The Lion, The Witch & The Rucksack
by Lynn Kilcline

CHAPTER SIX - ON THE ROAD TO MANGALORE

Surprisingly, given the time of day, the bus was quite full. There was one family of Westerners who I would have said were also escaping Gokarna but for the fact that even the kids looked like dyed in the wool hippies.
The father, who had shoulder length straggly hair with a bald patch, either had nerves of steel or had an early morning joint, as he marshalled his family to the front seat of the bus from where they had a panoramic view of both scenery and oncoming traffic.
Both the French family, which is what they turned out to be, and us were instructed by the conductor to put all our luggage on to the roof of the bus. None of us was happy with this, but at least we had a chain and padlocks to secure ours to the railing that ran around the top of the roof. The Frenchies managed to rustle up some string. I could see by the look on the face of the Frenchman that I was not alone in my concern. I imagined the rucksacks being thrown about and eventually pitched over the side to fly along in our wake, until the handles snapped off leaving just a length of chain. The Frenchman was very reluctant to leave his gear and the conductor had to shout three times for him to get down from the roof.
Above the driver's seat there were generally framed pictures of gods or prophets. These would be adorned with garlands of fresh flowers and incense sticks. That morning we were able to watch the driver light the incense sticks, lay the garlands over the picture frames, and do a bit of chanting. By the way he avoided fatal accidents on the road there must have been something in it.
We pulled out of Gokarna on time and I had no regrets.
No more than 40 minutes into the journey we were travelling up hill and on a bend when Jackie Stewart in the driving seat opted to overtake a lorry. He had clearly waited until there was a lorry coming the other way before he attempted this. But suddenly we had a change in tactics. We started to decelerate and fall back behind the lorry. Perhaps this was a devious measure to out fox the oncoming vehicle. No, we had a blow out.
In my intense concentration on the impending collision I had not even noticed the bang of the tyre exploding. Under different circumstances I might have been concerned about the time this incident could add to our journey. However, given that we were out in the countryside and, more importantly, there were lots of trees, I looked at the situation positively and sneaked off for a pee. I was able to have two tiddles in the time it took to change the wheel. I did not believe there could possibly be anything left in my bladder now, unless I was absorbing moisture from the atmosphere.
Brian stood and took a manly interest in the wheel changing, offering advice on how to do it along with the rest of the passengers.
The wheel-changing took very little time but an unforeseen problem looked likely to delay us further.
The slightly built Indians were unable to haul the discarded wheel, on to the roof where the spare had been stored. After a great deal of shouting, it was clear that the only thing that was going to rectify this situation was muscle. My very own Hercules, unable to stand the buggering about any longer, climbed on to the roof and with the aid of a rope lifted the wheel on to the roof single handedly. My hero. The passengers were agog and impressed.
The gratitude shown by the bus driver left me in no doubt that any future request for a 'relief stop' would be granted. Naturally, knowing this, meant any urge to use the toilet for the rest of the ride vanished
We did have a pit stop on the way to Mangalore. It was India's answer to the Little Chef. I bought yet more bananas and some round toffee peanut balls that were like giant gob stoppers.
By mid afternoon and without further mishap we arrived in Mangalore.
The guidebook indicated that Mangalore held little of interest. I thought we should head for something top of the range, in the way of accomodation make camp in the lounge and check out the locality. We managed to cram all our luggage into an auto rickshaw and headed for the Hotel Moti Mahal. According to the guidebook this hotel had a swimming pool.
The Moti Mahal was in keeping with all the other better range hotels we had seen and would see, excellent façade, swanky reception area and diabolical bedrooms.
I had asked to see a room and as the bell boy opened the door to the bathroom he announced: ``Western Style bathroom, ma'm.''
He did it in such a way that I expected a fanfare of trumpets. It was not any western style bathroom I would have paid for. It needed a good scrub with a bathroom scourer and grouting for the tiles.
I stomped back to reception and gave them my John McEnroe impression: ``You cannot be serious! You expect me to pay good money for that? You really cannot be serious!''
This meant that I then needed to trail back up four floors to see an alternative. The second room did seem better, but I had really hoped that my complaining would have caused sufficient embarrassment to the management that they would offer us an upgraded room at the lower price. This little ruse did not work.
We decided that as the hotel had a pool and the rooms had AXN T.V. we would stay there. The price was extortionate in comparison to Molyma, which had been £2.00 per night. The Moti Mohal was £12 per night for two but, realistically, it was cheap and what the hell, we would only stay a couple of nights. We went up to the room and unpacked.
