Sensory Assault
Bam! Calcutta hits you with all the subtly of a brick to the face. It's an overwhelming attack on the senses. Tooting horns, revving motorbikes, shouting hawkers and singing buskers all indiscriminately hammer the hapless ears. There is no concept of personal space. The crush of the crowd jostles and manhandles you as people push past. The heavy, humid air settles over you like a wet blanket and with it comes the strong, sickly smell of cooking curries, animal (or maybe human) feces and thick, black smog.
It's an organic, sprawling mess of a city, with no pretense of order or organisation. Crowded beyond belief, people squirm over each other like worms in a bucket. The city stretches out rather than up, and the ability to see the peaceful, blue depth of the sky overhead provides at least some sense of space. It's definitely easier to look up, rather than down at the beggars and mangy dogs digging eagerly through the piles of refuse that litter the street.
Despite the full frontal assault, Calcutta does have its own special style. What it lacks in beauty and charm, it makes up for with a vibrant enthusiasm and endless energy. Crooked lane ways are packed with pokey little shops selling everything a man could never want. Meanwhile, friendly restaurants and tacky bars spring up all over the city like weeds in a field. Outside our hotel is a persistent, old man who promises me everything from hash to “nice, clean girls”, with a discount if I go for a ride in his rickshaw.
Calcutta embraces its history and culture too. Monuments and cultural sites are sprinkled about the city - a weird mix of old and new, grand and tacky. From the ostentatious relics of the English colonial times (such as the stately Queen Victoria memorial and St Paul's Cathedral) to the colourful Indian temples and shrines. These sites survive buried in the midst of a bustling metropolis of industry and commerce. In truth I should not use the name Calcutta. A few years back the city reclaimed its old Indian name of Kolkata. A typical example of these people who move forward to the future but all the while embracing the past.
It's hard for us soft, pampered westerners to spend too long out in the turmoil of the streets. Conditioned to the relatively gentle, organised movements of societies based on order and tailored to the individual rather than the mass, we find the turmoil of the streets overwhelming. Often we seek refuge in the cool, quiet sanctuaries of the restaurants and bars. Many of these have rooftop seating, and we eat our meals watching the slow, graceful glides of the city eagles as they prey upon the unsuspecting flocks of pigeons.
There is much to see and do in Kolkata, but there is little to tell. The sites and sounds are an experience that words do little justice. We have just over a week before my flight home on the 25th, after which Glover will be continuing on his mad quest to reach Australia by land. For us this is too long to spend in a city as intense and overwhelming as Kolkata and we decide to squeeze in one last small side trip. We are heading south to check out what an Indian beach resort is like. It seems an appropriate way to end this little adventure.
It's an organic, sprawling mess of a city, with no pretense of order or organisation. Crowded beyond belief, people squirm over each other like worms in a bucket. The city stretches out rather than up, and the ability to see the peaceful, blue depth of the sky overhead provides at least some sense of space. It's definitely easier to look up, rather than down at the beggars and mangy dogs digging eagerly through the piles of refuse that litter the street.
Despite the full frontal assault, Calcutta does have its own special style. What it lacks in beauty and charm, it makes up for with a vibrant enthusiasm and endless energy. Crooked lane ways are packed with pokey little shops selling everything a man could never want. Meanwhile, friendly restaurants and tacky bars spring up all over the city like weeds in a field. Outside our hotel is a persistent, old man who promises me everything from hash to “nice, clean girls”, with a discount if I go for a ride in his rickshaw.
Calcutta embraces its history and culture too. Monuments and cultural sites are sprinkled about the city - a weird mix of old and new, grand and tacky. From the ostentatious relics of the English colonial times (such as the stately Queen Victoria memorial and St Paul's Cathedral) to the colourful Indian temples and shrines. These sites survive buried in the midst of a bustling metropolis of industry and commerce. In truth I should not use the name Calcutta. A few years back the city reclaimed its old Indian name of Kolkata. A typical example of these people who move forward to the future but all the while embracing the past.
It's hard for us soft, pampered westerners to spend too long out in the turmoil of the streets. Conditioned to the relatively gentle, organised movements of societies based on order and tailored to the individual rather than the mass, we find the turmoil of the streets overwhelming. Often we seek refuge in the cool, quiet sanctuaries of the restaurants and bars. Many of these have rooftop seating, and we eat our meals watching the slow, graceful glides of the city eagles as they prey upon the unsuspecting flocks of pigeons.
There is much to see and do in Kolkata, but there is little to tell. The sites and sounds are an experience that words do little justice. We have just over a week before my flight home on the 25th, after which Glover will be continuing on his mad quest to reach Australia by land. For us this is too long to spend in a city as intense and overwhelming as Kolkata and we decide to squeeze in one last small side trip. We are heading south to check out what an Indian beach resort is like. It seems an appropriate way to end this little adventure.
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