Incredible India! The faded poster on the wall at the immigration checkpoint in Jaigaon proclaimed. “Yeah, and then some,” I thought to myself while almost suffering whiplash after hitting a particularly large pothole on the road to Siliguri. India might be incredible, but its roads certainly are not.

In fact, the sorry state of Indian infrastructure never ceases to amaze me. True, the big cities, like Kolkata and Chennai, have their brand-spanking new, shining overpasses and wide highways, which the local authorities proudly proclaim as a cure for the chronic traffic congestion. (Really? Removing every vehicle made before 1975 from the streets would be more effective.) In the Indian countryside, however, the roads are left to slowly rot and collapse, while the local populace watches the spectacle, patiently sitting in ditches.

“No, you don’t want to take an Indian taxi to Siliguri,” my Nepali friend in Jaigaon was adamant. “The Bhutanese bus will be going there at 3PM, we can get you on it, no problem.” He explained that Bhutanese buses, being newer, are more suited for travel on the dilapidated roads of West Bengal.

“I’d prefer a taxi,” I didn’t want to admit to my experiences on a bus running between Paro and Thimphu in Bhutan and lovingly nicknamed “the vomit comet”. And I was out of motion-sickness medication. “A taxi,” I insisted. “Can you help me find one?”

My pal gave me a look of disgust and went off in search for a suitable vehicle. He returned with a surprisingly decent looking Tata minivan and a driver whose English was limited to repeating “good car, good car.” They parked in front of the immigration checkpoint and proceeded to poke the van in various places. I watched them as a strange feeling of panic crept into my belly.

“It has seatbelts!” my friend proudly exclaimed, as if he was personally responsible for their existence. “And the suspension looks good. The car will make it.” I worried why he was ignoring the skills of the driver. Surely, those should be more important, I thought to myself.

“Don’t fret,” he sensed my apprehension. “The car will survive. And the price is good too, petrol included.” 1400 rupees was indeed a good deal for delivering me and my bags, unharmed, to my hotel in Siliguri.

“Here, chew some betel nut. It kills nausea,” and with those words ringing in my ears we left Jaigaon.

Another pothole, as large as a hunting pit, forced us to drive in the ditch for a while. Incredible India was on my mind again. Why is a country that built the Taj Mahal and the high-tech hubs of Bangalore incapable of maintaining its roads? We arrived at a collapsed bridge and proceeded to drive on the dry riverbed. A uniformed policeman was directing the traffic, and the idle hordes sitting by the side of the road watched on, enjoying the show.

A few kilometers later, the pavement simply disappeared and I breathed a sigh of relief. Driving in the open field was much more comfortable.

“Good car!” my driver shouted and speeded up. I grabbed the dashboard with both hands and smiled.

Incredible India, indeed.

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