and permission wasn’t guaranteed. I then abandoned the overland plan; I hadn’t had much hope anyway. (Alternative routes like the Karakoram Highway via China and the remnants of the Soviet Union didn’t exist at the time – due to the season alone. The states of the Arabian Peninsula were also still very difficult to travel to, so even a ride on a local cargo ship from Pakistan remained a theoretical possibility at best. And I don’t have as much money as the BBC, which was able to charter a dhow in the opposite direction for für Michael Palin. (7 part series Around the World in 80 Days with Michael Palin, 1989)

Amritsar

Side note on the political situation: When the Sikhs of Punjab fought for a separate federal state during the emergency (Vgl.: Bulletin of Concerned Asian Scholars, Vol. 7, № 4) declared by Indira Gandhi, the temple in which freedom fighters had barricaded themselves was stormed and damaged by the a.m. (1.–10. June 1984, officially 83 killed and 249 injured Indian soldiers. Rajiv Gandhi a.m.tted years later 700 dead soldiers. Equally for the Sikhs: officially 589 Tote, estimates 18–20000 dead all over Punjab) - in the Sikhs' view, this was simply desecration. Indira Gandhi, who also implemented sensible measures such as birth control during “the emergency” in 1977, was voted out of office in 1980 and replaced by a coalition led by Morarji Desai. He was even more corrupt than most Indian politicians are - he is remembered above all for his penchant for a glass of cow’s urine for breakfast. Indira and the Congress Party were re-elected after three years. In October 1984, the Prime Mistress was shot to death by two of her Sikh bodyguards in the garden of her residence in revenge for the storming of the temple.

Entry to the the interior of the Harmandir Sahib requires wearing a head covering; these are available for rent for a donation. At the Golden Temple, everyone leaving receives a sweet upon exiting. Within the complex, there is a canteen run by volunteers that serves free food throughout the day. There is also a pilgrim hostel, neither of which I used. Readings from the Sikh holy book are broadcast over loudspeakers throughout the day. At night, the holy book is “put to bed” in a special ceremony.

Around the temple, there were numerous booksellers selling interesting items. It was also striking that there were proper racing bikes with good gears for sale. Otherwise, there are only heavy, solid-iron Dutch bikes.

Crossing the border into Pakistan

February 4, 1994

The land crossing at Amritsar was the only possible route into Pakistan. At that time, Indians were only allowed to use it with ministerial approval. (The direct train and bus connections, which have since been established and interrupted, were not even contemplated at that time.) The conflict over Kashmir had once again reached a climax.

In Pakistan, there is a public holiday on February 5th (officially renamed Kashmir Solidarity Day in 1990) to mark the beginning of spring. Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto declared the previous day an additional holiday with the catchy title “Let’s Hate India Day.” Politicians on the opposing side responded by calling for a let’s hate, let’s hate India day counter-demonstration.

The opening hours reflected the level of hostility between the two countries: officially, 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. on both sides, but since the two countries are located in different time zones, the actual opening hours are shorter. The “grim” border closure ceremony, celebrated daily with great p.m. and circumstance, is actually a sign of détente and is practised communally!

The normal procedure for crossing the border at Wagah would have been as follows: About 200 meters before the border, pick up a checklist from the guardhouse at the entrance to the compound. Check out – each time with an entry in the thick book – at the various points: security check (general preliminary check), customs, currency control (no one had asked for the nominally still required form), passport control and march to the actual gate.

Waiting with me that day – it was unclear whether the border would be opened – were an Indian couple with diplomat’s passports, nine Tanzanians and a German “missionary” who alleged tha he was working in the Himalayas. In retrospect, I'm highly suspicious of this man. He had supposedly sent his three children home by plane from Delhi, but his passports hadn’t been stamped [Until about 2006 it was possible to have one’s children under 12 included in parent’s passport], which the border sergeant noticed. The wife was supposedly still at the mission in the mountains. The fact that he was in this place on this particular day suggests to me that he served more than one Lord … The sergeant really made a big fuss with the negroes. He loudly declared that all their visas were fake and that he couldn’t let them leave. I met one of the nine in Lahore two days later. For 150 Rs each, the visas became “real” very quickly.

We sat on the guardhouse veranda all day while busloads of protesters were shuttled back and forth (according to newspaper reports, around 20,000). There weren’t even any chai-wallahs that usually swarm around everywhere in India. Suddenly, about half an hour before official closing time, us white people were marched single file through the crowd to the border – a soldier with a rifle in front and behind. Coils of barbed wire on either side were opened a.m.ter – no one greeted each other and we were in Pakistan (a bit of fog on a bridge and it would have been like a John le Carré spy film). This was followed by the usual entry of all information in a thick book, followed by 20 minutes of relaxed, friendly questioning over tea in the Pakistani guard room about what we had seen on the other side.

