Seat of Our Pants » transport

She Made It!

Martin — Wed, 21 Apr 2010 15:02:15 +0000

Word from San Diego is that my Mother in law made it back to the States, safe and sound. Considering that she was on one of only two aircraft that flew that route during the week of the volcanic cloud, she was insanely lucky to make it.

So here’s to hoping that the troublesome eruptions are over, and that all travelers can go back to looking at the news without having to worry that the situation has changed in the last four hours. Cheers!

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The Spark

Martin — Wed, 31 Mar 2010 19:44:07 +0000

This is me on a Swedish Spark. The word translates to “kick”. It is a little thing that we use to transport ourselves up here in the north of Sweden. It may look weird and archaic (it is), but it is really quite a convenient way of getting around. Speed wise it ranks up there in between running and bicycling, and it takes only thirty seconds to learn.

Unfortunately the Spark is totally dependent on an icy surface, or I’m sure it would go on and replace cars in many parts of the world.

Also available in blue

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Oh, the Unfairness of it All!

Martin — Sun, 21 Mar 2010 15:40:04 +0000

Traveling in India throws unexpected things your way more often than not. Flying, I’ve come to learn, is no exception. Take for example the security lines. Since men and women have the right to be frisked by members of their own gender, the lines are segregated by sex. Fair enough, but what about the fact that 90% of travelers are men? That makes no difference to India’s airport authorities: there is one line for men and one for women. The fallout? I have to wait in line for 45 minutes, while Wifey sails through in twenty seconds.

Other than that, I have pretty much nothing bad to say about flying in India. The low-cost airlines behave like it’s 1985, serving meals and snacks on one-hour flights. The staff is professional, nice and plentiful. Take note, US and European airlines.

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Personal Space Revisited

Jaime — Fri, 19 Mar 2010 04:49:32 +0000

It was ten days ago that I reveled in Martin’s encounter with a cuddly Indian man. I laughed. I thoroughly enjoyed his awkward half-smile, half-grimace when it was happening. I made fun of him for days.

Well, karma is a b-tch. I just spent our two hours of our bus ride from Miao in Arunachal Pradesh to Tinsukia in Assam with this grease-ball on my shoulder.

I believe that makes us even. Hear that, universe! Personal space is now officially reinstated.

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Getting Into Arunachal Pradesh

Martin — Thu, 18 Mar 2010 05:49:35 +0000

Traveling out here sure has its quirks and oddities. Like the other day when we tried to cross into Arunachal Pradesh from Assam. To the horror of the border guards, we attempted to do this on a public bus. This could simply not be permitted: nay, we had to have our own vehicle. Unlike the usual foreigner out here (mostly oil men and missionaries), we could only afford a scrappy little auto rickshaw for the last 25 kilometers to Miao.

Bump-eee.

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The Big Fingernail Incident of 2010

Jaime — Thu, 11 Mar 2010 12:50:12 +0000

I’m a girl and girls sometimes cry. We can’t help it. Well, I can’t help it at least, especially when I’m tired. One wrong word or move and I become a fountain. Combine exhaustion, near constant bus rides and a new hotel every night. The result: a recipe for Jaime Disaster. This week’s trigger was, embarrassingly enough, a fingernail.

You all remember my A-mazing basket, right? Well, the damn thing is still with us. I’ve become so stubborn about using it that any hope of transitioning back to a daypack is gone. Anyway, the basket was riding on the top of the bus with our backpacks (it’s too large to ride with us inside). A few hours into our drive the driver was reorganizing the bags and accidentally knocked my basket off the back of the bus.

What did I do when I saw this happening? I lunged at the dumb basket, fearing it’s destruction, and bent a fingernail back. Now, we’ve all had a fingernail bend back. It hurts. But you get over it, right? Apparently not when you’re as tired as I was. My face immediately puckered in all the wrong places and my chin burst into a fit of quivering: my precursor to a fountain.

To avoid a scene, I climbed into our van. The tears were falling and to make matters worse, our bus-mates were all Tibetan. Tough as nails, they lose a foot and keep on walking type of people. And here I was sobbing over a bent fingernail. Martin of course was there to comfort me, which calmed me down enough to dry my eyes. A few minutes passed and one of our bus-mates brought over two band aids.

Did I thank him in a calm, cool and collected manner? Of course not. I burst into a fresh explosion of tears and was unable to say a word. So my fellow westerners, I’m sorry to say it, but I did nothing to prove our toughness to the people of Arunachal Pradesh. In fact, I’d go as far as saying I made us look like big-fat-cry-babies.

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Personal Space – A Relative Term, Really

Jaime — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 05:13:00 +0000

Personal space means one thing to us and something all together different to Indians. When I board a bus at home (San Francisco), I hope that the empty seat next to me stays empty. It’s not because I’m antisocial (no, no – of course not). It’s because I like my space, especially on public transportation. I’m sure we all feel that way. Right?

