Bus to Bombay

I took the bus to get to Bombay. It was when Bombay was still called Bombay and before big business took over Goa to create pseudo experiences of India for tourists. I was headed from Goa to Bombay after resting up there over the winter.

I chose to go by bus. I'd arrived in November on a boat; I was going to be doing a lot of train travel so I opted for bus. It was scheduled to leave at 3 pm, in the heat of a scalding afternoon, but as I waited with the other passengers in what shade we could find near Panjim bus stop, 3 pm soon became 4 pm. Then at 5 pm I knew that the real-time departure was imminent because lots of restless men got up to pee quite earnestly against the bus, against the walls of a shop and up against the few trees that lined the road out of town.

It took quite a while to load the bus. My bag along with a lot of other stuff had to go on top. We all tried to be the first to get on and I lost out to the women. I was fortunate to get a window seat, though the seat itself was no more than wooden slats with a plastic backrest. I was towards the back of the bus, above the rear wheels, not the best seat.

It was good to be at a window though, for the sake of fresh air, but also so that I could buy food without having to forsake my seat, and I stocked up with smoosas and pakhoras to see me through the long night, bartering with young boys through the window.

Out along the road I got to see places trains never went. We came eventually to a river just as dusk was falling but there was no bridge and the bus with its full compliment of people, animals and luggage drove onto a makeshift raft which was pulled to the other bank by water buffalo. Most people got off to walk about the edges of the raft and it wasn't till I joined them that I realised the angle of tilt that we were sitting at. No-one else seemed to be in the least bit concerned that the slightest ripple in the water would tip us all in.

On into the night I had to close the window I was beside to keep out the terribly cold air. We stopped quite late at a village where I bought coconut milk and biscuits, and as we started off again I was attacked by waves of murderous nausea. I concentrated hard, fixing my gaze on the light above the driver's head and managed somehow to stave off the compulsion to vomit.

Unfortunately the man in the seat behind me didn't try as hard as I did, and he vomited quite comprehensively down the back of my neck. The warm slime slithered down my shirt, on down my back, and squashed in between the side of the bus and a hefty, bearded and slumbering Giant Haystacks of a man there was no action I could take.

My clothes were on top of the bus; I had nothing even to wipe my neck with, and as the cold night air took its toll on the vomit I ended up stuck to the plastic covering that was nailed down over the seat's backrest.

I sat another five hours like that, thankful only for the fact that the stench of vomit didn't travel round to my face but seemed to stay firmly behind me where it belonged.

At length Bombay appeared under the wheels of the bus, but no apology ever came from the man behind. When I got off and found my bag I looked around for a café to sit in, to stretch my legs in and to eat in. Even at that very early hour plenty of shops were already open, and I found what I was looking for.

I soon settled myself at a table and sat dazed for a while, not minding that no-one had come to serve me. A man came out of a door in the back and looked over at me. I caught his eye and he smiled and retreated. He came back with some others and they all stared for a while, smiling, then disappeared. Things seemed a bit weird, and I soon noticed a strange smell in the café that reminded me of my grandfather's workshop.

Soon it all came together. This was no café, it was a furniture store, with the tables and chairs all set out not to eat at, but for sale.

So no breakfast yet, but at least I got to stretch my legs.

I found a hotel. Vik, the man I presume owned the place assured me of a hot shower in my room which sounded too good to be true and it was. There was a shower but it was communal, in an alcove just along the corridor. In fact to call it a shower was just a bit misleading; it was a tap set about three feet off the floor.

I didn't care. It didn't matter at that point who was walking along the corridor past the uncurtained “shower” cubicle because I was still covered in stinking, hardened vomit. Leaving my clothes in my room and taking a towel with me I crouched under the tap to soak myself. Needless to say the water was freezing cold. Needless to say I was past caring. Once I was properly soaked all over I stood up and turned the tap off so that the water would stop running down the sloping corridor into my room as it had begun to, and I got to work with soap and finger nails.

It was so good to shift all that stale vomit. I even rubbed my back up and down the rough wall to dislodge the bits I couldn't reach, and still people kept passing by along the corridor, some stopping to look, some to chat. So what.

Soon it became time to rinse away the foul, soapy scum that was decorating my body. Squatting down I turned the tap on again hoping to be quick enough not to flood my room too severely, but no water came out. I kicked the pipe, turned the tap in all directions and expressed my frustration to two men standing talking in a doorway down the hall. They suggested no solution to the problem, didn't even offer to get Vik for me. That was okay though because from what I had already gleaned about Vik I didn't really want him seeing me in the shower, offering to hose me down. There was not much I could do, and I began to feel incredibly foolish standing in the hallway clad only in the soapy remains of someone else's dinner. All I could do was lift my towel and head back to my room to dry myself and put clean clothes on a very unclean body.