Reaching Bangkok was somewhat of a relief after a time consuming stop at the Thai Cambodian boarder. I arrived back at the Atlanta hotel to be greeted with a smile by the notoriously unfriendly front desk lady and was soon in my room. I had an excellent vegetarian meal that night before collecting my medical supplies from the local pharmacist.The next day was hot and humid and I ventured out to a large electrical shopping plaza to stock up on some camera supplies before wandering around. In the evening I met up with an old school friend John Thompson, whom I had not seen for some 30 years. He was well and, I noticed enviously, sporting much more hair than I currently do. It was great hearing about other old school mates.My final day in Bangkok was spent sorting out my backpack and searching for an elusive camera filter. My flight to Kolkata, was at an early 6.30am, which meant leaving the hotel at 3.30am. It was somewhat surreal to see Bangkok so quiet and deserted.The plane was full of Indians struggling with so much baggage and hand luggage that I was surprised we managed to take off. I was sitting next to two Kolkata residents and the lady remarked “they are what we call carriers.”  I was the only European on the flight and as we approached Kolkata, she kindly gave me some good tips “on survival” as she put it.I was met by the guesthouse driver at the airport and we travelled through a deserted city to the southern sector, where the Bodhi Tree was located. The driver hardly spoke and seemed content just to increase the ferocity of the AC, when I asked for it to be turned down. Most budget travellers stay in Sudder St, right in the center, however having found the Bodhi tree on the internet several months ago, I decided on booking this guesthouse as a treat. It calls its self an artist retreat and was packed full of art from local artists. Its a converted old house with six well furnished rooms (each with a different theme) and several staff who seem to scuttle away from me at the beginning. “Please call me Rupert”  I asked when I met Asid. “Yes sir, of course sir, I will not forget sir.”The Bodhi Tree was in the south of Kolkata close to the Tollygunge area, in the middle of winding narrow residential streets. As the morning progressed, the streets came alive with rickshaws, tuk tuks and Kolkata’s famous yellow taxis. What struck me at first was the noise, especially of the car horns. Deafening. The smells were also complex from the downright unpleasant to wafting smells of spices and cooking.After a rest I thought I should attempt to get a SIM card. I found out where the Vodaphone shops were located and embarked down the local thoroughfare. At each Vodaphone kiosk that I passed (really a shack) I was rebuffed and directed to an increasingly strange selection of places. I ended up (as directed) in the middle of a hospital standing in front of the “Dead Room,” inquiring about a Vodaphone SIM. Finally I thought this was ridiculous and sort help from a yellow cab. Within minutes he had me in front of a kiosk owner who was promising everything. Now the paperwork. One copy of my passport, Indian Visa copy, one letter from my guesthouse, one local person’s authority, two passport photos and finally “I need a copy of an English utility bill from you English address.”  Well I did not have that one. But he still promised success after several telephone calls. Three hours later I returned to the Bodhi Tree.The following day was my birthday and I set aside a mostly lazy day. I I took a yellow taxi up to Train Reservation office located in an area dominated by imposing Raj era buildings. I need to book my onward rail travel and when this was done I planned a search for a decent coffee. The journey up there was exhilarating in one respect and terrifying in another. I always thought the taxis in Mexico was the most hardcore road travel I had experienced, but within a few seconds I was re-evaluating this belief. Big signs asked all drivers to “respect the traffic rules,” but what rules. There were none, and no road lines either. It was fortunate these Tata vehicles could not really accelerate, as parts of this journey were hair raising. People walking in the wrong part of the road, careless jaywalkers, rickshaw runners and people on mobiles were all within inches of their lives, as my driver wove in and out of the traffic. All this maneuvering for position, driver aggression and continual loud horn blasts, combined to make this like a bumper cars experience whilst on recreational drugs. At one light stop, the passenger got out of the cab in front, picked up a large stone from the side of the road and smashed the cab’s front lights in. “At one o‘cock,” the driver claimed, “the government has decreed that the flow of the traffic must change direction, that just adds to the chaos.”  I was just sitting in the back open mouthed, while we sped past signs imploring safety, whilst the driver was now telling me about Indian cricket with just one eye left on the road.I arrived in the ticket office rather shaken and was glad to find a comfy chair. I expected a long wait and an another bureaucratic nightmare, but it was all straight forward and the clerk even smiled. Ticket in pocket I decided to walk to Sudder St to find that coffee. Here I settled into Raj’s Spanish Cafe for an espresso and lunch. Raj was friendly guy and gave me some useful information. His coffee was as good as the Lying Planet had mentioned.Once back at the Bodhi Tree, Santu, the manager told me Vodaphone had been trying to contact me and wanted to see me. I was due out for dinner at Kewpies Restaurant, my birthday treat, but Santu convinced me it was best to sort this out now, plus he offered help. The Vodaphone outlet we visited (I could not find the previous day) had an enormous queue, like they do in Italy. Once we got served, I was informed that I must reapply for a new SIM card, as the one I had been sold by the kiosk “did not meet our regulations and will not be activated.”  So we produced all the photocopies, passport photo etc etc again. After a twenty minute wait, the employee returned and said “you passport photo does not meet our regulations.”  