What word to use to describe travel in India…? Imprecise? Is it a process of approximation?

No, any word that scorns this travel is missing the heart of the matter, it is missing the syncopation that is dictated not by a metronome but by an emotional pulse that arrives precisely when it is supposed to, it is missing the winding currents made by the separate strings of the sitar, which may approximate the logic of Bach's stolid instrumentals, but hits the movement of blood in the veins most accurately.

In short, travel in India is an art form.

And I am an artist-in-training, I suppose, I am beginning to trace the face of things, and it is almost looking like a face when I am finished, and hold the page up to the light. Here I am in Bangalore, arriving exactly when I would have expected to be here… though the method of arriving was not expected, the plot twists not imagined, and the levels of exhaustion and triumph correspondingly higher than really are appropriate… 

Guru
Earlier in the day Manny and I hired an autorickshaw to take us into Chaury, a few kilometers out from the Palolem and our hotel. Purpose of the visit to a noisy and dusty town center? The hotel doesn't accept credit cards (yet) and we needed cash… since [insert favorite expletive here] Bank of America does not allow me to withdraw funds from any ATM in all of India, that duty falls on Manny's tiny local bank, which has been most accommodating. Manny also left his watch at home, and to avoid slipping completely out of touch with the normal currents of time, decided to pick up a cheap Timex, which would hopefully survive his next couple of weeks at the beach.

Here is where Guru steps in. Guru is a name, not a role: he is a sweet 26-year-old rickshaw driver who took us under his wing… his lack of guile was evident, as was his surfeit of heart. He took us in to Canacona/Chaury, telling us proudly about his father's shop near the bus station — 

He is 75 now… his was the first shop here… he has kept it for 55 years!… I take care of him and my mother now… parents are our gold, are they not?… he was sick last year, very bad, we took him to the hospital in Madgao… but he is better now… this road is terrible, isn't it… everyone in town will strike tomorrow; we will close the road for three hours… because I pay 3,000 rupees each year for road tax, and they do nothing… now my rickshaw is falling apart from the ruts… and last month a man on his motorcycle was run over right here, dead… now we will strike, and hopefully there isn't too much corruption… hopefully some money finally goes to the road

Guru brought us to the local watch shop (there is one!) and called the keeper to open; he then made sure that Manny received the guarantee card to go with his purchase. He took us to the bank. And he waved a friend over, This is my friend, he has a jeep… you need to go anywhere around here, he will take you, good good price. I believe him.

I asked Guru to come back that evening, to take me to the bus station.

Paulo Tours, Inc.
My ticket was for the best of three buses to Bangalore, a 10 pm A/C sleeper which offered bunk beds near the ceiling and recliner seats below. As a friend in the states said: in India, with our exchange rate, it is never worth traveling even second class. The ticket said reporting time was 9.30 pm; those who sold me the ticket said "Go to the bus station in Canacona. Bus might come at 10.30."

So here is the first melody in India's travel-music: for some reason or another, probably training, possibly intelligence, you are never given complete information. And what you are given may or may not be correct. You learn to trust certain people in certain situations… but unfortunately, when you travel your situations and people are constantly changing, so whatever trust you gleaned from a particular transaction has to be rebuilt — sometimes painfully — the very next day.

I had a great dinner at what I think is one of the sweeter places in Palolem, the Palolem Guest House, where we have been staying, and whose proprietor of the restaurant, Amar, had become a welcome caretaker and storyteller during our stay. A meal of the best chicken tandoori I have ever eaten, a drink, and an destinationless chat with Manny while we wait for Guru's arrival. No sound of a rickshaw, though. Time is passing, 9.15, 9.20… now 9.30. I say good-bye to the hotel staff and the restaurant staff — yes, yes, thank you, thank you, we'll see you again, surely, next visit — and go out to the gate to await Guru's arrival — to find he has been there waiting since 9 pm!

So my caretaker gathers me into his rickshaw, and off we smoke with a rattle and a tinny roar, toward the bus station. Ah — the old bus station, that is. The travel agent hadn't mentioned there were two of them, had they? And, silly me, I didn't guess that little Chaury would be so well appointed. Apparently the new bus station isn't used (?). Guru wheels me up and helps me bring my packs out of the rickshaw. There are a number of westerners sitting around the station — which in fact consists only of a cement bench surrounding a very large tree — and not much going on.

Guru approaches the man nearest us, asking about the Paulo Tours bus to Bangalore. He appears to be a Frenchman, and appears to be rather drunk. He starts wiggling his head in belligerent mockery of local greetings, and says Oh, yeah sure, Bangalore bus (takes a swig of beer) Bangalore bus gone friend, been and gone fifteen minutes ago! No, no, the bus is for 10 pm, and it is 9.35. We ask someone else, no, haven't seen it yet. They are waiting for a bus to Hampi, which is already two hours late, and which potentially rolls south from there toward Bangalore.

