PATHANKOT, India - Three types of buses serve the main routes in India: local buses, where a seat isn't guaranteed, deluxe buses, which are for tourists, and air conditioned buses, which supposedly exist but I've yet to see one.
There are things considered luxuries in India that even in China would be considered normal. Take for instance, water. I'm used to living in a place with limited hot water, but I'd never heard of a place where the actual water tap could be cut off. At our wonderful guesthouse in Dharmsala, a bright yellow colonial building with a dramatic view down a steep, pine-filled gorge, the water ran only six hours a day. Washing hands at three in the afternoon required bottled water.
Already I've seen dozens of Indians ravaged by diseases that China and many other developing countries eradicated years ago. The number of lepers on the streets of Dharmsala is amazing for a small town in the mountains. Here in this transit city we've seen so many people without legs, arms or with body parts blown up with elephantitis.
I arrived in this transit town on a local bus, the first one we've taken this trip. It was a warhorse -- the company name hand painted in white on the outside and a boxy frame with spherical headlights that would have been in style just after independence. But it ran fine, and after a series of stops at small towns outside of Dharmsala it was packed fill of locals with a few foreigners mixed in.
Another one of those "luxuries" one does without on the Indian transport system is a toilet (although given how many rural bathrooms smell in this part of the country, that's probably a blessing), and bathroom are determined by what roadside stall the driver wants to frequent. We were over two hours into a descent out of the Himalayan foothills before the bus released its air brakes and the hordes descended on the loo.
I went first for a samosa, asking the shopkeeper where I could find a bathroom. He shook his head.
"No," he said. "Go over there."
He pointed down the road to a broad, damp field on the bank of a small stream. I think the man wanted me to use this field as a bathroom, but it seemed wide-open to passing by local residents. I spied on the far side of the field a small concrete structure that resembled a latrine. On close inspection it did turn out to be a bathroom, with two large toilets labeled "ladies" on one side and two small stalls for "gents" on the other.
I went inside, and started to release two liters of water and an orange soda when I heard a huge DUNK! on the door. I would have wet my pants if that wasn't already in progress. Something hit the tin door of the latrine. I continued to go until 15 seconds later I heard the same sound again.
DUNK!
Right after this second impact I heard the unmistakeable sound of children giggling in the same direction of the projectile. I was being stoned by school children.
I left the latrine; I had no choice. The bus would leave any minute, and this primitive toilet had no emergency exit. I assumed a confindent gait and marched back toward the main street. It seemed to work, as I came out I saw three children in blue and white school uniforms sprinting away from the latrine.
School pranks are a luxury even Indians can't do without.
