Mumbai Mambo on the Bus
Wow. I took a bus from Hampi to Mumbai last night. We left from a town called Hospet, a surging, minor metropolis that reminded me of the frontier town in Star Wars but without any blue guys or a jazz band playing their snouts. The bus pulled out on the dusty, bumpy, single-lane dirt road at 5 pm. Just seventeen hours later, I climbed down from the bus, shaken, stinky, exhausted and a little bit grumpy. I think I was justified.
Deciding to avoid further train travel that would have left me in a town called Guntakal for 7 hours waiting for a 3:30 am transfer to the Mumbai "express," I opted for the bus because it was my only, remaining, reasonable option. The bus also beats the train to Mumbai by 10 hours. Luckily, I had a window seat. Unluckily, a Hare Krisna sat behind me in Hospet and, upon learning that I had completed a month of yoga in Mysore, began to discuss the religious merits of India, himself, and more importantly to him, the International Society for Krisna Consciousness. I didn't do anything to start him up. Honest honest. He spotted me; I was an easy target as the only westerner on the bus, and one of only three women aboard.
"Did you know that India is the religious center of the world and that finding your spirituality involves integrating your personal satisfaction with the satisfaction of the universe?" he asked. I responded, "I think that India also has a pretty good leg up on small-scale entrepreneurship and doesn't seem to mind mixing this interest with its ancient religions." As befits any staunchly religious propagandist, he didn't hear me. "I feel your energy strongly calling for me to discuss my faith with you. I only do this when I am called because I do not share diamonds of wisdom with those who cannot appreciate their lustre," he continued, or something to this effect. As he started to talk, the bus driver, who I credit with a wonderful omniscience, turned on a series of Bollywood films that lasted long into the night. Thanks be to the bus driver, although it was a bit loud. "Ah, I have listen to my iPod now," I smartly answered. In honor of his zeal, I listened to the Reverend Al Green. Hare Krisna tried to catch me anytime I moved my head, and finally he actually sat next to me eliciting a scream that embarrassed him and frightened the other passengers. Upon catching my breath, I quickly told him I preferred to sleep.
Sleep was, unfortunately, just as evasive as I was to the Krisna dude. The man in front of me enjoyed spitting from his window, and every time he leaned his head to the right, I had to duck the remnant spittle in the wind. I asked if he would like to switch places with me, so he could enjoy the wind and I could stay dry. He bobbled his head and acquiesced. I was now next to a big man who smelled like curry and licorice. He put his bare, fat feet on the headrest of the seat in front of him and wrapped his hands behind his head and promptly snored for, oh, 8 hours or so. His elbows bumped and banged me with every death-defying swerve of the bus on those long and windy 300 kilometers of heavily pitted, narrow roads.
As we cruised into Mumbai, I found a seat to myself and before I finally fell asleep, I had the good fortune to catch more than 40 people enjoying a morning squat along the road. Children squat together and chat as they poop. Men squat with their backs to each other, but they were chatting too. When the city became more apparent, and buildings started to crowd out the soft, well-fertilized grass, I noticed that when people got to go, they go. And so I saw people squatting on the dirt now and then, still chatting. While I was a bit disgusted, as you may be too right now, I found the social aspect of the morning evacuation somewhat charming. I didn't find the snort-and-spit routine of every man on board so cute, however.
Needless to say, I felt hideously dirty and foul and crusty and rank by the time the bus driver pinched my ankle to wake me up. I stole the first cab that came by from some slow-moving travelers and asked for a lift to a swank hotel where I immediately scrubbed myself raw and fell asleep watching Indian MTV. I am almost home.
Deciding to avoid further train travel that would have left me in a town called Guntakal for 7 hours waiting for a 3:30 am transfer to the Mumbai "express," I opted for the bus because it was my only, remaining, reasonable option. The bus also beats the train to Mumbai by 10 hours. Luckily, I had a window seat. Unluckily, a Hare Krisna sat behind me in Hospet and, upon learning that I had completed a month of yoga in Mysore, began to discuss the religious merits of India, himself, and more importantly to him, the International Society for Krisna Consciousness. I didn't do anything to start him up. Honest honest. He spotted me; I was an easy target as the only westerner on the bus, and one of only three women aboard.
"Did you know that India is the religious center of the world and that finding your spirituality involves integrating your personal satisfaction with the satisfaction of the universe?" he asked. I responded, "I think that India also has a pretty good leg up on small-scale entrepreneurship and doesn't seem to mind mixing this interest with its ancient religions." As befits any staunchly religious propagandist, he didn't hear me. "I feel your energy strongly calling for me to discuss my faith with you. I only do this when I am called because I do not share diamonds of wisdom with those who cannot appreciate their lustre," he continued, or something to this effect. As he started to talk, the bus driver, who I credit with a wonderful omniscience, turned on a series of Bollywood films that lasted long into the night. Thanks be to the bus driver, although it was a bit loud. "Ah, I have listen to my iPod now," I smartly answered. In honor of his zeal, I listened to the Reverend Al Green. Hare Krisna tried to catch me anytime I moved my head, and finally he actually sat next to me eliciting a scream that embarrassed him and frightened the other passengers. Upon catching my breath, I quickly told him I preferred to sleep.
Sleep was, unfortunately, just as evasive as I was to the Krisna dude. The man in front of me enjoyed spitting from his window, and every time he leaned his head to the right, I had to duck the remnant spittle in the wind. I asked if he would like to switch places with me, so he could enjoy the wind and I could stay dry. He bobbled his head and acquiesced. I was now next to a big man who smelled like curry and licorice. He put his bare, fat feet on the headrest of the seat in front of him and wrapped his hands behind his head and promptly snored for, oh, 8 hours or so. His elbows bumped and banged me with every death-defying swerve of the bus on those long and windy 300 kilometers of heavily pitted, narrow roads.
As we cruised into Mumbai, I found a seat to myself and before I finally fell asleep, I had the good fortune to catch more than 40 people enjoying a morning squat along the road. Children squat together and chat as they poop. Men squat with their backs to each other, but they were chatting too. When the city became more apparent, and buildings started to crowd out the soft, well-fertilized grass, I noticed that when people got to go, they go. And so I saw people squatting on the dirt now and then, still chatting. While I was a bit disgusted, as you may be too right now, I found the social aspect of the morning evacuation somewhat charming. I didn't find the snort-and-spit routine of every man on board so cute, however.
Needless to say, I felt hideously dirty and foul and crusty and rank by the time the bus driver pinched my ankle to wake me up. I stole the first cab that came by from some slow-moving travelers and asked for a lift to a swank hotel where I immediately scrubbed myself raw and fell asleep watching Indian MTV. I am almost home.
posted by your friend at Wednesday, October 26, 2005
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