I give Guru 100 rupees for his trouble — about the right fare. He tells me he will be right back, and goes to a shop to buy — from his own small funds — a liter of cold filtered water for me. He presses it into my hands. "If bus not come, you give me a call, I come help you. Remember me when you come back! Guru!" And off he drives into the night.

It looks like we will be in a for a long, indeterminate wait. I am pleased with my poise. I am actually pretty cheerful: now it is all decided, now you just wait, an odd sort of freedom when you deal with unpredictable travel, wait and let go of the misperception that you are in control over anything but yourself… I do a little standing stretch as the town center empties, sing a little Brazilian tune which comes to mind. Cattle amble out of a side street and cross right next to us, to collect in a quiet herd on a cement square behind us. Here comes another one: I nudge the drunken Frenchman, "Hey, here's passage for two! A little slower, but dependable, you can tell by looking at him." That pulls him out of his sullenness a bit, and he begins looking for companion cows to carry the other members of his party.

The trucks and rickshaws which have filled the road during the day have now all but vanished. It is 10.15 already, and no bus to be seen. Then, is a wave of dust and bright beams, up pulls a large vehicle… yes… yes! it says Paulo right across the front! Everyone shoulders their several bags and moves to the door… But the driver shoos almost everyone away. "Mangalore, Mangalore!"

Now, in one of those little perversions of the Universe, that grand plan which keeps tweaking us and winking and smiling as we struggle to keep balance, the name of the city on the west coast, Mangalore is quite fascinatingly close to my destination of choice, Bangalore. And no, I did not get on the wrong bus (yet). I carefully stood at the doorway and said "Bangalore?" to which the attendant replied "No, sir, Mangalore." Now, in one more of the little perversions of the universe, the letter M quite closely resembles the letter B, when spoken in a foreign accent, from the depths of a bus, with the sound of a diesel engine rumbling in the background, and a drunken Frenchman trying to force his way in the door of a bus he doesn't really want to be on. "Not Bangalore, Bangalore with a B??" "No, sir, Mangalore, Mangalore. Bangalore coming!"

Bangalore Coming
Here we have another music lesson, the music of travel in India. When that attendant said "Bangalore coming!" he actually didn't mean "The Bangalore bus, which you have stated that you are awaiting, is somewhere behind me, heading your way." When he said, and I quote, "Bangalore, next bus!" he didn't really mean that the Paulo Tours bus headed for Bangalore, the one I was looking to board, would be along shortly. What he really meant to say, but perhaps was deviated from his intent while trying to physically push the drunken Frenchman from the bus doorway, what he meant to say was, "This is not your bus. This bus is going to Mangalore, Mangalore with an M, sir. Good bye."

So the town center was now completely empty. The shops cleaned up their wares, closed, and went home to bed. I walked to the middle of the once-teeming road, now occupied with a dog with a skin disease and a few slow cattle, still coming from who-knows-where, one by one, to sit in a big cow muddle in the square behind us. It was like a ghost town — a ghost town preparing for a transportation strike in the morning. I made small talk with the Frenchman and his traveling companion, who was substantially less morose, until the drunken one apparently reached some sort of an internal limit, some tiny trigger was pulled and sent neuron-bullets careening through his brain, and he jumped up and walked off down the street in a muttering huff.

Twenty minutes later, he returned, and a few minutes after that, mirage? A Paulo Tours bus pulls up! Everyone moves to the back to load their gear, where a harried attendant tries to find space for everything, without success. I use my headlamp to light up his work (which was by brail) and found room for a couple more bags — but not mine. As he motions me toward the door with my packs, I ask him "Bangalore?" "Yes, yes, take your bags up here."

Now, were you paying attention? What was the last lesson? Well, when the attendant said "Yes, yes" he wasn't in actuality saying "Yes, yes, this is the bus you have been waiting for, the one that the other attendant said would be the next one along, the bus to Bangalore." No, he was not saying that, even if — 

Dear reader, you are reading this perhaps from the comfort of your desk at home, from your computer at work, with your clean clothes and your satisfied belly, and your heating system functioning and your warm bed waiting for you when you prepare yourself for sleep. You might not be able to imagine the scene with precision, with the mangy dog and the cattle and the dark deepening to silence, and the time passing passing in the direction of my flight home. I showed the attendant my ticket — you know, the one that says Bangalore, Seat 25A — and he ushered me appropriately into the A/C section of the bus, and pointed to bunk 1A. We had a little discussion about this, and it was finally settled that I would indeed share that bunk with someone who would be arriving at the next stop. He went off to sort out the mess in the back compartment, while I chatted with a few Europeans nearby. They thought it quite strange I would be on a bus to Hampi. "No, no, this goes to Hampi and then Bangalore… doesn't it?" They thought it quite strange that a bus to Hampi which was heading straight down the coast would have a final destination of Bangalore.

