Roadtrip to Bombay by ulrike reinhard

Roadtrip to Bombay

Text by Ulrike Reinhard Illustrations by Nilesh Auti

This is a real story. It happened in March/April 2020 when India was locked down because of the Corona virus. At every district border were police controls and travels between states were prohibited. Three of us were stuck in the hinterland of the subcontinent and had to make our way to Bombay (I am aware that today the city is called Mumbai, still I do prefer the old name) from where evacuation flights were scheduled, on their own. The journey started in Madla, Madhya Pradesh – in the land of the tigers – and led 1200 km through fields, forests and small little towns until we reached the metropolitan area. This small booklet is dedicated to the German Embassy in Delhi and the Consulate in Bombay – thank you for arranging the evacuation flights.

Ulrike Reinhard has been traveling throughout India since 2012. She is founder of The Rural Changemakers e.V., a not-for-proďŹ t association based in Berlin. Its purpose is to support youth welfare, education, vocational training and cooperation in the ďŹ eld of development aid as well as to promote an international ethos, tolerance in all areas of cultural life, and understanding among nations. In particular, its Articles aim at the planning, execution, and supervision of interdisciplinary projects with and for children and young people in the rural areas and villages of India. Nilesh Auti is a freelance illustrator, based in Mumbai.

When the lockdown started in India I was at the Treehouse in Madla, Madhya Pradesh. I spend quite some time there. Maybe three months in a year. It’s in the middle of nowhere. Off the usual Indian tourist tracks. It really takes an effort to reach. But it’s a place where “social distancing” is pretty easy. Because there is nobody. The food supply was in place. I had a permit to ride to Panna to get fruits and vegetables for Janwaar. I felt it was a good place to be during the shutdown. And a safe place. So I was pretty much relaxed and ready to wait and see how I could leave the country on April 22. The day on which part of my visa terms would end. But – as usual – life took a different turn. As John Lennon famously said: “Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans!” When India locked down, I had two guests from Germany. Inge and Ulli. They’d been supporting us for the last two years. Now they came to visit Janwaar to see our work at first hand. We managed to go to Janwaar once. Then the lockdown set in. They were “trapped” at the Treehouse. And they desperately wanted to go home. Which I could understand. 9

Yet, I couldn’t always understand how their despair was expressed. We all passed a restless week with some extraordinary tensions. And – at least I can say this for me – a lot of learning! Germany and Europe were shut down as well. No regular flights in sight. So the only option was to reach one of the evacuation flights organized by the German Embassy in Delhi. Ulli was in close contact with them. And Inge was trying to encourage her colleagues at the ministry back home where she is working to support their efforts to reach safe Germany. The two spent hours on the phone and writing emails. Restless. A lot of contacts. Hope. Despair. It felt like an unhealthy mix. No time to relax. No time to let things sink in. The shutdown was announced by PM Modi. Only no one really knew what it precisely meant. No explanation. No plan in hand. Everything was “work in progress.” Nevertheless the police acted very strictly. They used their lathis (bamboo sticks) frequently on those who didn’t follow the rules. People were confused and scared. 10

In the midst of this uncertainty the German Embassy called Ulli. They had a flight out of Delhi. Scheduled for two days later. For me this was too early to leave. I didn’t feel like leaving anyway. Because I had to arrange a few things in Janwaar before my departure. I was happy to organize a car for Inge and Ulli. A car for safe passage to Delhi. I called our car service in Khajuraho. And without any hesitation he said he would send a car and a driver. Manoj, my most favourite driver. They also told me that we’d need a permit. Which I could get this at the local police station. So I went to the police station in Madla. Well. It turned out to be quite an endeavour. The first police officer said no. The second officer didn’t even know what I was talking about. The third one advised me to talk to the head of the police station. I was surprised to hear she is a lady. Angele. Finally, four long hours later, I was standing in front of her. Slightly exhausted and a bit stressed out. She could sense. And smiled. 12

