The ferry from Ceylon had just docked at the port of Dhanushkodi, India. The humidity was high and the sun was burning fiercely. My fellow passengers were all workers of the lower caste.

I stepped ashore in India for the first time and felt excited and thrilled, with my backpack firmly sitting upon my back. The next moment, I was surrounded by swarms of Indian porters, all of whom were struggling to take hold of my pack and carry it for me. I protested and called out, "I do not want anyone to carry my pack." What a fight I had to retain my backpack! These Indians were not used to Europeans carrying their own possessions!

I fought my way to the railway station where a train was waiting. I went to the ticket office and began to see how the Indian system worked. I was told I needed a 1st Class ticket as I was European. I protested and demanded and purchased a 3rd class ticket to Guntakal.

Soon, I was seated amongst the poorest people I had ever known, most of whom were dressed in just a loincloth. The seats were wooden and not very wide. At one end of the carriage, were chickens and pigs tied to the seats. The stench was overpowering. Everyone stared at me as I was unusual travelling in this manner. The Indians were very friendly and smiled at me. Soon the train was moving and, before long, everyone was eating a strange assortment of food. Banana leaves were used as plates to hold bananas, dried fish and chapattis, a form of flat round bread cooked over a charcoal fire.

The Indians began lighting up brown cigarettes that were really tobacco leaves. These emitted a pungent aroma and soon filled the carriage with clouds of smoke. The carriages had openings for windows but no actual glass in the opening, so everyone hurled all their rubbish and food leftovers through these openings. At many stops, a variety of vendors came to the side of the train and offered a great variety of food. They all had little stalls on wheels and passed over tea (chai) in little glasses. This tea was very sweet. Small bowls of rice, bananas, oranges - even cooked fish was passed through the open spaces. Everyone handed over Indian rupees in exchange. A very good meal was obtained for about 20 cents. This was cheap to me, but expensive to the Indians.

All of the passengers called me sahib, that was their name for a white man. This was a long journey and the friendly Indians soon started passing their own food to me. I thought this most hospitable and was overwhelmed by their generosity. All through the night, the train sped along. The night air was cooling and very welcome. I tried to stretch out as my legs started to ache on the wooden seats.

The Indians started chewing betel-nut and every now and again they spat out a stream of red-colored liquid. Much of the spittle went outside the carriage, and the rest soon covered the floor of the carriage. At the various station stops, many of the occupants left the train and urinated anywhere they could find. They also just let ‘everything’ go as they squatted. This was carried out at any suitable place on the platform or surrounding area. When walking on Indian platforms, you need to dodge the piles of human waste that accumulate. It was better than relieving oneself in the carriage, I guess.

This type of travel is definitely not for the squeamish!

I arrived at Guntakal at about 5 a.m. in the morning and was met by an Indian porter from the Service Civil International. I had previously arranged to be a volunteer worker, helping construct pipelines to carry water for a group of Aboriginal Indians living in a village deep in the interior. This porter refused to let me carry my backpack and swung it over his back. Then he made a motion for me to follow him. We set out along through the village and were soon in thick jungle-like surroundings. We walked for what seemed hours and hours, climbing hills and struggling through dense woodlands. We never stopped once for a rest. I heard all kinds of strange noises and wondered if I would see a tiger. I saw nothing except one monkey. Most likely, the tigers were watching me from their hiding places.

We arrived at a clearing where various tents were erected, and I was greeted by an international team of workers. One guy was from Finland, another from Poland and two girls were from France. The leader was an Englishman called Little John. By now, it was quite dark and we all sat down to supper, during which we exchanged stories . I slept under the stars inside my sleeping bag.

Next day, I toiled in the hot sun, digging trenches with pick and shovel, then laying pipes for the water to flow through. This was a wonderful experience of manual labor on a voluntary basis, and I felt proud to be achieving something for a group of people who had very little in life. In those days, projects like these were going on all over the under-developed world. All were volunteers with no pay. Very similar to the American Peace Corps that was established much later.

Food was a simple arrangement of bananas with rice or chapattis, washed down with tea.

After a period of time spent there, I moved on to the city of Hyderabad where I stayed at the YMCA. I was interviewed by the local newspaper and given a good write-up about what I was doing. I soon made friends with some of the Indian residents and slept in a room with a student. We exchanged ideas and spent long hours in the evening at local tea shops. I found this very romantic and thrilling as we sat in dark rooms with oil lamps, whilst mozzies buzzed busily around.