Five days in Pakistan

The four of us then took a taxi to Lahore train station. From a distance, we repeatedly heard “ra-ta-ta-ta.” These were definitely not firecrackers, because in Pakistan, every MAN has a gun. Since the Russian invasion of Afghanistan in 1979, it’s often a Kalashnikov, or at least an imitation from the weapons factories in the border region. But the shooting was only into the air to celebrate the start of spring. Two days later, newspapers reported 85 people killed nationwide over the holidays. Most were children who fell while flying traditional kites on rooftop terraces that had no railings, but several people were also killed by bullets falling back down.

An uncle of mine worked as an aid worker in Lahore in the late 1970s; the reports he sent to his family every Christmas impressed me as a child. After three years, his wife had had enough because, for example, she wasn’t allowed to use a taxi on her own without her husband’s permission. I thought of that when a car hit a woman in front of the train station, causing her to fall with a heavy basket on her head. The male driver didn’t get out, but simply cursed the unfortunate woman out of the window. The Islamization of Pakistan was promoted by the military dictator Zia-ul-Haq (assassinated in 1988) for political reasons, after he had the overthrown popular Zulfiqar Bhutto, who was hanged in 1977. Unfortunately, things have continued to decline politically and economically since then.

At the train station, I got a nice room in a brand-new hotel, but it was suspiciously cheap. I soon discovered why: the window faced the bus station, where destinations were announced 24 hours a day.

Chip …

…  ’n’ Dale

n the morning, I sat in the park reading a newspaper, initially only visited by Chip ’n’ Dale, as I called them. Later, a Pakistani man wearing what the English call "Coke bottom glasses" sat so close to me that he could read along. I gladly gave him the newspaper.

He sat in defiance of municipal orders, astride the gun Zam-Zammah, on the brick platform opposite the old Ajab-Gher, the wonder house as the natives call the Lahore Museum.

Pakistan is, of course, still “Indian,” but it’s quieter, the hustlers are fewer and significantly less obnoxious. At the Lahore Museum, I had a pleasant conversation about history with an elderly gentleman, who waited 20 minutes to ask if I might like to visit his “cousin's” carpet shop. The museum, dating back to 1864, is a true colonial gem. The exhibits were just as worth seeing as the furnishings dating back to the Victorian era. Unfortunately, a documentary was being filmed, so some rooms were not accessible.

Train ticket Karachi–Lahore overnight express, plus supplement for the sleeper car. 

Booking a flight out proved to be tricky. Although I quickly settled on Turkish Airlines from Karachi to Istanbul, the travel agency only wanted to sell me a flight to a EU member country because they couldn’t believe that Germans didn’t need a visa or a return flight for Turkey. So I had to book a connecting flight to Athens – a total of a.m.st $ 400. While the ticket was being written (for younger readers (Tickets looked like this then:
) ), I went to the bank across the street to exchange the required amount of traveller’s cheques. At the teller they even asked to see the purchase receipts. Back at the travel agency, however, they now didn’t want to be paid in Pakistani rupees, but rather in foreign currency. What would I do with all the freshly exchanged money in the remaining three days? After some negotiation, they said the exchange certificate would be sufficient – ​​but that was in the bank’s wastebasket, which was due to close five minutes later, at 2:00 a.m. I fished it out just in time. Later, I saw in the classifieds that these certificates were being traded privately for about 10 % of their value (about $ 30). A nice extra income for the agency.

To Karachi, I treated myself to the overnight express sleeper car. After not having had any stomach problems in a.m.st six weeks, I got careless and bought myself an ice cream from the vendor on the platform. During my two days in Karachi, I saw a.m.st nothing but the hole in the pit toilet in the hotel room. I boarded the plane feverishly, driving the flight attendant crazy with my constant requests for fresh water (there were only 200 ml cups).

Istanbul

I arrived early in the morning, pretty exhausted and after a three-hour nap at the airport, I somehow made it to the central official youth hostel.

As in all Mediterranean countries, there is hardly any heating in Turkey. It was February 11 and sub-zero temperatures. The radiator in the house was lukewarm from 6:00 a.m. to 8:00 a.m. and in the evenings, but otherwise, there was an oil stove in the drafty conservatory where chai simmered and people gathered in jackets under a television blaring.

My fever was now consistently above 39 degrees Celsius. On the second day, I relented and moved into a private room at a nearby hotel, where I asked for a doctor's. At the outpatient clinic, a doctor who spoke good English gave me an injection, the standard Turkish remedy for fever. Unfortunately, I had talked too much about my stomach problems and neglected the stabbing headache in my forehead. So I was treated only for the “rumblings in the interior.” As it later turned out, I had a.m.ddle ear infection, which was causing the fever. (I wasn’t charged for the treatment, I only had to pay for the medication.) After three more days, my fever remained high. I went back to the outpatient clinic in the afternoon. The receptionist – a soul of a woman, even though we could only communicate using sign language—looked at me in shock. Unfortunately, it was already closing time, so they sent me to the emergency room of a large hospital.