I easily lose patience when I’ve to deal with Indian bureaucracy. To me, it sucks. It always means a lot of paper. A lot of time. And above all: a very uncertain outcome. You can never predict what might happen. Surprisingly Angele exactly knew what I needed. She told me what kind of papers Ulli and Inge need to bring. She asked for the driver’s name and number. And ordered her colleagues to issue a permit upon their arrival. Done. So I thought. I called the car service and they confirmed that Manoj would come. Two hours later my phone rang. It was Manoj. By this time he should have been at the Treehouse. But – surprise, surprise – he was stuck at the district barrier. Right at the police station where I had been earlier. Manoj asked me to come because they wouldn’t allow him in. We had the first glimpse of what might occur on their way to Delhi. When the phone rang, we’d just started dinner. Pappu, my right-hand man and happy soul in Madla, had brought some delicious food. It was our final dinner together. At least this was what we thought. 13

Ulli and Inge had packed their bags and were ready to go. So Pappu and I left the table. We jumped on my bike. And reached the police station 10 minutes later. By the time we arrived, the checkpoint was packed. A completely new scenario. It was chaos. Huzzling bustle. A huge fuss. At least 100 migrant workers plus 20 cars were standing “in line”. It was a colourful mix of truck drivers, migrant workers, policemen and plenty of bystanders. They all had their own stories to tell. And they all had their own opinions to share. India at its best! Besides all this confusion, it didn’t seem that anything real was going on. And as day turned to night – the light added its part to the scenery. Pappu and I tried to ﬁnd Angele. In his soft and gentle manner, Pappu didn’t succeed. We had spent an hour and hadn’t achieved a thing. The chaos had lost its charm. I became impatient. So I simply called her. And – surprise, surprise – she took the call. And in no time she told one of the police guys to let Manoj pass. 10 minutes later we are back at the Treehouse! 14

I could see the sheer relief in Ulli’s and Inge’s eyes when the car arrived. The journey back home would soon start. Meanwhile it was almost nine in the evening. I went back to the dinner table and ate the leftovers. I was hungry. The food was cold. And had lost its taste. Nevertheless I oﬀered Manoj some food . He accepted happily. And overlooking Ken River in the dark, we enjoyed our meal. I was happy. And looking forward to a peaceful life again. At the Treehouse. On my own. Everything seemed ﬁne. Yet, for some reason a discussion started about wether it would be better to leave next morning in order to avoid the night drive. I spoke with Manoj. I got a room at the Treehouse ready for him. So we agreed that they would leave early next morning. After a short while Manoj came and told me he would go to the village and come back later. I asked him not to come back too late. He left with the car. And he never came back. 16

Instead Neeraj, his boss, called and told me Manoj wasn’t willing to drive any more. He wanted to stay at home. He was afraid of the police. He was afraid of going to Delhi. He was afraid that he couldn’t return back home once he had left. And, Neeraj said, no other driver would go. So that was that. The first attempt to reach a flight came to an abrupt end. It failed. Reality wasn’t working out well for Inge and Ulli. I guess that was the moment when they literally felt: “We’re stuck!” Stranded. Helpless. With hands tied. Things were out of their control. The next days weren’t relaxing. It was like being on a rollercoaster. Except that I never knew what to expect next. Emotions flew high. And it was very difficult to accept the situation – especially for Inge. Not having control. Living in absolute uncertainty. Dependent on others. It became a challenge for everyone. 18

Pappu and I did our best to keep Ulli and Ing happy – somehow. And make them feel comfortable. We had food. We had more than enough outdoor space. And no one was there – so the infection risk was low. The situation wasn’t hopeless – I felt. For sure there would be more evacuation ﬂights down the line. So it was “just” a matter of time. And a matter of ﬁnding a car and a driver. This became the next thing for me to focus on. And it was much much easier than I would have ever imagined. It was achieved in no time. Pappu called our Babaji. The priest from Madla. He has a car. A comfortable car. A Bolero. Babji had driven us before. Actually only a week before the shutdown started. Without hesitation he agreed. He said: “ I am ready!” Actually he is always ready to go. “No tension” is his mantra. “Just call me when you’re ready to leave”, he said. I knew I had found someone reliable. Someone who would never ever drop out. And someone who had given us a very fair price. And wasn’t taking advantage of the situation. 20