During a conversation, the Indian custom was to purchase just one cigarette to smoke, they being unable to afford more than one. Whenever I accompanied a student into one of these cafés I was soon surrounded by other students, all wanting to chat to me.

There were questions like, "Where are you from?" "What is your profession?" "What are you doing in India?"

In all, I had a wonderful time. One of the students arranged for me to have a hired bicycle and I rode all over the city, exploring alleyways, mosques and temples. I also had my first ride in a bicycle rickshaw. I was excited to see the lovely Indian girls with jet black plaited hair, dressed in saris of every color of the rainbow. I think the sari is the most feminine and beautiful style of dress in all the world. I enjoyed this kaleidoscope of color as these gorgeous girls wandered about, most carrying a parasol above their heads to keep the fierce sun off.

In India there are many English newspapers and I was amused by reading the matrimonial columns.

"Beautiful girl for Biss Agarwal Singal, 22. F.A. settled. Rich family. Contact . . ."

"Settled bachelor, age 36, all alone, desires matrimony with good-natured poor girl, orphan or working girl. Any religion. Refugees and working girls preferred. Write in confidence . . ."

In India, most marriages are arranged by the parents.

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I moved on to Delhi by local bus and train. This was the capital of India and is quite a modern metropolis. I visited a tea shop in Connaught Circus and was soon surrounded by Indian Students, all asking the inevitable questions, and also making me feel welcome. One of these students was a Sikh, who invited me to stay with him in his university quarters. This was very enlightening for me as I learned a great deal about the Sikhs. I was surprised to hear and see that Sikh boys never ever cut their hair from the day they are born. Indeed, his jet-black hair stretched all the way to the floor. In the morning, he gathered up his hair and coiled into a bun on top of his head and then placed a turban over all. Now I understood why turbans are worn by Sikh men.

I wrote a travel article on my travelling experiences for the Hindustan Times, which is a newspaper published in English. The small amount money I received for my contribution helped keep the wolf away from the door.

Also, because of this, I received a great many letters from Indians inviting me to visit them.

Here is an example of the actual letters I received:
  

I was extremely touched by all these fabulous letters from wellwishers. Indians are wonderfully friendly and rightfully famous for their hospitality.

When I visited Indians at their request I could have stayed for months and months as they never wanted me to leave.

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On another excursion in my wanderings around Delhi, I visited a shop that appeared unusual and began to talk to the proprietor. This Indian ushered me into the back of the shop and told me he collected blood samples of famous people. He wanted a sample of my blood, so I obliged. The walls were covered with names and samples of blood. Some of the names I recognised. Most peculiar, I thought. One never knows what will turn up. During our conversations, he told me about Indian wives who wanted extra-marital sex.

I was told that he himself obliged in this regard and spent many afternoons servicing the ladies concerned. He suggested that I might be interested as I would be a sought-after man, since I was white. I politely declined and gave an excuse of urgent matters I had to attend to.

I was most fortunate to meet a member of the Indian Parliament, who invited me to stay at his home. The house was a mansion with many rooms. I was welcome to come and go as I pleased. He had a beautiful wife and I was impressed that he left me alone with her at all times . This was most unusual. She and I got along just fine. We had fantastic discussions. I was told how she was married with her parents choosing her husband.

I was surprised, as she had been to university and I imagined she would have been different. I was assured by my host that she was very happy with her parents' choice and intimated that parents always know what is best for their offspring.

Westerners find this hard to comprehend. I must admit there is a great deal of commonsense in some cases for parents to choose the bride. After all, they have known their son all their lives. In the present society in the west, the prevailing desire of boys and girls to choose their own bride or groom has not been such a marvellous success.

One morning, I noticed she was cleaning her teeth with a tiny twig from a tree. I questioned her about this and she said, "The twigs are from special trees." Most Indians have wonderful sparkling white teeth.

A typical scene in India includes the Street Dentists. A qualified dentist can been seen extracting teeth out in the open air. The patient sits in a chair under the sky, patiently waiting for the dentist to commence extracting his infected tooth.

The dentist usually advertises his trade by a huge set of TEETH mounted at the front of his shop. I considered this enough to frighten anybody away!

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During this period, I was invited to many homes and was richly entertained, and enjoyed a great many meals with Indian hosts, who were so hospitable. Nothing was ever any trouble. Many was the time I was picked up by the host in his car and transported to their humble abode. Nearly always, they insisted on taking me back to where I was staying. I will never ever forget this kindness on their part.

India captures you for life, or you hate India and never want to go back again.

Myself, I love India. I returned later . . .


- Nomad

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