He meant the photo in the passport. It was difficult to remain calm, as I know I must do, in India. Santu handled it well, but no amount of arguments (ie approved by British Government, Indian Immigration and Customs and over 50 other countries immigration services) had any effect. We departed empty handed.Sitting down at Kewpies was a relief. I promised myself a birthday dinner here, ever since I saw Rick Stein here on his recent Indian Food TV program. The food was delicious, typical Bengali with local fish cooked in banana leaves with mustard seeds and mustard oil. Egg plant curry and many other delicious things. The only issue was the staff, who seemed reluctant to explain what the food was, how to eat it and Bengali eating etiquette. However that did not spoil the experience, just made it a little exasperating. Luckily I could watch other tables. It was without doubt the best Indian food I have had, with surprising refined and delicate flavours.The following day it was off to Airtel (Vodaphone’s competitor) with Santu who was being helpful beyond the call of duty. Once a few red tape issues were cleared up it was all plain sailing and activation was promised within 24 hours.A trip to the bank, and a long walk around the crowded streets followed. Many businesses closed at 12.00, and it was blisteringly hot, so I just walked in the shade. The sights, smells and general sensory overload of Kolkata makes any walk a real experience. I looked inside McDonald’s to find as I was told no beef burgers, but an assortment of what was an Indian influenced type of burger. Looked better than the real thing, but I was not tempted. The pavements were incredibly congested, with street food everywhere, some tempted, some not. People here generally tend to ignore you. Some do strike up a conversation if asked something, but as I was not in Sudder St, there was little hassle, although some beggars did cross the road when they saw me. Like in China people’s daily lives spill out onto the streets, although this includes people’s most basic functions, including unfortunately plenty of male urination, which appears to happen everywhere. The back streets in the old areas are more interesting, with crumbling old buildings, packed markets, piles of rubbish and speeding cars with horns going at full blast. Crossing roads here is an extreme sport.The next morning Airtel phoned, appearing to ask me to have my father (they had requested his full name) call them. I gave the phone to poor old Santu, who managed to sort everything out and with 15 mins I was in possession of a working mobile. I went back to Raj’s hoping to meet some other travellers, and met a couple from Brescia who were volunteering in the slums. They had been to Rajasthan, so it was great to get some ideas. I also met an ‘Anglo Indian’ called Mark, who turned out to be a fountain of local and Indian knowledge. We had a long and thoroughly interesting conversation. He also confirmed that seeing Kolkata in October or December would be better and I would benefit from a cooler climate. Sunday is a fabulous day in Kolkata. The traffic is minimal, many roads ban traffic and the city takes on a quiet almost peaceful aura in some areas. Just walking around was great.In the evening I was back in the Bodhi Tree. My trials and tribulations with the phone companies seemed to make me a more approachable figure to the staff, who now had big smiles. On the Monday, my train left at 23.30 at night so I had plenty of opportunity to get back into the bureaucratic tussle. In June/July a request for a Nagaland travel permit had caused considerable confusion at the Indian Embassy, which they only appeared to resolve on the day before I departed. They then told me in an email that “no Nagaland travel permit is now required.”  Now, when I was speaking to Raj about this at the Spanish Cafe he suggested, “you had better double or triple check this, as in my experience, most government offices know very little about what other government offices are doing or saying.”  With this indictment ringing in my ears I felt a visit to the Nagaland Government House (NGH), India Tourist Information House (ITI) and Foreigners Registration Offices (FRO) was essential and on this Monday they were all open. Oh what a fun day beckoned!I walked into the NGH and was greeting with a smile and a fast appointment with the Assistant Governor. This I though was little OTT, but “he is the only man qualified,” said the clerk. Soon I was sitting in front of the man himself, I was given a tea and told that yes, I did not need a permit and that “Nagaland would be waiting to welcome me”. The Governor then prepared a photocopy of the government press release stating that I did not need a permit plus a map of Nagaland and an Indian authorised Nagaland travel book. Wow - I thought my friends who had been to India before would not believe this. In the ITI they confirmed this permit regulation as well and also gave me maps and books. Brimming with confidence I decided to forget the notorious FRO and return to Raj’s to share the news. It was about this time that I started to feel under the weather, with itchy eyes, headache, sore throat and a cough. Just before my 36 hour journey.After a quick pack it was off to the station and a quick goodbye to the Bodhi Tree, which has been great. At the station, I got some more help from the ‘information desk’ and managed to quickly find the platform. I bought some water, a chain and a padlock as the LP advises. In the 2nd Class Sleeper AC, there was an Indian man called “Patrick”. He lived in Spain and was an carrier with four huge cases which he expected to get on a Finnair flight. Opposite on the two bunks were a couple who were pilgrims from somewhere near Kolkata and a local lady who’s daughter was studying in Oxford. A curtain separated the compartment from the berths outside and the corridor where everyone moved up and down the train. After we got moving and had stored Patrick’s vast quantity of luggage we were all quickly off to sleep. During the night, four times (that I noticed), people entered our compartment, or put their heads around the curtains. I was feeling worse and worse by this stage, unable to breath with the cold and a severe sinus headache, so I thought little of it.In the morning I mentioned these people to Patrick who confessed he had never seen this before, and had been aware of their presence. It was at eight o’clock that morning that this gang hit the compartment next to us, stealing another pilgrims two suitcases after they had cut the chains and destroyed the padlocks. She was devastated as she was carrying all her jewelry and a lot of money and she wailed for hours. It was all very sad. Patrick and I agreed that both of us were lucky as we now thought we were the intended targets. Maybe as Patrick was awake and I had my smaller case with my valuables on the top bunk against the wall, was what had saved us. It soon transpired the railway ticket collector had vanished at the same stop that the gang made their escape, so everyone thought he was involved and told the police accordingly. All this was little comfort to the distraught victim.The couple opposite spent the next 24 hours lecturing me on anti theft measures and on how I should not trust anyone. The other lady started to feed me. I tried to convince her that I was a non-drinking, non-meat eating pilgrim as well, and she just gave me a knowing smile and piled her homemade food on a plate. Her food was outstanding.Fours hours late we rolled into Jaipur at 3.30am. I was exhausted and feeling awful and grateful I had booked a nice hotel.