It was sobering to think how little help we got from the German Embassy during this entire process. The only answer we received was: “We cannot help you with this!” They were very much busy to organize and coordinate all the issues regarding the evacuation flights. For sure this was a whole lot to do. Yet it seemed that they weren't really interested in the process we had to follow given us by the Indian authorities. This was completely out of their focus. It felt that rural India wasn't on their map. I was wondering if any tourist stranded in the hinterlands of India would be able to get in touch with all the people needed to manage safe passage to an evacuation flight. I very much doubt it. While Inge and Ulli were waiting for the next flight out, I was using the time to get a better understanding of the entire situation. A situation which was changing on a daily basis. It quickly became obvious that the local police station was no longer in charge of issuing permits. It was now a “top level” job. Meaning I needed to meet the Superintendent Police (SP) and the Collector (administrative head of a district) in Panna to get the papers. So once again I went to Panna. Pappu came with me. We reached the Collectorate in the afternoon. We were told that the SP and the Collector were in a meeting.

With an open end. We decided to wait. I became impatient. It was slowly getting dark. We were just about to leave when the two of them came round the corner with their entire entourage. Lucky me that I was white AND an older woman, so I could address them. An Indian woman would have been easily ignored. When I started to talk, one of the bystanders mentioned the magic word: “Janwaar”. This rang a bell. Now the two on the top level knew who I was. And they listened and helped. The SP called Angele in Madla. And gave her all the instructions. Once again we seemed to have everything ready and in hand. It took another “endless” five days until the message reached us that new evacuation flights were planned. During this time we heard all kinds of horrifying lockdown stories. Foreigners were blamed for having brought the virus to India. Some Americans were attacked, beaten up and even arrested. Roads were blocked because millions of migrant workers were on their way home. By foot. Bribery was the name of the game. This all made it clear that it wouldn’t be an easy trip to catch the evacuation flight. 24

No matter if we had the right papers or not. It had become a “street issue.” Power was with the officers at the barriers. I first heard from Rachael, a friend in Bombay, that new evacuation flights were planned. Operated by Air India. We called the German Embassy and they confirmed. A few emails between them and us went back and forth. And finally we all were scheduled to leave. April 2, 2020 was the departure date. Departing airport was Bombay. Check in was required a day prior to departure. Meaning we would have to leave the Treehouse the following day. I had made up my mind to accompany my guests. Simply because without me they could not make it. It was a tough decision for me. I would have preferred to stay with the kids for another few weeks. But at the end it was only way to get Inge and Ulli out. Babaji would never ever have left without me. And on top of this the encounters on the way would have been quite challenging for someone with no experience of India. Having heard all these stories I felt it was easier to get to Bombay than Delhi. For Delhi we would have to cross multiple state borders. For Bombay it was only one. 26

Even though it was twice as far. Knowing our departure date and final destination I once more went to see Angele. At Madla police station. And once more yet another surprise. She told me that things had changed. I had to go to see the Collector once more. I was stunned. Why? She said we would need his signature on the permit. I told her that I had met the Collector and that he had told me that she should write the letter. Very hesitantly she called the SP and he confirmed that she should write the letter. I was advised to show gratitude. After two hours I had all the papers together. All the papers for the car. And our driver. Copies of our passports. The proof that we were staying at Madla. The route we were planning to drive. And proof that we were scheduled for a government flight. This was the letter we had received from the Embassy. They allowed us 52 hours to reach Bombay and for the driver to come back to Madla. It seemed like mission impossible. This roadtrip to Bombay.

Equipped with the best papers available, we started on March 31 at 11 am. Babaji in the driver’s seat. Me right next to him. And Inge and Ulli on the back seats. Fully packed. Ready to go. The papers we had got us easily through the ﬁrst checkpoints. At some points the police made a note of the license plate number. Others just checked our papers. We moved on from district to district. The situation was relaxed and promising. The police guys were friendly. The procedure became monotonous through repetition: Bring the car to a stop. The police guys outside would say: “Foreigners!” The sign for Babaji to take all the papers. Get out of the car. Show the permits. Have a little chat. Then come back. And we would move on. Slowly we were driving into the night. We had reached Bhopal. And our Babaji was still going strong.

