And so the countdown to the end of the great Indian escapade begins (again I should say, since it tended to start every time I got ill or ripped off by a rickshaw driver). It is my pleasure therefore to report that the objective to fail all the cliched travellers objectives has succeeded spectacularly, that is to say I have not ‘found myself’, gained a new perspective on life, become spiritual, matured or even got laid. I don’t even want to stop eating cows. And this is aside from the bonuses gained by just being here: I have got a suntan, I have achieved being off work for 3 and a half months, and I think I shall now be able to digest shit-smeared molten concrete with my new asbestos-lined gastro-intestinal tract. Kebabs will be a doddle.
One thing at least seems to be amiss, however. Somewhere, somehow (well, it doesn’t take too much speculation, to be honest) I have misplaced around 10 kilos of my bodyweight, and with it a fair chunk of my drinking ability. Not misplaced, unfortunately, is the mindset which in Britain used to take me down the pub and keep me there for an entire weekend. So, imagine the scenes in Bangalore, when faced with a whole new selection of trendy bars, a clientele therein of ‘New Indian’ yaar-yaar IT yuppies, cheap, crisp, malty Royal Challenge beer, and a sprinkling of freaks to bump into, I decided to ‘drink in’ the culture. Add to that an arrangement to meet a female member of the yaar-yaar brigade, who in the act of approaching me in a bar and started flirting with me had engaged that unstable mix of hormones and blind fear which can only be quelled with one medicine, to be compounded by her standing me up (so please add ‘drowning of sorrows’ to the equation), and you may well understand why I woke up in the early hours of Friday morning, in a blind panic, on the floor in a police cell.
Funny, because, five minutes after waking up the police cell magically grew a shower and an open door, through which there magically appeared my hotel room with its lovely crusty hotel bed. Relief was short lived, as the alcohol reclaimed my consciousness soon after. And soon after that, a day of the most intense plane, train, car, rickshaw and fucked bus travelling to reach Diu, to revisit the happy place where I spent Christmas on a toilet.
Still, soon to London, and to return to achievements of this trip: I now have made a resolution never to utter a word against the tube, bus, british Railways, british driving, or even National Express so long as I live. Well, at least so long as I don’t have to use them – my memory’s not that short….
May your beer cost 35 Rupees a pint! So long!
I too have failed a number of cliches in the past 3 months, but have tried not to go further into the wild than Watford. I look forward to seeing your emaciated form and to attempting to feed you up rapidly on poorly brewed European lagers and expertly made, but largely inauthentic English Indian dishes.