TODAY"S SOUNDTRACK - The incomprehensible babble of 26 million people, men gobbing on the train, Goan traffic and tranquility and 'Bohemian Rhapsody' - Bad News' version.
Things started rather creepily on this jaunt, alas. The bus driver from Thornhill to Gatwick had the silky smooth voice of a phone pervert. It was rather unsettling. When he announced, on the bus's PA system, that we had arrived at Gatwick's North Terminal, all I heard was, "What are you wearing? Yes, I know it's three in the morning." Jesus.
Airline departure lounges are places that are not places, they exist nowhere. For the purposes of transit travellers, they're not part of the country they're in. They're like some kind of passenger purgatory, a purgatory where proprietors are free to charge whatever they want for their goods because they know you're trapped until some Divine provenance sets you free. EIGHT QUID for a ham and cheese sandwich? Are you insane? You're out of your fucking mind, you. I'll wait for the airline food. When airline food is a preferrable option, you know that the world's been stuck on its head.
Dubai aiport is a prime example of this and, as such, is not even worth this sentence. I've even had to back twice to correct typing errors. Three times.
Ah, Mumbai... Christ, what a Hell hole. The traffic seems to follow the nature of those contributing to it; ie, humans. It weaves in and out of lanes, nearly bumping into other cars, blindsiding motorcyclists, dispalying an utter refusal to illuminate headlights, as though the cars were pedestrians, walking on a pavement in a huge rush to be somewhere. There are cranes and building sites all over the shop and the entire city pulses with strangely - considering the state of the roads - sluggish life that is, at the same time, flying off at a million miles an hour. The taxi ride from the airport to the train station seemed to have two purposes; one, to actually get us to where we wanted to go and, two, to wreak havoc upon our nervous systems via the twin forms of sweat and pure, adrenalin squirting terror.
Mumbai CSTM train station has an absolutely beautiful exterior and is, in fact a World Heritage site. One can still see the British influence on the architecture. It is also, however, one example in a city chock full of architectural grace. And dogshit, toxic exhaust fumes, beggars and at least one McDonald's. C' cest la vie. Inside the station, mind you, is unbelievable. It throbs. People run through as though, well, as though they're late for a train. Over a million people pass through this station every day and after spending an hour there, one only wonders that it isn't more. If you're trying to locate someone, say an errant Gary Hopkins, you've absolutely no fucking chance. Blind luck - and an extremely dodgy taxi driver - led to us bumping into each other outide the station.
The same dodgy taxi cunt took us to the Gate of India in Coloba. Well, actually, that's not strictly true. After manhandling us into his taxi, he proceeded to drive through the worst traffic in the world, looking over his shoulder and shouting at me. He kept yelling about how dangerous Mumbai is and that anyone who tries to sell you dope is going to shop you to the coppers once they've got your cash. Then, of fucking course, he tried to sell us a load of dope. "You can trust me, I won't go to the police, man. I'm cool." Yeah, right you are, you sneaky cunt. Wanker also charged us 150 Rupees to not take us to the Gate of India, but to Leopold's cafe, where he undoubtedly got a kick back to drop us off. He had a word with a bloke as soon as he pulled up and then this twat tried to sell us weed and charlie because, as she said to me, "I know you like it, man, I can tell by your nose." I know it's rather big, but what the fuck?
The Leopold was subject to the Pakistani commando attack a couple of years back and wears the bullet holes in its walls like some kind of badge of honour. I don't think being attacked by wankers who want to kill people minding their own business entitles a bar to charge what they do, though. They also do so with a greatly inflated sense of self importance. That may sound stupid, but next time you're in the area, pay a visit and tell me that I'm wrong.
We got on the train and God bless Valium and Bagpiper whiskey, is all I can say. Out like a light within two minutes of lying down. I was woken at quarter to six, however, by a teenage Indian boy throwing an empty Thums Up (sic) bottle at me on my top bunk. I was even more annoyed when I realised that the empty bottle used to be mine and used to be full; at least, it was when the chemicals took over and knocked me out. I don't know how good his English was, but he certainly seemed to get the jist of, "Robbing, thieving rob dog cunt sack." Ah, yes, the UN weeps and mourns the day I turned down their job offer... Apparently, Bagpiper is, according to the bottle I quaffed, at least, the world's number one selling whiskey. Well, by Christ, it's certainly not the nicest, I can tell you that.
The noise of the train, all constant hawking and spitting, the chatting, the yelling, the movement and shrieking of the train itself - none of this is condusive to a good night's sleep and I was in a foul, foul temper until about ten minutes ago. A bully boy transvestite was strolling up and down the train this morning, going up to be people and clapping his/her hands in people's faces, demanding money with strangely sexual menaces, merely, it seems, for the virtue of his/her existence at all. Most odd. I got disturbingly aroused and was going to sort myself out, but, good God Almighty, those toilets... Imagine your worst nightmare. Then imagine that, somehow, your Mum's in it, fudding herself, screaming your best friend's name over and over. Then double that feeling - hello, Indian train toilet! Dad actually had to use the toilet, y' know, for number two purposes, the poor bastard. He chose the 'Western Style' bog, which, instead of a hole in the floor of the carriage, is a toilet bowl over a hole in the floor of the carriage. Nice. He found footprints on the seat. I guess the principles of a sit down shitter need explaining to some people...
And then, somehow, we were in Candolim, getting the key for our apartment and then having a beer in Pedro's, nearly drowning in the rather vicious current of the Arabian Ocean.
So - what have you done today?
Things started rather creepily on this jaunt, alas. The bus driver from Thornhill to Gatwick had the silky smooth voice of a phone pervert. It was rather unsettling. When he announced, on the bus's PA system, that we had arrived at Gatwick's North Terminal, all I heard was, "What are you wearing? Yes, I know it's three in the morning." Jesus.