Anyway, knowing this about me, you can imagine how much patience – how many happy places – I need to find to travel on buses in India. I’ll give you an example. Today we took a public bus from the Kaziranga National Park to Tezpur, a short two hour ride. All the normal seats were full when we boarded, so we sat in the front with the driver – and four other people.

Before you start feeling bad for us (it’s not time for that yet), let me explain the lay-out of the driver’s area. The cab is divided into three sitting areas, built to seat three people, maybe four if they’re tiny. The driver occupies one area. The second area is a bench that lines the passenger-side door. The third is a platform that fills the space between these two.

OK – still with me? Good. Now, we climbed into this space and shared the door-bench with a man who was so thin I was afraid he’d drift away. So, no problem fitting the three of us on the door. There was a man squeezed behind the driver and the middle section had just one man on it and. So we were good, right?

Right!

For five minutes. Then, just when I start thinking we’ll ride in comfort, the bus pulls over in the middle of nowhere to pick up another passenger. This is when our luck ran out. Into the drivers compartment rolled (how do I put this lightly?) a rotund man. The middle platform was now full of this man, some of which was drooping onto our knees.

Clearly he could feel us spearing his side – I checked and I could neither see my knee cap nor get a good estimate of how far it was into his side. Three inches is my best guess. Did this man adjust, wiggle or politely ask if we could move (though we quite literally could not)?

No. He actually leaned into us. Once to read the newspaper on the Thin Man’s lap and a second time to use our knees as some kind of messed up backrest.

How did the other man in the middle-bench react to such liberal use of personal space? Like a champ. He simply went from a sitting position to curling up into Martin’s lap to make a phone call. Never mind the invasion of my personal space. Life is good when your Scandinavian husband has an Indian man curled up in his lap.

***I have to apologize for the quality of the picture on this one. Its noteasy catching anything while drving in an Indian bus

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1st Class Train Restaurant

Martin — Sat, 20 Feb 2010 10:03:19 +0000

This is the ‘restaurant car’ of the 1st class train from Naba to Mandalay: two guys carrying a couple of buckets full of chicken feet, fried fish, eggs, veggies and rice. The service is fast and friendly, and the two restauranteurs are trailed by a person selling water and strong drink.

We went with the vegetarian option. The strong drink was welcome too, believe me.

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I Just Don’t Get These Things

Jaime — Thu, 18 Feb 2010 09:59:17 +0000

These things are a mystery to me. You see them driving around Mandalay – presumably they’re some form of public transport – but I haven’t seen one outside the city. What I don’t understand is two-fold:

1. Where the heck is the engine (it’s front-end is 12 inches long – that’s not big enough to hold a bus engine, right)?

2. Why does it need to sit so high? What is that, like 14 inches from frame to wheel?

Anyway, I think they’ve been here since the turn of the century, so I should cut them a little slack. Needless to say, Martin and I haven’t ventured into using one. God only knows where we’d end up.

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How NOT to Buy a Train Ticket in Myanmar

Jaime — Sun, 14 Feb 2010 22:17:09 +0000

“Martin! Get your backpack on, I think we have to make a run for it.”

We’d arrived at the train station ten minutes earlier. After a leisurely stroll to find a good place to put our bags down we’d played our usual game of rock-paper-scissors to see who bought the tickets. I’d lost and had sauntered over to the ticket booth and patiently waited for a throng of pushing locals to get their tickets. When no one else was left I’d asked the ticket agent if they sold tickets to Mandalay.

“PASSPORT!” was his reply. A train bell began to ring in the distance. I handed over our passports.

“Um, do you have any tickets in upper-class sleepers – you know, sleeping cabins?” I’d lost him, I could tell. He understood very little English – but what did I expect? We were in the middle-of-nowhere Myanmar.

“FIRST CLASS TICKET,” he said while filling out our tickets as fast as his pudgy hand could go. The man seemed a bit on edge, but the urgency of the matter hadn’t registered with me yet.

“OK, first class sounds pretty good. Which train is it?”

“That train,” his associate pointed to a train that was pulling away from the station.

This was when I yelled my instructions to Martin. After a quick exchange of money, the station manager was running full tilt toward the front of the train, waving his arms and screaming “Touris. Touris. Touris!” The ticket man, who had our ticket and passports in hand, grabbed me and started running in the same direction.

Who was left in the dust of all this confusion: Martin with all of our backpacks (we counted last night in a fit of laughter – they weigh 115 lbs in total). In a move driven by pure desperation, he picked them all up and started to run – well, I’m not sure it qualified as running, per se – after his yelling wife.

“Come on, Martin! We can’t miss this train.” I yelled over my shoulder while running as fast as I could.

Fortunately for us, the “Touris. Touris” yell worked. The train had stopped to allow the two tourists – one bright-eyed and laughing, the other sweaty and so out of breath it took 10 mintues to crack a smile – to board their 1st class car.

Unfortunately, this scene was witnessed by no less than 500 locals – all, and I mean all, of whom were laughing their asses off. That, and our 1st class seats turned out to be wood-backed benches.

It’s pretty safe to say that Martin will be buying train tickets from now on.

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