Back in f***in' Bombay Boys!

So.  Yes.  The famous 52 hour train ride.  My 'window bearth' was too short for me and I have this abiding memory of having to get up every hour or so to stretch my legs - day and night.  The memory that remains is that I did so in the corridor, looking out the window, smoking those awful 'Gold Spot' cigarattes.  Or was 'Gold Spot' their version of Tango?  Anyway.

And, for some reason, no food.  My cullinary discovery for this journey seemed to be orange cream biscuits and that's it.  The 'train food' had to be ordered in advance - something that I'd failed to do, resulting in only having two small, paper-wrapped meals in the whole 2.5 days.  Being put with other Westerners (a trend) was a pain (unwelcome company) and a mercy (he gave me a banana).

A combination of literary discovery (The Madness of a Seduced Woman) and reflection kept the journey occupied.  Lots of thinking about the last five weeks.  Thinking about becoming swiftly comfortable, by necessity, with travelling on one's own, but also through discovering the sort of traveller one was and the sort of traveller one wanted to spend time with.  I was dilligent to remind myself that I wanted to remain friends with J, but it was clear that were weren't compatible travellers - his incessant smoking and keenness to out do all and sundries' backpacking stories.  That was then, not now (as we know).


And back to Bombay - which I swiftly realised I hated.  I was stationed in a guesthouse out of town a little - something that involved, unlike last time, a train into the city centre.  If I cast my mind back, my first journey in with some other Brits was so packed that I lost both them and the contents of my pockets which were emptied blatantly by someone pushed up against me.  Busy, corrupt and expensive.  I seem to have spent the majority of those final four days writing letters, thinking about the play I was writing and reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being.  Such limited activity seems to have resulted in me spending a great deal of time in my hotel room rather than exploring Bombay on my last opportunity to do so.  There was a little bit of administration - confirming flights, changing money, going to the GPO, visiting the posh bookshop in the Taj Hotel - but that's about it.  No regrets - I seem quite content. 

And so to the airport.  A touch of apprehension about what this next furlong brings.  The majority of said apprehension seems to be based around the flight(s) being somewhat uneven.  But the vibes were good.  A Korean chap bought me a beer, a couple of Australians told me how they were returning to Thailand after only a short trip to India because Thailand was so much nicer.  And a shared taxi into town to share a room with a beardy English chap in the 'New Merry V'.

Goodbye India - it's late October 1994.  Over twenty years ago.  I'd return to India, but it wouldn't  be until 2007 at the age of 35.

Keralan Moodswings

 

It's interesting that after questioning, many years later, whether I was happy and enjoying myself at this point, that's exactly the question I asked myself, then, on turning the page.

Arriving in Kerala, Ernakulam, I spent the usual day orientating myself and arranging the next departure - something that, as ever, takes an entire day.  The usual spate on ripoff rickshaws to trainstations where no-one gives you a straight answer.  The incredibly cheap room (hutch) that I've selected is clearly getting me down too - the walls don't meet the ceiling and the bed's too short for my 6'1''.  I've also made a particularly distraught note about my radio chewing up a Tracy Chapman tape - oh the woes.
 
My mood changes significantly on a number of counts.

Firstly I have a haircut and shave - always a treat in India and transformative in every respect.

Secondly - although I don't talk about it at the time, my health is clearly improving.  I'm eating a lot and talking about 'taste sensations'.  Everything from omlette, to toast, to 'dosa stops' to egg birianis get a mention.  Ice Cream gets a particular shout-out.  Twice.  All good signs.

I've also taken a particular interest in sightseeing.  Vasco de Gamma's last resting place.  The famous Chinese Fishing Nets.  Walks along the harbour and to Cochin Island for the fort and palace.  And Kathlkali dancing is a particular find.  I maintain that I saw this form of Indian dance long before it 'toured' to places like the Edinburgh Festival and the Queens Elizabeth Hall.  I particularly remember the eye-rolling, the preshow makeup, the watering pattering on the roof and the 'master of ceremonies' telling us about the significance of the dance and the relgious connotations throughout.  I got a rickshaw back to the homestay after dropping off a chap at a rather fancy hotel.

In a matter of six days I would be well on my way to Bangkok - something that filled me with a certain degree of trepidation.  I spent many an evening thinking about the journey, smoking the rest of my stash, reading Arthur Miller (All My Sons) and fantasising wildly.  There was a small matter of a 52 hour journey back to Bombay to content with first - and with a seat rather than a sleeper bearth.  That was all to come.