Popagandhi

Much has been said of airports. Of the Global Village gathered in this one place, of the microcosms they form, its elite money-making sons and daughters of all tribes scurrying between here and there, its migrant sons and daughters scurrying from here to there, its holiday-making sons and daughters just scurrying, scurrying, scurrying. In the special place known as the airport, which never sleeps, and strangely enough for an operation that is premised on the duty of receiving and sending off, sends off and welcomes with cold, hard acronyms: LAX, JFK, SGP, BKK, in which SGD is as welcome as RMB, KRW, GBP, and of course, USD is welcome anywhere in the world, airports or no.

The point of this is not to extol the airport. Far from it. For someone who purports to be a lady of leisure and travel, I certainly take to air travel a lot less fondly than I am assumed to. For flying on its own is the most mundane form of transportation ever invented. Yes, mundane. There are more ridiculous forms of transportation ââ�¬â�� the slow and unstable toy trains (Siliguri to Darjeeling, 83 kilometres, 8 hours), the boat to Luang Prabang (slow boat: 2 days 1 night, bad toilets; fast boat: 6 hours, needs crash helmets on board and stomach for F1-speeds-on-dingy-boats) ââ�¬â�� but they are never mundane. Air travel is an industry entirely based upon the idea that hundreds need to suffer, put at risk of deep vein thrombosis, bad food and ââ�¬â�� worse still, the ugliest and fattest stewardesses ââ�¬â�� such that the select few who cannot stomach suffering may hand over the equivalent of some people’s annual income in order to recline 180 degrees and eat with proper cutlery.

If you don’t believe me when I say air travel is mundane, just think: the quality of an airline, and its ability to charge a premium, it seems, lies entirely with offerings as mundane as the ability to play Nintendo games. That’s not factoring in the other negative externalities accrued to a passenger such as myself, such as how the 24/7 screaming babies seem to occur 500% more frequently than on the ground, how men of all ethnicities enjoy taking out their shoes and airing feet which haven’t been washed in years, in addition to the worst moment of social awkwardness ever known to humankind: having to go to the toilet in the middle of or after an airline meal, attendants don’t seem to be much concerned with removing used trays, and your neighbour has to solve the puzzle of tiling your tray above his such that you may get up from your seat, lifting that mass and risking split orange juice and leftovers, inclining his legs slightly to the outside, then repeating the whole damn thing when you return.

Bus stations, on the other hand, are underrated. Unlike airports there are no yes-ma’ams and after-you-sirs, no check ins and no final calls. Boarding and alighting are simple affairs involving no security personnel or long queues. Airports, being placed so far from the city, take too much time to get to and get out of, such that the cottage industry of people who want you to Spend A Lot Of Money To Get To And Out Of Airports has sprung up and is doing booming business. Being the first and last points of contact for most travellers, it’s no secret that many nations attempt to put on their best front and best behaviour, as they would in a shop window ââ�¬â�� Singapore’s Changi being the leading example. Bus stations cut closer to the heart of the city with no pretense or disguise.

While it’s so easy for anyone to call an agent to book a tour package or an air ticket, the idea of overland travel assumes you know where you’re going and where from and how to get there. You figure out what time the buses depart, if you need to book in advance or simply show up. You figure out where they’re at; you can’t just hop into a taxi and say “bus station” the same way you say “airport” ââ�¬â�� if you’re headed for Cambodia through Hat Lek then you go to Ekkamai, if you’re headed for Cambodia through Aranyaprathet then you go to Morchit. If “arrival” at an airport is a ritualistic procedure with its arrival hall, its economy (duty free shopping) and its shrine around the baggage carousel, arriving by bus into a new country feels the same as alighting at school, at Orchard Road, as if everyone thinks you’ve just gotten here to drop off something at a library and nobody bothers you about it. Unless you’re in Siem Reap. Or Kolkata.

The near riot in Siem Reap when a bus from Phnom Penh pulls up. Taxi! Tuk Tuk! Moto? Guesthouse? Battambang? Sihanoukville? But I just got here ââ�¬â�� I don’t want to go to Battambang! A lone man amongst these touts stands in his corner under the shade, with a look of serenity. He merely holds up a sign: “I do not want to hassle you. Only to take you to guesthouse. Come.”

Arrive at Kolkata’s Dum Dum (or Netaji Chandra Bose, as the state communist government prefers) airport and the street kids run after you (knowing you’ve come by Thai Airways via Bangkok) shouting, Auntie Auntie give me Thai baht!

Pull into Kolkata at the Esplanade bus stand and a boy struts up to you yelling, Auntie Auntie, you want chai? One rupee normal, two rupees special. Of course I want chai. Of course I do.