"Was?"
"She died three months ago while on assignment in Colombia covering the FARC revolutionaries. Tragic accident."
"Oh! May she rest in peace."
"I doubt it. If she goes about death the way she lived life, there's no rest."
"You must tell me about Marisol."
"I will. Later."
A gentle smile plays around the corners of her mouth that says she knows. Though I don't know knows what.
***
Marisol. Short form of MarΓa de la Soledad. Literally "Mary of the solitude". A title given to the Virgin Mary.
And yet, coincidentally, Marisol sounds like "mar y sol", Spanish for "sea and sun".
That duality. That was Marisol.
***
Alex, first time in India, whips out her Nikon. She is shooting away, out of the car window, in confused rapt fascination. I wonder what stream of consciousness is coursing through her mind.
She needs some away time from her husband. I get a sense that their relationship is strained. Though I don't know anything for sure. These things, they are complicated. This trip is so perfect for her.
***
The driver blasts his way through a crowded street. Takes a corner with reckless abandon. Cleaves through dhotis and saris, trotting rickshaws and overladen carts pulled by abused bullocks, or by an equally scrawny human team.
As only happens in India, or rather in Calcutta, the driver gets out at a traffic light, opens the hood and feeds the thirsty engine with water. At another set of lights, he starts a chat with a neighbouring taxi driver, gets out and walks over to his compatriot for a more engaged banter.
Finally, his taxi, which has outperformed all first-world Mercedes-Benzes in usefulness and lifespan, grinds to a halt.
***
The lonely planet of the backpacker. Asia. Bangkok has its Khao San Road. Kathmandu, Thamel. Ho Chi Minh, PhαΊ‘m NgΕ© LΓ£o Street. Hanoi's Old Quarter. Singapore, Bencoolen Street. Penang, Chulia Street. Hong Kong, Nathan Road. Bali, Kuta.
These backpacker enclaves, scattered like raw unpolished gems across Asia, are more than mere destinations. They are sanctuaries for the weary traveler, crucibles of culture and camaraderie. Every alley and avenue offers a new adventure, a new story to be told. Here, under the watchful gaze of ancient deities and buzzing neon glow, the spirit of exploration is alive, vibrant and eternal.
Consider Khao San Road in the throbbing heart of Bangkok. It pulses with a rhythm all its own. Neon lights flicker like fireflies in the humid night air, casting a surreal glow over the throngs of travelers. The aroma of pad thai and mango sticky rice wafts through the air, mingling with the scent of incense and the salty tang of sweat. Here, the night is alive with possibility, a cacophony of music and laughter echoing through the narrow alleys. Every bar and hostel, every streetside stall, tells a tale of serendipitous encounters and ephemeral connections.
And then, in the backstreets of Hanoi's Old Quarter, the narrow lanes are a symphony of sound and colour. Motorbikes weave through the maze-like streets, their horns creating a discordant yet harmonious soundtrack. Street vendors call out their wares. The sizzle of bÑnh mì and the rich aroma of pho tantalising the senses. Under the soft glow of lanterns, travelers share stories over bia hƑi, the laughter and camaraderie weaving a tapestry of shared human experience.
Romantic charm, even if dank and musty in parts.
***
To write a backpacker travelogue, I have to live it. I am back on Sudder Street.
It is the end of a winter day. The twilight gives the street a peaceful aura. For a moment I have the illusion I have come home.
A sense of Nietzsche's eternal recurrence. What if I live the same life over and over again, every victory, every loss, every happy, every sad moment? What will I make of my life then? Will I rejoice or despair at the prospect?
The street vendors are still there, their devotee backpackers ranged round for chow mein and chai. At street corners, in the lanes off Sudder Street, small groups of Bengalis and backpackers trying to go native, negotiating the hash or sharing remedies for illnesses private and universal.
Beside us, a hand-bell clangs and a rickshaw wallah asks a hopeful "Rickshaw?" as if he has waited faithfully for my return.
After shrugging off the cab driver's obligatory demand for more money, we make for the landmark red front of the Salvation Army hostel.
The moustachioed warden in a grey safari suit assigns us two upper beds close to each other, in a dank room with a few straggling straws of light.
I clamber on board, as does Alex. The structure trembles, its groans rousing the slumbering figure on the lower bed. Bodies persecuted by all classes of illness have slept on these beds. The holey bedsheet is testimony again to the Indian ingenuity in making things serve beyond their natural lifespan. I shift to find the best position.
An invigorating smell seeks my senses. An unmistakably Calcuttan odour brew that I find especially strong in the Red Shield hostel. A mustiness laced with strong disinfectant, dim mildewed rooms and damp mattresses. The odour of a place that has been inhabited continuously by shoestring travellers.
In a yet earlier trip, I bunked here with a Japanese volunteer at Mother Teresa's, a Japanese-American artist on a three-year trip around the world, and a Korean who with his mountain bike was attempting to travel overland from India to China via Nepal. In those days, the blackouts were more frequent. We would sit around the candles and share our life stories.
I wonder where they are now. How easy the friendships of the road are. Especially in India. It has a way of connecting people that no other country can.
Perhaps that is why I have come back, not just for the writing assignment, but to connect or reconnect, to find a permanent solution to the restlessness in me.
***
Calcutta is falling apart. Or rather hanging together at the seams. But it looks as if it is going to survive for a few centuries yet, and will probably be standing when the First World metropolises have accelerated to common doom.
The same claptrap buses ply the routes. Buses used elsewhere in the 1960s and early 70s. Two conductors leaning out from the doorless front and back exits, shouting out the destinations of their route, banging the bus to slow down for passengers getting off or on.
The sidewalk on Nehru Road is again unearthed. Men clothed in lungis and dust go at it with shovels and picks. You don't see jackhammers and bulldozers. What you see is sheer human capital strength, the endurance, the ability to take all the blows that life deals you and remain standing.
Beside the Indian Museum, the hillock of refuse that I saw on my first trip is there still, with bird and human scavengers sifting it. Along the pavement the homeless have pitched their lean-tos out of cardboard, straw matting, odd bricks, plastic sheets, broken timber. Anything they can lay their hands on. In the evenings, you can see their meagre cooking fires, parents, grandparents and children huddled around the warmth.
On Sundays, a Hindu charity sets up a makeshift kitchen. Flocks of children queue to get their ration of dhal and rice. The same charity also holds pavement classes. The few children sit around a volunteer with a pencil and exercise book, a reprieve from begging, or scavenging, or slaving away in the shops or restaurants.
Off Sudder Street is a Punjabi restaurant called Khalsa. It is my fave eating place. Low ceilinged. Kitchen dim as a cave. The staff are boys in well used singlets and shorts working at the fires, rolling out the chapattis and executing the orders. I recognise a few faces. They have grown a few inches. In India, you cling on to your job for dear life and do not complain about working the whole day, seven days a week. At the counter an impressively turbaned Sikh presides, bellows orders without any show of exertion, adding up the bill on a board with white chalk, so customers leave impressed by Sikh honesty.
The German who was on my air flight earlier is there. Grimace still on his face, poking at the food exploratorily, searching for that something that he doesn't wish to find.
So is Etienne, our roommate, a freelance photographer. Calcutta is fertile ground for the camera's eye, every moment a photographable instant.
"How's it going?"
"Good. Shot a lot of street scenes. I found a street where I sat the whole day and caught all the moods and characters. I come back every year for this, and the hash, of course."