Airline departure lounges are places that are not places, they exist nowhere. For the purposes of transit travellers, they're not part of the country they're in. They're like some kind of passenger purgatory, a purgatory where proprietors are free to charge whatever they want for their goods because they know you're trapped until some Divine provenance sets you free. EIGHT QUID for a ham and cheese sandwich? Are you insane? You're out of your fucking mind, you. I'll wait for the airline food. When airline food is a preferrable option, you know that the world's been stuck on its head.
Dubai aiport is a prime example of this and, as such, is not even worth this sentence. I've even had to back twice to correct typing errors. Three times.
Ah, Mumbai... Christ, what a Hell hole. The traffic seems to follow the nature of those contributing to it; ie, humans. It weaves in and out of lanes, nearly bumping into other cars, blindsiding motorcyclists, dispalying an utter refusal to illuminate headlights, as though the cars were pedestrians, walking on a pavement in a huge rush to be somewhere. There are cranes and building sites all over the shop and the entire city pulses with strangely - considering the state of the roads - sluggish life that is, at the same time, flying off at a million miles an hour. The taxi ride from the airport to the train station seemed to have two purposes; one, to actually get us to where we wanted to go and, two, to wreak havoc upon our nervous systems via the twin forms of sweat and pure, adrenalin squirting terror.
Mumbai CSTM train station has an absolutely beautiful exterior and is, in fact a World Heritage site. One can still see the British influence on the architecture. It is also, however, one example in a city chock full of architectural grace. And dogshit, toxic exhaust fumes, beggars and at least one McDonald's. C' cest la vie. Inside the station, mind you, is unbelievable. It throbs. People run through as though, well, as though they're late for a train. Over a million people pass through this station every day and after spending an hour there, one only wonders that it isn't more. If you're trying to locate someone, say an errant Gary Hopkins, you've absolutely no fucking chance. Blind luck - and an extremely dodgy taxi driver - led to us bumping into each other outide the station.
The same dodgy taxi cunt took us to the Gate of India in Coloba. Well, actually, that's not strictly true. After manhandling us into his taxi, he proceeded to drive through the worst traffic in the world, looking over his shoulder and shouting at me. He kept yelling about how dangerous Mumbai is and that anyone who tries to sell you dope is going to shop you to the coppers once they've got your cash. Then, of fucking course, he tried to sell us a load of dope. "You can trust me, I won't go to the police, man. I'm cool." Yeah, right you are, you sneaky cunt. Wanker also charged us 150 Rupees to not take us to the Gate of India, but to Leopold's cafe, where he undoubtedly got a kick back to drop us off. He had a word with a bloke as soon as he pulled up and then this twat tried to sell us weed and charlie because, as she said to me, "I know you like it, man, I can tell by your nose." I know it's rather big, but what the fuck?
The Leopold was subject to the Pakistani commando attack a couple of years back and wears the bullet holes in its walls like some kind of badge of honour. I don't think being attacked by wankers who want to kill people minding their own business entitles a bar to charge what they do, though. They also do so with a greatly inflated sense of self importance. That may sound stupid, but next time you're in the area, pay a visit and tell me that I'm wrong.
We got on the train and God bless Valium and Bagpiper whiskey, is all I can say. Out like a light within two minutes of lying down. I was woken at quarter to six, however, by a teenage Indian boy throwing an empty Thums Up (sic) bottle at me on my top bunk. I was even more annoyed when I realised that the empty bottle used to be mine and used to be full; at least, it was when the chemicals took over and knocked me out. I don't know how good his English was, but he certainly seemed to get the jist of, "Robbing, thieving rob dog cunt sack." Ah, yes, the UN weeps and mourns the day I turned down their job offer... Apparently, Bagpiper is, according to the bottle I quaffed, at least, the world's number one selling whiskey. Well, by Christ, it's certainly not the nicest, I can tell you that.
The noise of the train, all constant hawking and spitting, the chatting, the yelling, the movement and shrieking of the train itself - none of this is condusive to a good night's sleep and I was in a foul, foul temper until about ten minutes ago. A bully boy transvestite was strolling up and down the train this morning, going up to be people and clapping his/her hands in people's faces, demanding money with strangely sexual menaces, merely, it seems, for the virtue of his/her existence at all. Most odd. I got disturbingly aroused and was going to sort myself out, but, good God Almighty, those toilets... Imagine your worst nightmare. Then imagine that, somehow, your Mum's in it, fudding herself, screaming your best friend's name over and over. Then double that feeling - hello, Indian train toilet! Dad actually had to use the toilet, y' know, for number two purposes, the poor bastard. He chose the 'Western Style' bog, which, instead of a hole in the floor of the carriage, is a toilet bowl over a hole in the floor of the carriage. Nice. He found footprints on the seat. I guess the principles of a sit down shitter need explaining to some people...
And then, somehow, we were in Candolim, getting the key for our apartment and then having a beer in Pedro's, nearly drowning in the rather vicious current of the Arabian Ocean.
So - what have you done today?
Never thought I'd say this but I am quite missing it. Drinking at Pedro's (or whatever beach cafe you happen upon) soaking up the sun and getting waited on hand and foot...do you think you'd appreciate Goa slightly less if you didn't go through the hustle and bustle shit pile that is Mumbai or New Dehli (or as was in my case, Agra and Jaipur as well.)?
ReplyDeleteBe grateful for those places that allow you to really appreciate the little slices of beach heaven like Goa.
Con, you can make some money from this blog. Those ads are adsense, but why not add amazon prods?
ReplyDeleteAnyhoo, im riveted already keep it up and try not to die or something as vaguely serious.
Beats the school run!
ReplyDelete