I had planned for this to be the last entry in this blog. A kind of epitaph to a trip that has given as much to take away with me as it has to remember. Figuratively speaking that is as I have lost nearly every material possession I brought out with me, being the vacant bafoon that I am.
I was going to go something along the lines of amalgamating my various slightly trite attempts at insightful reflection, with the general fatuous silliness that I am far more at home to, concluding with a few notes of genuine tribute to the people that made the journey what it was.
However, after one of the most utopian weeks of my life, two slightly more challenging days took place, at the conclusion of which I am unexpectedly sitting in a hotel room in Dubai courtesy of Emirates, who I have come to love so much I may get their logo tattooed on my face. That’s worth another entry I reckon, I’ve got some time to kill.
Why am I here? I’ll start with leaving Hampi.
The monsoon floods still not having quite abated, a new record apparently, lucky me, Hampi Island was still quite literally an Island on the day that I had to tearfully leave. Having fended off Will’s less than subtle attempts to fill my bag with rocks, (I think it was him anyway, though I suspect a conspiracy!) Miquel, who I have come to regard as a Catalonian action hero as well as a human part of a centaur/ fawn, gave me a lift on his beloved Melinda (the name he has Christened his Enfield) to the shallow part of the river. There we parted ways and I was left with no choice but to wade through the river with my backpack held aloft.
The rickshaw drivers on the other side informed me that there were no buses to Hospet at all and I would have to take, would you believe it, a rickshaw. Needless to say I was skeptical. No, actually not skeptical. Skeptical implies some degree of ambivalence, whereas when a Rickshaw driver gives you any information regarding pretty much anything, you can assume the opposite is true with 99% reliability. I took their urgency in persuading me as pretty much a guarantee that a bus was imminent and sure enough within ten minutes one arrived.
Local buses are real bone-shakers, but amazing scenery and fleeting insights into life around these parts, more than make up for the bumps and crashes. What I found especially engaging were the women lugging vast, endless sacks of some kind of miscellaneous plant along with them. Lending them a helping hand was met with an strange mixture of shock and gratitude and smiles that will live long in my memory.
A few changes along the way in dusty transit towns on route, but it was simple enough, along with the standard mixture of fascination, friendliness and occasional random disapproval from the locals.
Hospet was another matter entirely. Given my ticket said “Hospet,” with no further specifications, I assumed that the location of the departure would be obvious. Oh how foolish I was- yet again. I was shunned from the public bus station by an especially abrupt officer upon production of my “private bus” ticket, who perhaps fortunately did not understand the term wanker.
I walked for literally miles around Hospet, which by the way seemed a surprisingly pleasant place despite the standard urban mania, before finally, as the sun was threatening to set and maroon me in darkness, I spotted the name of my agency on a bus, and joy of joys it actually was my bus!
What a bus journey it was too. I swapped my sunglasses for headphones with a fellow passenger, (I had lost my own headphones- inevitably.) With an Ipod almost anything is bearable, with the possible exception of very close proximity to power tools or actual torture.
The same chaps wife later told me off for smoking out of the window, but I managed to drug her unconscious an hour later so that particular problem was dealt with. I’ll go on to explain that remark as it sounds kind of date-rapey....
On the map our route looks like highways all the way, a dubious representation of reality given the cavernesque potholes we had to endure. I was ceaselessly woken, or at least jolted to attention by bumps in the road, often by crashing into the ceiling of my bunk!
I made a lot of new friends by handing out the last of my valium to my fellow road-assaulted passengers, including the sanctimonious bint mentioned above. Ah well- I suspect our driver was as much a bus driver as I am a pharmacist!
I ended up taking 5 myself and drinking a small bottle of whiskey, which certainly did the trick. I slept so comatosely that I may as well have been beaten mercilessly with a cricket bat the rest of the way, but by 7am in Malgaon I was still so out of it could barely get off the bus.
Now my plan was simple. I had 300 rupees (about 4 pounds) on me, which even for India is on the penurious side. Thus I endeavored to consume vast amounts of coffee, have a nice breakfast, then having hopefully recovered a little go to a Western Union to withdraw money and do some last minute shopping in Malgaoun for presents, wardrobe revamps, prescription drugs, etc.
Step 1 and 2 went very well, but then it all went horribly wrong. As it turns out Malagoun still operates under the Catholic Portuguese vibe that underlies much of its culture. I arrived on a Sunday- everything of any use to me was shut. No banks, no western unions, no internet. I wandered once again for hours, this time in the growing heat of the Goan morning, but to no avail. A plane to catch 40 kilometers away, and a woefully inadequate 200 rupees in my pocket (my cigarette packet actually since my original wallet got nicked and I then subsequently lost the replacement as well.)
Valium still swimming through my system I found some lovely gardens and fell asleep for an hour under a tree, only to be awoken by a man requesting that I buy him a new pair of jeans. My response was not as good humored as usual, and he scurried away pretty quickly. Persuading the gardener to spray me with his hose to cool off, much to his amusement, I was a little refreshed but still in dyer straights.
In fact I was well and truly up shit creak, when suddenly the universe (or God, whichever way you look at it,) threw me a paddle. Illegal motorbike taxi’s are everywhere in Goa, you can tell them by the number plate, and they are usually pretty flexible on prices. I figured that if I could somehow barter my way there for 100 I could buy some water and a Samosa to sustain me for the day, until I got to Paddy and Islay who could feed me properly- Thank God for family!
All of them said no, despite my false, but I think fair enough, protestations that I only had 100 rupees. Ten millionth time lucky, someone agreed to take me. Get In.
Onto the next crisis then- I didn’t have a print out of my itinerary, which for some insane reason you need just to get into the airport. A passport just doesn’t cut it apparently, despite the fact it would take about 2 minutes to type up a fake itinerary on any computer made in the last 20 years!
