Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
I arrived at the bus station just after 6:30 to leave the Kingdom of
Mysore (now Karnataka state) and catch the seven-o'clock to
Tiruvannamalai. By 6:50 there was still no sign of the bus, so I asked
what had happened to it.
'Leaving six a.m.,' answered a man with teeth that grew from his
gums almost horizontally.
'No,' I complained. 'It's the seven a.m. bus I want.'
'Yesyes,' the man told me impatiently. 'Seven a.m. bus leaving six
a.m. today.'
'But that would make it the six a.m. bus, surely?'
'No, sir. Seven a.m. can leave at six a.m.'
'What about the passengers?'
'They are informed by notice.' He indicated a chalkboard covered
in what could have been runes. After much persistence, I discovered
that there would be another bus at eight.
'Luxury bus?'
'Complete luxury.'
At 7:45 a bus was pointed out to me. Almost brand-new, it had
darkly tinted windows, a huge air-conditioning unit on the roof,
and reclining aeroplane seats.
'Only ticket holders allowed?' I asked. The driver nodded proudly.
It was not even full as we pulled out of the bus terminal,
conditioned air pouring like spring water over the deeply cushioned
seats and a shaded world passing by outside. I couldn't believe my
luck. The deliciously icy air alone was worth the price of admission.
About half an hour out of town, the bus pulled into a small
enclosure of chai stalls made of straw and rotting wood.
'Tea already?' I asked no one in particular.
As the driver opened the door onto a blinding landscape of white
heat, he casually called out, 'Change bus, change bus.'
The other passengers obediently hauled their luggage from the
racks and started to troop out. I reluctantly followed suit, muttering
to myself. Standing once more unprotected by luxury in the South
Indian inferno, I blinked around owlishly, looking for the bus we
were supposed to be continuing our journey in. The only vehicle
visible was an exceptionally ordinary bus: open windows, a
patchwork of amateur welding jobs all over its battered body, roof
