Often, the journey can be as interesting as the destination itself. The destination is sometimes not what one hopes for, but the journey can still redeem it.
This is especially true for a journalist who is chasing stories wherever they need to be chased. Sometimes, when we have time for relaxed reminiscence and we allow ourselves a little throwback, it turns out some journeys have stayed with us, even when the stories have not been great, or have turned out to be non-stories. A bus ride, a train ride in an unreserved compartment, a ride in a swirling coracle, four-wheel drives that send one hurtling across a harsh landscape, old creaky cars that run to prove miracles exist, a ride on a bullock cart — what joy, what companionship, and what convivial situations they led to.
Driver Murugan owned a ramshackle Ambassador car in Cuddalore, Tamil Nadu, in 2004, when the tsunami struck. He saw a business opportunity in the droves of people coming to Cuddalore and Nagapattinam — journalists and aid workers who needed to get by. He charged quite a bit, but a scarcity of services had caused the prices to go up. He made up for what his car lacked — a brake shoe, rearview mirrors and the padding on the seats — with his personality. He drove that car like an all-terrain bike — over roads, black strips that were once roads, streams, rocks, the beach, a rubble of homes by the seaside — with a passion that came from knowing the territory and a conscientious work ethic. He knew nearly everyone and insisted on walking along, calling out to people and drawing them into a casual chat. One realised while riding with Murugan that there are things you cannot pay for.
Then, there are rides you do not pay for. The boatman who took us from Muzhukkuthurai to a small strip of sand called MGR Thittu that the tsunami had ravaged did not care for cash. The boat was basic, wood strung together, but it could float. Thiruvengadam ran an earth-moving equipment firm in Muzhukkuthurai and volunteered to accompany us on the boat, perhaps because we were the only people at land’s end. He regaled us with stories of smugglers on MGR Thittu and told the boatman to come back in an hour, nodding in our direction: “They will have to walk a long way to reach the boat, otherwise.”
And then there were the four-wheel drivers of Dhanushkodi who were winding up for the day when we landed there. The only way to travel was by jeep, but it looked like we were too late, and coming back the next day was not really an option. The disappointment must have been apparent. “What do you do?” one of the drivers came back and asked. “Oh, journalist? Then we need to get you there, somehow.” He hustled his brother to tag along with him, one last drive back. On that ride we literally flew across the whitish beach sands as darkness and a chill descended gently together. That is certainly a memory to keep.
There were, of course, as perhaps in most journalists’ careers, long treks on foot up treacherous slopes; bullock cart rides with obliging farmers; a short hitch on a tractor; rides on crowded ‘town buses’ to remote hamlets where passengers shared food and jokes, shouting to be heard above the loud music playing on cheap speakers.
These were rides where comfort might have been lacking but never communion. After all, a journalist’s job is with the people, isn’t it? And what a ride that can sometimes be.
