Although my decision to leave Mysore had been a bit of a kick, bollocks, scramble, I’d somehow managed to land a double berth all to myself on the last sleeper bus out. Given the short notice, I considered this a major victory. I had yet to travel in such style and the idea of whizzing across country while sprawled out on a flat bed really chimed with my inner Princess. I imagined it to be like travelling Virgin Upper Class, but on wheels. So naturally, I was bloody excited.
I was heading to the Southern-most tip of the country, to the ancient city of Madurai in Tamil Nadu, a 15-hour ride away. I was keen to immerse myself in some of the old Vedic charm that I witnessed when I first travelled to India and since Madurai was one of few places that had resisted the need to modernise, I was certain I’d find these traditions there in spades.
However, my enthusiasm for the journey was promptly skewered the moment I arrived at Mysore bus station. The place was in a state of sheer pandemonium. Hoards of people and huge piles of boxes, bags and containers filled every available patch of ground. The noise was ear splitting and there was an indeterminable stench about the place that I found quite alarming. Head-bearers were feverishly darting about with mountains of paraphernalia teetering atop their skulls, attempting to load their hauls on to one solitary bus, which sat at the centre of all this chaos. There was a palpable whiff of anger in the air. Clearly something major was going down. There was no way everyone and everything was going to make it on to that one vehicle.
There are times when having a full-blown hissy fit actually saves the day and I have to say without a shadow of doubt, this was one of them. I had sniffed trouble on the horizon and I was going to nip it in the bud. Pronto. Launching myself into the throng I headed towards an official looking bloke in a uniform. I gave him about 20 seconds to explain what was happening before I let rip with a repertoire of emotions that went from angry through terrified before settling snugly into downright distraught. That the previous bus had broken down and left a full compliment of passengers stranded was neither here nor there, I told him. I was getting on the damn bus. Come. What. May.
Suffice to say, that did the trick. I was jostled straight on. The problem was I was still armed with all my luggage. Evidently every inch of storage space had been packed to the hilt so I now had to hoik my rucksack, daypack, handbag and self into one compact upper berth. Nevertheless, with Herculean effort I managed to shoehorn us all in, although it did require an infeasible act of contortionism to actually lie down. This wasn’t ideal and I’m sure Richard Branson will be delighted to know that it was nothing like Virgin Upper Class. But at least I was on board and could now draw a curtain around me and shut out all the mayhem.
But of course, this was preposterously over-optimistic…
No sooner had I settled in than the curtain swished open and a lecherous looking Indian man stinking of whiskey and wee began climbing up to my bunk. Staggered by the man’s temerity I promptly entered what my friends call “diva mode”. This immediately caught the attention of the driver (and pretty much everyone else within earshot), who stomped over to see what the hoo-ha was about. I assumed he would summarily remove the man from my quarters. But no. Instead, he informed me that the man had in fact been assigned to share my cabin, since the bus now had a glut of passengers. I’m not quite sure what happened next but I think I must have had some kind of psychotic episode. I’m certain it can’t have been pretty. But my god, it was effective. And while I have no idea what happened to the man; which I now feel a small pang of guilt about; I was relieved that I didn’t have to contend with his foul-smelling fumes breathing down my neck for 15 hours.
With the neurotic white lady satisfactorily appeased and securely restrained under her colossal tower of luggage, the driver deemed his carrier good to go. On came the customary loud Hindi music as the peddle hit the metal and with a few toots of the horn, we were finally on our way.
Two hours later, the shit hit the fan...quite literally.
I began to experience a series of sharp stabbing pains in my stomach, which rapidly gave way to waves of debilitating agony. Dinner had come back to haunt me. It wanted out and I realised to my horror that it had more than just one exit strategy in mind. I was on a bus cruising at around 100km per hour. I was pinned down to a flat bed by 3 incredibly heavy bags. I had already caused a massive stink just boarding the bus and I was now about to create an altogether smellier one if I didn’t get myself off.
A mix of fear and panic coursed through me, releasing a stream of adrenaline and with surprising ease I shrugged off the hulk of baggage I was buried under, leapt from my bunk like an Olympian hurdler and raced to the front of the bus. The wild look in my eye told the driver everything he needed to know. He hit the breaks and without further ado I shot out the door. Lurching into pitch-darkness, I found a spot on the side of the road and proceeded to projectile explode from both ends. I couldn’t see a thing, which was probably just as well as I’m pretty sure that what was being expelled was hitting me rather than the ground I was pitifully trying to target.
I must have looked a real fright by the time I hobbled back aboard. I felt weak, dizzy and exhausted and I honked to high heaven. So when the driver offered to assist me back to my bunk, I was pathetically grateful. Had I known his support would include slipping two fingers between my legs as he “helped” me up to my berth, I would have most certainly refused. But despite my frailty I did manage to flick a well-placed kick to his chin once I’d reached the top, just to thank him for his efforts.
In the short time I’d spent on that bus, I’d successfully alienated pretty much all the passengers and caused some mild bodily harm to the driver. I’d infected the entire vehicle with an unshakeable aroma of shit and vomit and prompted a significant delay to the journey. We still had another 12 hours to go before we reached Madurai and I knew neither my bowels nor stomach would hold out that long. Since things really weren’t boding too well I decided there was only one thing for it. Sleeping pills. So I necked 4 and prayed for oblivion.
Drenched with sweat and doubled over in pain, I awoke some hours later to discover that the bus had stopped. I assumed that the driver had pulled over for a scheduled toilet break, so I shakily swung down from my bunk and headed for the door. Still half asleep, I disembarked…and staggered straight into the path of oncoming traffic. The bus hadn’t stopped as much as completely conked out…in the fast lane of a motorway.
Nothing shakes you to your senses quite like the sight of a car hurtling straight for you. Mercifully, my faculties kicked in and I scooched out of harm’s way with just seconds to spare. Near death wasn’t exactly something I’d been expecting when I’d stepped off the bus that morning. The incident seriously scared the shit out of me...and I’m not talking figuratively here.
I really did crap myself.
Flushed with shame I staggered off to sort myself out. This was another fine mess I’d gotten myself into – but I placed the blame firmly on the driver and KPN Travels, the bus company who’d hired him. I mean, what sort of fool leaves his bus in the fast lane while he crawls under to tinker with the chassis? It was a miracle this gross act of stupidity didn’t cause a serious pile-up. I swear I’ll never travel with that bus company again. But save my knickers – and my pride – absolutely no damage was done.
It took about an hour before the bus was road-worthy again and although I desperately wanted to give the driver a piece of my mind, I felt and smelt hideous. So I remained tight-lipped. I only had to hang on a few more hours before this nightmare was over. But that was a few hours too many as far as my fellow passengers were concerned.
The rancid aroma I was emitting was simply more than they could take and I pretty much incited a small rebellion. At the first opportunity the driver bowed to pressure and I was ejected on the outskirts of Madurai. I was too ill to argue, so I heaved my bags and self off and flagged down a rickshaw. It wasn’t until the bus pulled away that I realised I’d left my most treasured possession on board. My Macbook Air!
I was convinced it was a goner but I instructed my rickshaw driver to “follow that bus” anyway and he obligingly set off in hot pursuit. We chased that damn vehicle for over a half an hour before we managed to bring it to a stop. The look of shock on everyone’s faces when I got back on board was unmistakeable. But I didn’t give hoot. The only thing I cared about was my computer.
And while I may have lost my dignity and my own body weight in poo and puke on that lousy road trip, you’ll be pleased to know the one thing I didn’t lose was my beloved apple mac.
