The Lion, The Witch & The Rucksack
by Lynn Kilcline

CHAPTER ONE -THE BEGINNING.

Looking back, only a few days into the journey, I realised that my mind was a complete blank when we closed the door to 5 Woodhead Road and stepped into the waiting taxi.

I knew that everything that should have been turned off was off; everything that should be shut and locked was shut and locked.
No rattling the front door or trying the handle. We were leaving and we were leaving now.

The run up to our departure had been stressful and tiring.
I had left my job after ten years with the N.S.P.C.C in October 1999, painfully aware that there would be no going back. No more jobs with pensions and benefits; no more increases to an annual salary in line with length of service.
I knew that I would be very lucky to find another job with any prospects or, given my age any job at all.
I was frightened, but, the die had been cast the decisions made, and the plans long in the making.

Over the past five years we had been buying and restoring derelict properties which we then rented out, and the rents were to be our main source of income during our travels.
'Number 8' was the final acquisition in our portfolio and had presented the biggest challenge to my husband, Brian, due to its size and the volume of work required.
In addition to planning for the trip I had been nagging him for the last two months to finish this final addition to our property empire.

Coming home with the house to finish was not an option for me, given the possibility that it may be let and would supply further income.
We worked like mad in those final weeks; Brian tiling, fitting the kitchen and bathroom while I painted and painted.
The weather became colder and colder and we were outside chipping paint off railings and rubbing down window frames [when the ice melted from the sills].

By Christmas Day we were both really ill and spent a whole day in bed. Christmas Day lunch was postponed, and when it was finally served we couldn't do it justice.
It turned out to be a very bad time to have to eat our way through the contents of the fridge and the freezer before we left for India.
The New Millennium found us cleaning and scrubbing and pretty miserable. As I painted wood panelling in the cellar with my fingers freezing in my gloves, I tried to visualise palm trees and beaches. And I thought: "Next week, next week.''
It was two washed out pieces of humanity that finally set out on January 3rd 2000 for the big adventure. Perhaps it wasn't mental shutdown that stopped us worrying about leaving. Perhaps we were just too tired to care.

I had promised myself for months that when I reached Manchester airport I would buy the biggest bag of chocolate peanuts ever, on the basis that everyone is said to lose weight in India.
[As a chocoholic I had been abstaining for the last six months in order to look bikini friendly.]

I found an Olde Worlde Sweetie Shoppe right in the middle of the Duty Frees and among the jars of goodies was my heart's desire.
The assistant tipped 1/2lb of nuts on to the scales and then poured them into an old-fashioned triangular paper bag. She then held it by the corners and swung it over and over so that I ended up with a bag of sweets with two little twisted ears at the top.
I was so impressed and transported back to the days of junior school and the corner shop that I bought half a pound of rainbow drops as well. Heaven!

Brian was chief baggage handler and was sitting comfortably while I raced about buying cups of tea and camera batteries and phoning Mum one last time.

Brian couldn't find his bank card when he went to the Duty Free shop, so this was Mum's first instruction as our P.A: "Cancel the card.''
We hadn't even left the country yet!

When we boarded the aircraft I was amazed by the technology available even for economy class passengers. Telephone, personal video, and excellent food, that was good enough to be called cuisine.
As the icing on the cake I fancied chocolate peanuts for dessert.
We discovered after emptying the overhead luggage compartment and all other bags in our possession that the chocolate peanuts were on a seat in the departure lounge in Manchester.

There was a terrific draught from the emergency exit and I spent the flight to Dubai with my feet wrapped in the complimentary newspaper and the plastic bags containing the video earphones.

In Dubai we were both looking forward to the Duty Free shop. Brian wanted to check out computer bargains and I had bought my last pay cheque along for a new watch. We were to be disappointed.

Most High Street shops in England were better value for electrical goods and Manchester airport was cheaper for watches. I consoled myself with purchasing an outrageous pair of Gaultier sunglasses, which were a tad expensive, but had my money refunded when the salesgirl couldn't find a case to put them in.
I was not prepared to carry them in aluminium tin can that is the Gaultier trademark packaging for perfume. Consolation arrived in the shape of an over sized and over priced bag of chocolate peanuts.
We decided to change the airport logo from "Fly Buy Dubai" to
"Fly By Dubai.''

We managed to find a seat in the hustle and bustle of the airport and scoffed the peanuts while watching people of all nations rushing about. I was looking at the different fashions and headgear and suddenly thought: "HATS!'' [As in: "Where the hell are mine?'']

I travel with a selection of hats in the hope that by wearing one in the sun my hair will not turn a strange colour.
I rummaged around the bags we had at our feet, frantically searching for the shoulder bag that contained all my hats. The scrambling allowed me to hope the lost item would magically appear, but a nasty little voice in my head whispered: "No chance. You can't even imagine where you could have left them, can you?''
Fortunately Brian could remember, and he calmly walked back to the security gate where I had left the bag on the conveyor.
It was still there, which perhaps says a lot about my taste in hats.

The ongoing connection to Bombay was prompt and we had the unexpected pleasure of being given an upgrade to business class.

