Meet the Cobras

0615

I’ve slept as well as I ever slept on a Surathkal-Bangalore bus. The storm has passed and I watch the sun rise on the Mediterranean. Four Canadian boys soon get tired of whooping and jumping and are replaced on the deck by a Spanish tattoo artist from Barcelona. Together we watch as the ferry bisects the narrow strip of sea between Corsica (part of France) to the North and Sardinia (part of Italy) to the South.

1300

Lunch in the Colosseum leaves just enough time for an hour of sitting in the sun before land is sighted. I pack my bags and click a final few photos as we dock at Civitavecchia, fifty minutes away and the chief port of Roma.

1600

Three officers from one of Italy’s several law enforcement agencies stand on the platform as I enter the Civitavecchia station. I choose not to look in their direction and casually walk past them, or almost. “Document?” says the senior guy. I extract my passport and hand it over. Senior doesn't offer an opinion on the photo but the next minute he points to a small room serving as his office and motions me to walk in with them.

Of all the Western European countries, Italy has the most notorious reputation with respect to tourist safety concerns. The two-week old story of how P got relieved of a large sum of money by conmen in Rome posing as police officers is fresh in my mind. But walk in, I must.

Senior goes into an inner room with the passport. Junior 1 asks me to empty all pockets. Orders followed, amidst growing uneasiness. Credit card, debit card, ID card, the guy checks them all: the names all match, thankfully. Junior 2 frisks. Junior 1 next wants my bag empty. I try to pocket the wallet before I work on the bag. Juniors don’t like that: the wallet needs to be on the side table. A word of protest is met with scathing looks and firm Italian. Shrug and turn the bag inside out: nothing incriminating; Junior 2 look disappointed – they retire to the inner room and the passport emerges intact another 10 minutes later. Phew. I exhale in relief and board the train to Roma.

1800

North of Roma Termini, Rome’s central railway station.

The cheapest accommodation listed in LP overlooks a grimy street and I walk on in search of Fawlty Towers. As I turn into Via Magenta, a balding, bespectacled man with definite subcontinent looks accosts me. He is from Bangladesh and offers me a bed in his Student House. I am reluctant to abandon LP’s pick but the man reveals that 5 other Indians just checked into his place. The news tallies with reliable information that I already possess: Tommy and gang and Shubha are in the vicinity. Sure enough, in five minutes time, I am no.6 in the party.

2000

An Aussie mate and an LA girl with Punjabi roots check into my dorm room. The story is the same each time: a prospective Fawlty Towers resident is waylaid and poached by the Bangladeshi with unerring efficiency. As we learn during the next two days, this is just one face of a huge horizontally integrated operation run by a set of five (give or take a couple) enterprising Bangladeshis – christened The Cobra Gang for reasons obscure. The operations of the conglomerate include a two-euro breakfast place, a Laundromat cum surfing centre cum Corporate Headquarters, an Indian fast-food joint (Indian Mama!) and a pub named Julius Caesar. The Cobras reduce 6 hard-nosed soon-to-be managers into ardent admirers, not to mention satisfied customers.