Closer inspection of the room provided us with further Indian interior design quirks. The room had a fitted carpet, always a bad idea in a country that has no concept of the function of a Hoover, and the word ' fitted' took on a new meaning. The carpet went up the wall for 4ins, like a skirting board, and had then been cut off and allowed to fray. It drove Brian nuts. For the next two days he wanted to trim it with the nail scissors. I would normally have been transfixed by all the fluff and bits on the carpet, but all my attention was focused on the T.V.
It was too warm to walk around the town so we went down to the pool for a planning session. It was becoming evident after the last few days that this trip would need the planning strategy of a military campaign. It was not going to be possible just to drift from place to place. If we needed to take a train we had to book tickets in advance.
Thanks to David and Anouka we were now owners of a book of train listings for the whole of India. Buses were best caught as early as possible in the morning to avoid travelling in the heat of the day so we needed local information and no official timetables seemed to exist. We also wanted to avoid reaching any destination in the dark, as that was not the time to be looking for accommodation. And most importantly: where were we going and why?
We sat at the poolside in uncomfortable upright plastic chairs surrounded by guidebooks and with a large writing pad balanced on my knee. We worked out a basic plan of action in between plunges into the pool to cool off. By four o'clock we had returned to the room, washed, changed and were heading for the centre of Mangalore with a long list of questions for an unsuspecting travel agent, if we could find one.
The centre of the town was only five minutes walk away. Mangalore centre was quite small but far more hospitable than Bombay and far more sophisticated in its way than Canacona. There was a very busy shopping street leading to a market place which we decided to visit the next day.
We stood at the busy central road junction trying to decide which road to take. Behind us stood the first hospital we had seen. It had the appearance of a bombed and fire damaged prison. People were loitering outside and sitting on kerb stones, many with limbs bound in stained and dirty bandages. Not a building I would want to examine the insides of.
As we stood and pondered the best way to cross the busy road we encountered a further traffic problem. An Indian was making his way toward us herding perhaps 80 baby ducklings before him. They were completely unperturbed by the onslaught of traffic and the noise of the horns. It was one of those occasions when we were so busy standing with our mouths agape that we forgot to grab our camera and take a picture. If the ducks could do it, we could, so we crossed the busy interchange in search of a travel agent.
We really were in luck with the man we found. We had seen only two other Westerners as we had walked about and as this agent was tucked away on the second floor of an old building I think our white faces were something of a novelty to him. He took his time answering all our questions and he could not have been more helpful.
We asked him to change our airline tickets, both the internal flight from Madras to Delhi and our flight home. We had decided to give ourselves an extra two weeks to explore northwards and he was also able to pre-book our onward train journey to Kochi, which he explained was now called Ernakulam.
That happened with amazing regularity. We would plan to visit a town and be told it was now called something completely different. However, when we arrived everyone called it the original name or both names.
One of the most tongue-twisting examples was Mamallapuram which was changed to Mahabalibapuram. Whichever name we used we were corrected, and so finally the only solution was to refer to it as Mama mumble mumble uram which seemed acceptable.
We left the travel agent feeling we had accomplished a great deal. He had promised to have the train tickets delivered to our hotel first thing in the morning and he had also told us of a good family restaurant to try.
We continued to wander around locating the Post office and searching for the recommended restaurant but with little luck. We did find an e-mail shop and we spent an hour sending messages home. As we left the e-mail centre we were surprised to be hailed by a man on a motor scooter. It was the travel agent. He handed us our train tickets and then directed us to the restaurant.
The restaurant was family run and it appeared to be frequented by families but, more importantly, it served the best food we ate in India.
Initially there was no doubt that our appearance in the establishment was the cause of rude staring and comment but, as we tucked in to our food, it may have been the quantities and the oooohing and aaahhhing that came from our table that had everyone agog. As we staggered from the restaurant completely stuffed I can clearly remember saying to Brian: `` Now that…….was worth getting the shits for!''
Back at the hotel I tried desperately to keep awake to watch as much T.V. as I could, but the lack of sleep at the Gokarna International and all that wonderful food proved just too much and I was asleep in no time. What a waste of telly!
The following day we took our leisure and strolled around Mangalore in the morning before it became too hot. We headed for the market and found Mangalore's answer to a Wilkinsons hardware store in a nearby street. We purchased a Tiffin Tin, which was a shiny tin box that I intended to use for storing our travelling snacks. We also bought a tin plate, a tin storage jar for tea leaves, two forks and two spoons.
We then followed the unique process of purchasing items that applied to any large Indian store.
First we selected our purchases with the help of the assistant behind the counter. In this instance we were asked to give our family name and then each item was engraved with it. The items were then given to a boy who removed them to another area to be wrapped. We were given a slip of paper listing our purchases and the price. We then took our slip to a desk where we paid and were given a further slip. The next slip was taken to another desk where we collected our goods. This entire process ensured maximum employment at, I am sure, a pittance of a wage.