One fellow passenger was very wary of this grand gesture on behalf of Emirates Airlines; he felt it pre-empted a disaster or at the very least lost luggage. It actually meant neither and we had a very pleasant flight.

The concerned passenger came along and chatted to us during the journey.
He was from Barnsley, and he visited India for three or four months a year. He travelled extensively but also spent time in Calcutta where he helped in a school.
We made the most of his experiences and took lots of notes, trying not to worry too much about his story of near death after eating bad food and being left to fend for himself.

As the plane prepared to land in Bombay, most people seemed to become very agitated and began strapping their hand luggage to themselves and looked as if they were preparing for a race.
When the aircrew began disembarkation it was like the first day of Harrods' sale. People were charging for passport control like lemmings but we just wandered along to the security check and were duly processed.

The lemmings looked confused. It seemed that Bombay was notorious for delays going through customs and immigration. It had been known to take hours but on this occasion it took about 15 minutes.
The mad dash had been unnecessary.
The airport was very basic and tatty: scratched and dirty walls and the odd sad-looking plastic chair dotted here and there.
As we waited for the luggage to emerge I realised my first tussle with the real India was imminent.
I needed the lavatory.

What I am about to relate is a memory that will stay with me in glorious technicolour for the rest of my life.

I approached the " Ladies " and saw, piled up next to the door, stacks of what I can only describe as bedpans. They were balancing one high, two high and four and five high and it was impossible not to look at their contents.
Having done so, it was almost equally impossible to drag my eyes away. My mind scrabbled frantically to identify what the hell was in them and make some sense of it, before the contents of my stomach hit the back of my throat.

It was as if the aftermath of an abortion clinic and the waste from a hospital for terminally ill dysentery sufferers had congealed in those large dishes.
It looked like guts and intestines and there were flies everywhere. I was riveted by the horror of it and I kept thinking "You will see it for what it is in a minute. It can't be what you think."
I staggered into the toilet.

My eyes had been horrified outside. Now my nose was about to be assaulted.
Standing by a row of hand basins was a little wizened old lady.
Her sari was hitched up and tucked in her waistband exposing bowed, brown stick legs.
She was barefoot and splashing about in a sea of the most gut- wrenchingly powerful undiluted disinfectant as she ineffectually brushed at the floor with what appeared to be a horse's tail.

Squelching into the faeces-encrusted squat-down lavatory almost seemed like a haven.
If it is possible to feel your face drain of colour, I did. I was shocked, I felt sick, and I was scared. What the hell had I let us in for? This was only the airport. What would we find outside?

When I emerged I felt compelled to look at those pans again and they were as bad as I had thought.
I returned to the baggage reclaim and was speechless; I didn't have the words then to describe my experience.
Only once during the rest of the trip did I encounter anything almost as bad, but I wasn't to know that then.

Before we had left home we had a number of conversations with a former neighbour who had made trips to India.
We had quizzed him about Bombay, its layout, and travelling in from the airport. He had said he rarely experienced difficulties as his company booked a car to take him to his hotel.
Although expensive taxi rides were strictly against our budgetary principles, we decided it might be a good idea so before leaving home we telephoned our hotel in Bombay and booked a car. What a bit of luck that turned out to be.

As we stepped out of the airport into the early morning light we were greeted by a host of old black and yellow vehicles in varying states of repair.
It was like a bumblebee's knacker yard. These were Bombay's taxis and they weren't going anywhere.
They were on strike.

We located our pre-booked car and despite it's being a complete wreck with ripped seats and no door handles, we were glad to see it.
Our journey towards central Bombay seemed to be mile after mile of shanty town comprising rows and rows of dwellings made with rope and old bits of wood draped with tarpaulins or bright blue plastic.
Cows and dogs were scavenging among mountains of litter and it wasn't unusual to see the odd rat scampering about.
Children squatted in the road using it as a toilet.
Men in dirty loin-cloths were leaning in doorways cleaning their teeth and spitting into the gutters; others were urinating against walls.
Women of all ages sat washing dishes in the same gutters as the men spat.

Everyone looked very dirty but no one appeared to be starving and the general impression was of people going about their everyday business. We were amazed that any child would survive childbirth or infancy in these conditions.

Within 45 minutes we reached our hotel, The Ambassador.
From the outside the upper floors looked fairly grotty but the ground floor was quite grand. We walked up the steps to the entrance and into a pleasant lobby and reception area.

We later found that all reasonable hotels in India charged five-star prices; they also all had very grand entrances that looked much better from a distance.

The splendid doormen that stood guard at most of the upmarket hotels invariably had some dashing white uniform with coloured sash and turban.
On closer inspection these uniforms were almost always very dirty and stained, and the collars were always frayed.
Porters and waiters had exceptionally dirty uniforms or jackets with the type of heavy greasy staining you associate with tramps. The prices charged by an establishment, or the affluence of the clientele, had no bearing on the cleanliness of the staff.
Our bedroom was first class with all the usual comforts. Television, mini-bar and air conditioning. We were tempted to lie down on the large double bed and sleep but we decided to go out and explore - and attempt to stay awake until nightfall.
We showered and put on fresh clothes to dispel the jaded, tired and bad-tempered feeling that inevitably accompanies long-distance travel.

We had arrived. India awaited......