Not only that, I couldn’t even remember the name of my airline because (a) Paddy booked my flight for me with his Indian account and (b) I’m a moron. So, I proceeded to walk down the line of travel agents, asking the friendly but confused staff whether they’d ever heard of me before, like some forgotten big brother contestant desperate for recognition. Turns out GoAir had heard of me- twice in fact. After I had persuaded the nice lady that there was in fact only one of me, she printed me off my ticket and the standardly uncongenial soldier at the gate let me in.
After which, he wouldn’t let me out. Once you’re in, you’re in forever apparently. The bureaucracy in India at times is enough to make you want to rip the surly little bastard in question’s gun from him and empty every last round into their scowling, mustached face.
In fact, I slightly lost it at that point as he waved me dismissively away, barking orders at me like I had just been ushered into rapists rehabilitation. “Alright, there’s no need to be rude is there?” I snapped back at him. Quite possibly the stupidest thing i’ve ever said to a man carrying an automatic weapon, while all I’m holding is a passport and an book on physics. Ah what was he going to do? Shoot me? Take away my 100 rupees? In fact to my surprise he made an apologetic gesture, we exchanged nods gracefully and went on our way.
It’s funny, the police are generally pretty rude to you, but the second you seem offended and stand up for yourself they back off pretty quickly and become far more amicable. Maybe it’s a matter of self assertion being associated with respect. He probably called me an arsehole in Hindi, but I swore at him in Russian so I think we’re even!
I bought an adequate but overpriced Samosa and a large bottle of water to keep me going. I only had 20 rupees now, a uselessly miniscule fortune in an airport, 5 hours to kill with pretty substandard headphones (but almost freely acquired so I can’t complain,) and a few books.
Trouble is none of them were much good for killing time. A Brief History of Time is an amazing book, I’m genuinely really enjoying it. However me being a monkey in shoes compared to Steven Hawking I can only read a few pages at a time, or I fear my head may explode! It’s reminding me of my philosophy degree quite a lot, the more enjoyable papers I read anyway. I’m starting to think I should have done physics instead. Still, it’s far from the light reading that such periods in life call for.
Tragically I lost the Paul Theroux book that Jonny donated to me, which is a shame because I really loved the first chapter. I shall get hold of a copy on amazon when I’m back, and can only hope the copy I lost ends up in appreciative hands.
I’ve been trying to plough my way through American Pastoral by Philip Roth for months now, a book which is allegedly a must read (Time magazines top 100,) but notoriously arduous to finish. I kind of got his point a few chapters ago and only my determination to finish it (eventually!) is keeping me going (very slowly and periodically.)
That leaves me with Lonely Planet India, a book who’s utter uselessness I am so disgusted with I don’t know why I haven't burned it yet. The history and culture sections were great summaries, but that’s not why travelers lug the bloody great thing around with them. They do that for useful and accurate information, something this overpriced doorstop is as lacking in as any one of the rocks that Will and co failed woefully to conceal in my pack.
It’s possibly out of respect for how great Lonely Planet usually is that I have kept it. They need to get their act together though, it’s just appalling. When I can be bothered I’ll relate some particularly dreadful and ill informed sections.
Eventually I arrived in Delhi, having managed to sleep through most of the the flight (thank you latent Valium overdose!) I have never been so happy to see KB waiting for me as I have any single human being in my life, bar perhaps a couple of other occasions I won’t go into, though all at airports funnily enough.
So I was able to give Paddy and Islay a brief summery of the trip that evening, although I was pretty much a zombie by that point. I made two calls on skype, one to the boys in Poole who deduced falsely that I was high, and my dear mum, who thought I was drunk! I assure you all, it was just exhaustion!
At least I’ll be in my own bed tomorrow night, or so I thought....
I said goodbye to Paddy and Callum, (I like to think the latter smiling at me means he remembers me, although I’m not sure how plausible that is at 18 months?!) Sent my love to Islay, who was a little under the weather and headed off.
It was all going so smoothly. I was well fed and watered thanks to my boundlessly hospitable family, in good time, no big queues, flew through security. Hang on, I thought, this is India, and everything’s going way too well. My natural optimism was being overshadowed by weight of experience and sure enough my instincts were right- the flight was delayed 3 hours and I missed my connection to Heathrow.
Hence here I am- in a beautiful hotel in Dubai that probably passes for budget around here. My room is probably as big as every room I had in India combined, and probably costs more too. Except it doesn’t, because it’s free- Ha! As is buffet breakfast and dinner, which I have just returned from, as stuffed as a prostitute with a runny nose, (Stupy’s expression not mine!)
I did have one little outing here worth mentioning. To buy some cigarettes I had to trek all the way to a shopping mall and visit my new best friend, Western Union. The contrast between Dubai and Delhi is absolutely insane. I think this was something I talked about in my first entry, and that time I only visited the airports.
The sheer opulence of the place is astounding! All I could bring myself to buy was rollys and paracetamol. H and M is more expensive than England for God’s sake! It took me a good 15 minutes to work that out by the way, my in built currency converter is still set to rupees!
Everyone looked so beautiful, or at least well dressed. Walking round in my filthy trainers and grubby T shirt I felt like I should be sitting outside playing a broken recorder for change. To be fair I could probably make about a hundred quid in an hour the way things are here. (Nothing to do with my recorder skills, which haven't improved much since I was eight.
Also it’s clean, really, really clean. No poo anywhere, or wandering lifestock. I don’t like it, Dubai needs more cows. I like cows now.
Right, that will do, I’ll get the final rounding off everything entry off next week. I am very sad to be missing Sam’s big TV debut, but don’t worry, my mums recording it so I’ll have a good laugh at it tomorrow. Please dear God may I not be in it....
Much Love Tx
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