We had a swim in the afternoon and were joined by a couple of chaps who had been in Palolem during our stay. They were just passing through and had purchased a swim between trains.
That evening we ate for England in our restaurant and then went back to the Moti Mahal in order for me to overdose on television. We watched Brad Pitt in Joe Black, which was really enjoyable, and then I tried to stay awake for Universal Soldier. But I had seen it at least twice before, and sleep had the better of me.
The following morning we gathered our gear together went for a swim before checking out of the hotel. Unfortunately the only train to Ernakulam was due to leave at 3.30p.m. with an arrival time of 4.30a.m.
Before our departure we stocked up with food for our Tiffin Tin from a local bakery and we paid a visit to the café attached to the hotel.
It was quite scruffy but it was enormous. It looked like a factory canteen. We were not very adventurous and ordered toast, but we watched with interest what everyone else seemed to be ordering. Lots of young Indian business people, both male and female, were eating there and one popular and fascinating dish resembled a massive rolled up pancake about 18ins long which hung over the sides of the plate. We asked the waiter what it was called and he told us it was a Paper Dosa or Masala Dosa. We were to discover that it had different names in different states.
Brian tried one, and from then on there was no turning back. He became a connoisseur of Dosas. I preferred the filling, the Masala bit, which was spicy potato. We certainly had fun on our travels when we tried to order one Masala Dosa and one Masala no Dosa.
We arrived at the railway station by rickshaw in good time and the train was already waiting. It was a real bonus that no one else was aboard and we were able to take photos to show the beauty of first- class travel. I had been dreading another 12 hour overnight stint but to our surprise the train seemed fine, in fact Ritzy.
It wasn't that this train was any different, but our expectations had changed since those first few days and our standards had most certainly dropped. We were quite cheerful as we tied our luggage down and set out our picnic. We were in a compartment for four, but we could see from the information sheet attached to the outside of our carriage that we would not be joined until a stop much farther along the line, at about 9.30p.m. We knew our travelling companion would be male, 38 years old, and judging by his name, Indian. I took the top bunk leaving Brian to sleep below with this chap for company.
By 9.00p.m I was tucked up in my bunk. The sheets and pillowcases were much cleaner on this train and we were more organised. By the time we were joined by the other occupant I was dozing, and as he and Brian had little alternative but to strike up conversation I decided to feign sleep. This chap was really boring and as his voice droned on I must have nodded off.
I was forced to return to consciousness at about 12.30a.m. when I was convinced that we had been invaded by an enormous pig. The guy below was snoring so loudly and making so much noise when he breathed out ready for the next blast I could hardly comprehend it. I peered over the bunk and looked down at him. It was not a pretty sight. He was flat on his back with his big fat belly sticking up and I could not imagine how he wasn't choking with all the snuffling and snorting that was taking place. I leaned out farther from my bunk and was able to observe my beloved who was oblivious to this racket. This was impossible. I coughed; I switched the lights on and off, and insulted him quite loudly. This brought only a slight hesitation of breathing before it carried on.
I felt the need to share this with Brian; I couldn't lie there looking at the ceiling for the next four hours listening to that racket. I shouted down to Brian who was most reluctant to wake up but even my constant calling him did not cause Fatso even to pause in his Pig Symphony.
Brian eventually opened his eyes, then opened them really wide and said: `` What the fuck is that?''
It was the way he said it and the look on his face that made me start to laugh and laugh and laugh. All the time I was trying to stop he was swearing and cursing and thrashing about.
`` Jesus I don't fucking believe this. Christ you need a bloody doctor, mate! Oh come on, this is a fucking joke.''
I was rolling about on my bunk, tears streaming down my face.
Eventually Brian got out of his bunk and went off along the corridor.
I had no idea what he was doing but I was too busy trying to stop howling with laughter. I had just about gained control of myself when he opened the curtains and came back into the cubicle.
`` I don't fucking believe it! You want to hear it down there, they're all at it. What a fucking noise. Go on, Go on get out there and listen. I don't believe it.''
Naturally I was off again crying and rolling about. I did go for a walk and it was hysterical. We must have been in a carriage reserved for people with breathing difficulties. We spent the remainder of the night both crammed on the top bunk, Brian moaning and me laughing.
Somehow we made it to Ernakulam without Brian throttling our companion. He was leaving the train much farther on, but despite our best efforts banging about packing up our belongings, nothing we did woke him.
Leaving the Porker behind as we disembarked dispelled any apprehension we had previously had about arriving in Ernakulam long before dawn. We were glad to be off the train.
We stood on the platform in the dark with our bags, looking dishevelled and, in Brian's case, very grumpy.
What now then?