The taxi driver [Istanbul was famous for its honest taxi drivers, probably unique in the world. That seems to have changed in recent years] thought I was too healthy, so he asked if I was going to see my Arkadash.” The doctor in the emergency room (we didn’t share a common language) also looked at me strangely when I held up my thermometer, which read 39.8 °C. He touched the back of my hand and, judging by his tone, said something like: What do you want? You idiot, you're cold. His opinion quickly when his own measurement also showed 39.6 °C. A young doctor who had studied in America was found and the middle ear infection was diagnosed – again, I was not allowed to pay the bill, which would have only been about $ 9. They gave me free samples of medication.

Two more days in bed and I was feeling reasonably well. I can only praise the doctors and medical care as exemplary. The hotel owner was also very understanding, even though I only left my room briefly for meals for five days.

Ticket to the Hagia Sophia.

I didn’t see much of Istanbul during those ten days. Actually I only went to the Hagia Sophia. Most of the interior of its dome was covered in scaffolding. I couldn’t even resell the flight to Athens for $ 20. (Back then, you could still check someone in and they would then fly under a "false name" with their boarding pass.)

From Istanbul to Vienna by bus

I booked a bus to Munich (approx. $ 70) at a travel agency with a young Turkish returnee from Berlin – she strongly advised against that and insisted on selling me a flight for $ 95 – rightly so, as it turned out later. At that time, one still needed transit visas for Bulgaria and Romania, which cost $ 24. It was possible to get them at the border, but cheaper to get them beforehand. Romania was completely hassle-free. I had to go to the Bulgarian consulate on the other side of the Golden Horn. I applied at eleven in the morning and finished at two after their lunch break.

At the Istanbul bus station, the three drivers were busy removing two rows of seats in the back of the bus. The bus was a little more than half full. Apart from two Israelis who were traveling to Budapest, I was the only “foreigner.” All other passengers were Turkish, many of whom had already been naturalized in Austria – all of them with large luggage, including complete doner kebab grills.

I slept through the first night in Bulgaria on lousy country roads and there was a longer delay when we waited six hours for the Danube ferry in Romania. The journey through wintry Eastern Europe itself was bleak. One passenger was a.m.st forgotten at a Hungarian rest stop. The drivers took turns snoring in the back seat, cooking their soup on a spirit stove near the removed seats.

“Good ol times”? Transit visas for Bulgaria and Romania. 

The border crossing from Hungary to Austria (on my birthday) was unpleasant, to say the least. The two border stations were a few hundred meters apart. However, the customs officers cooperated. The Hungarian called the Austrian and informed him that the bus drivers were carrying a travel bag containing about 50 cartons of cigarettes. Now the drivers were professionals – between the borders, the contents of the bag mysteriously disappeared into various places on the bus: “Let the games begin!” After no one declared more than the permitted number of cigarettes (I had my legal carton from the airport in Karachi), the search began. Everyone was thrown out and waited next to the bus for 45 minutes at approximately -6 °C. Entering the heated lounge and using the toilet were explicitly forbidden. After searching all the hand luggage left behind on the bus (the contents were simply tipped onto the seats), they were ordered to line up next to the luggage from the storage compartment.

The “charme“ of Austrian customs officers was once again evident (I was given a smack in the face on New Year’s morning 1986, arriving from Yugoslavia at 4 a.m. by a border guard who was obviously drunk because, in his opinion, I didn’t look up quickly enough while I was still half asleep tying my shoes!). Each passenger was questioned about the contents of their luggage, boxes were opened, etc. In short: Customs officer to the naturalized Turkish citizen on my left: What’s in there? Open up! Quick, quick! Then lookin at me (backpack next to me): Do you have anything to declare? No. What’s in your bag? Clothes and stuff. Thank you (backpack unopened). To the Turk on my right: Oi! Open up, quick, quick! What’s wrong with you? Felix Austria. All cigarettes were accounted for, added up and the Turks were charged a flat rate per person. Maybe someone should drive over the bridge to Braunau again and clean up among the officials? [This refers to March 12, 1938, when Hitler drove accross into his native town annexing Autria to the Reich.]

Arriving after three days on the bus in Vienna, I’d had enough of the uncomfortable seats; the engine kept developing problems that caused it to stall. I got off and visited friends in the Bucklige Welt [“Land of a thousand hills” an area about 60 km south of Vienna].

• 
  Cambodia 2009
• 
  India 2008

15 years later I was in India again, this time from east to west: » Following the Buddha: “You travel, you rich, you pay!”