Next morning. 4.30 am. We had reached the border between Madhya Pradesh and Maharashtra. It really looked like complete shutdown. Excitement was in the air. Once again Babaji took all our papers. And left to go to the police oﬃcers. When he returned, he simply said: “No!” They would not let us in. After 19 hours on the road this was a real blow. Why? I asked. Babaji said that one signature was missing. I called Bharti, a friend in Delhi. Luckily she picked up the phone at this time in the early morning. She spoke to the police guy at the border. And then explained to me that a signature from the Collector in Panna was missing. Angele turned out to be right … ! Boah!!!! Bharti also said that the border guy wasn’t a senior oﬃcial. So he suggested that we should wait for three hours for his senior to arrive. Which was impossible, because we had to reach Bombay within the given timeframe. Inge who was sitting on the back seat and who had stretched my nerves to the breaking point over the last week, all of a sudden came to life. 30

Unfortunately. It was a perfect example of very bad timing. She suggested that she and I – two strong women, as she said – should talk to the police oﬃcer. I was stunned. I passed over her comment and said clearly: “No!” I called the embassy hotline. I surely woke up the guy. A tired, crumpled voice was answering. He wasn’t amused. I explained the situation. His ﬁrst reaction: “Pay him! Money always works!” I thought for a second. And then asked him to stay on the phone. I walked over to the border control guy. He was alone. I put the phone on speaker so that he could hear. The Embassy guy spoke in a very distinct loud voice to him. “The German Consulate here. These people need to pass. There is no way you can stop them.” I wasn’t sure if the border control guy even understood English.While he was listening to the Embassy I put some cash in his hand. He shook his head. But kept the money. Meaning: It wasn’t enough. I gave him more. He said: “Go!” … the Embassy guy was still talking to him …. 32

With my mobile in my hand I ran back to the car. But Babaji had disappeared. Inge found him after a few anxious minutes. We passed the border. And made it into Maharashtra. Relief. Back on the highway. Another long six and a half hours to Bombay. Dhule. Malegaon. Chandwad. Nashik. Igatpuri. Ansangaon. No more checkpoints. No more controls. Instead a mighty bang. The right rear tyre was gone. Gosh! And the spare tyre didn’t look promising either. I am sure it wouldn’t have lasted all the way down to Bombay. So our next job was to ﬁnd a new spare tyre. With all the shops closed. 10-15 km down the road we found one. By then we had also learned that there was a shortage of diesel. Running out of diesel – what a nightmare would this be? There was no time to relax. 34

At Thane the greater Bombay area starts. The Embassy had told us that in this area all police stations were informed and asked to let foreigners pass. And they did. There were many checkpoints and at each of them plenty of police. Many were holding their lathis in their hands. But luckily they didn’t use them – at least while we were there. The procedure had changed. Babaji stayed in the car. Now it was my turn. I spun down the window. Grabbed the papers. Said the magic word “airport.” Added “government flights.” Waited for a while. Repeated it. And it worked. After 26 hours we reached the Airport Hotel in Bombay. It took quite a load off my mind. We finally had made it. Inge and Ulli were completely exhausted. But needless to say – yes, they were happy. From the moment we’d reached the hotel things became super easy. Probably 300 people were there. Many of them came from Goa and Gujarat. The Embassy had arranged buses on these routes. Lucky them. 36

An hour after we arrived we had to register for our flight. We got a rather grotty health check. And then the Embassy staff explained the procedure for the next day. The bus which would bring us to the airport was scheduled to leave at 10 am next morning. We were asked not to leave the hotel room. But this didn’t matter – I didn’t feel like going anywhere. I had some tasteless food out of a box. The only food they served. I missed a glass of cold wine. But I had a hot bath instead. Shortly after I felt asleep. I was knocked out! When we arrived at Terminal 2 the next morning, the departure hall was completely abandoned. It looked like a scene in a science fiction movie. White, huge empty spaces. The staff was wearing protective clothing. And masks. The good news: no waiting lines. Check in was easy and the plane took off on time. It was now April 2, 2020. 2.30 pm. Nine hours later we landed in Frankfurt. When I turned on my phone I received the message that Babaji had reached home as well – safe and sound. Mission accomplished! 38

Thank you Bharti Batra Naushad Bhagwagar Shail Desai Rachael Hammerlein Paul Morland Smit Parmar Krishnapal Singh (aka Pappu)

1. Edition 2020 Copyright: The Rural Changemakers e.V. HauptstraĂ&#x;e 17 10827 Berlin Germany www.rural-changemakers.com hello@rural-changemakers.com Text: Ulrike Reinhard Illustrations: Nilesh Auti Layout: Bea Gschwend