So I went to the back of the bus and greeted the attendant: "This. Bus. Bangalore?" He gave me a strange look. I handed him my ticket. Again. Then he put a hand to his head is a rather universal gesture which I am certain you have seen before. "Oh, sorry, sorry, this bus not Bangalore, this bus Hampi!"

This Bus Hampi
All right. The other lesson in this grand orchestra which often sounds like noise is that… this cacophony is an art. The music doesn't cease, there is no maestro to call the whole thing to a halt, nothing is ever sorted out, but is sifted out. Indian travel is Brazilian soccer, poetry in motion, even if it seems to the unaware like a Dorchester poetry slam. "OK, we drop you at next stop, Karwar."

"Yes… but does the Bangalore bus pass by Karwar?" "Yes, yes!" I have heard these two words before. "So… I will wait at the bus station in Karwar, and then the bus to Bangalore will stop? I will ride the bus to Bangalore?" "Yes!"

"Ok. So the bus to Bangalore does stop at Karwar?" "Yes."

"And even if they expected me in Canacona? What if there are no passengers in Karwar, will the bus still stop?" "Yes, bus stop. You take this seat. Arrive Karwar one hour."

All right. That seems reasonable. It's midnight. In an hour I am going to get out at a deserted bus station in a strange city, wait for the Bangalore bus which may or may not stop unless I step out in front of it (which is my plan at the moment), avoid being robbed or harassed in the interim, and if all of that takes place as expected I will climb aboard the late bus, and be whisked away to my destination! Hmmm!

It just might work.

And since there are no other options, I settle into the jumping and rocking bus seat, making an effort to stay alert.

I Taking Care of You
After a time we do stop in Karwar. I have all my bags at the door. I ask the attendant "This Karwar?" and he says "Yes, Karwar." I verify his assertion on a roadside sign, and follow the attendant out to the street. A heavyset woman struggles down from an upper bunk in the non-AC section, and slumps down to the road. "No, no, back in bus, we leaving!" The woman, clearly unprepared for what has engulfed her on this trip to the ruin of Hampi, makes the sound of a puppy being whipped, "I just got down out of that thing….? I need to pee…." But she looks around the empty street — only a sewage canal by a nearby wall — then, defeated, works her way back up to her uncomfortable perch.

Meanwhile, I am interested in the logistics of this whole deal. "Karwar?" I ask the attendant. There is a Paulo Tours bus parked silent across the square. A few men hang around. Otherwise all is empty. "Karwar, yes. You not stay here. Go to hotel, next stop." "Hotel?" "Yes, yes, I make phone call. I taking care of you." Another man is writing out a passenger ticket. Has he booked me travel on another bus line? He says this with a reasonably real southern Indian smile, and I smile back thanking him. Back we go into the bus. Vroom.

I decided to sit in the back area, right near the door. The night was deepening. If I stayed in a hotel the night, for a morning bus, I wouldn't make my flight in time. I would have to hire a car to take me halfway across the country, at premium rates.

So be it. You playwhat you draw.

You Late!
In about twenty minutes of winding roads, we pull up for a promised meal — the Hampi folks have been waiting for food (and a toilet) for a few hours now. As we lurch to a stop, the attendant says, "Ok, bus here."

"A bus to Bangalore?" "Yes, you come, get on Bangalore bus." "Wait, is this my bus?" "Yes, you late! You make bus wait fifteen minutes there, now they wait ten minutes here, all for you!"

I get out of the bus while I am processing this idea — holy shit… the drunken Frenchman was telling the truth! — and am approached by the Bangalore bus attendant: "You late, you make everyone wait, 9.25!" "9.25 nothing, the ticket says 10 pm!" The attendant looks and is quiet a moment. "You be there 9.30, we wait." "No — I arrived early at 9.35, for a bus that wasn't supposed to arrive until 10 pm!"

"Ok, ok, not your fault. Travel agent make mistake. Come on."

Whether it was the travel agent who erred, or that the bus blew through town at 9:30 to make some good time and, finding no one (even a passenger registered for 10 pm), took off — I should mention that the rest of the trip was comparatively uneventful, but for the somewhat ill-groomed man with whom I was forced to share a bunk, and who seemed not to mind more contact than I personally appreciated; the woman who was either suffering from flu or a first-trimester pregnancy and spent most of the night vomiting into a bag; and the young family in front of her whose infant was crying about something different every half-hour, like a Little Ben whose music was a stringent whine.

Travel in India is an Art
Well. The rickshaw driver tries to take me to two different hotels before asking around for the location of the one where I held reservations. But that was expected — I know that melody already, and paid him a little extra for his efforts. So all in all, even though I have enumerated the most obvious lessons learned above, there were countless others left unnamed… I must say that I have graduated from freshman traveler to Journeyman, and probably have this system down pat. What will I do next time round…?

Take the train.