I then heard Ranj’s voice float clearly through the wall. ‘It’s my room, I can do what I want.’
‘It’s my hotel, and I simply can’t allow it. Ordering four breakfasts from a single room is most irregular, and the poor young man who delivered the food is still in shock at the sight which greeted him. I must think of my staff first and I am going to have to eject you from the hotel.’
‘Is there a rule book, or something? It doesn’t say anywhere that you can’t share your bed.’
‘On your registration form, it expresses the right of the management to dispose of undesirables, and this is what I am doing.’
I then heard the door to Ranj’s room shut, and a few seconds later, there was a knock on mine.
‘Come in,’ I called, assuming it was Ranj.
An Indian man in a smart suit timidly entered the room.
‘I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, sir, but I am afraid that due to a problem with your compatriot, I will be having to terminate…’ As his sentence tailed away, I saw the colour drain from his cheeks. ‘Oh, my God! Heavens above! This one’s at it too!’ He turned his back, and started to rant in the direction of the door. ‘It’s a three-in-a-bed! I thought I’d seen everything, but now I have two English gentlemen entertaining multiple girls on the same night. First it’s a gang-bang, and now I find a three-in-a-bed. This is just the limit. Please – the pair of you will be out of my hotel in less than half an hour. You people are animals. You have no morality whatsoever.’
‘You don’t understand. We weren’t… I mean she’s just… That’s just her friend. We couldn’t leave her in the chair.’
‘I’m not interested in your practices. Just leave my hotel, and never darken its doors again.’
With that, he marched out and slammed the door.
Ranj then appeared in my room, with a huge grin on his face, followed by the three Swedes, dressed only in bra and panties.
‘This is hilarious,’ he said. ‘I’ve never been chucked out of a hotel before.’
‘But we weren’t…’
‘And he got you as well. We were listening through the wall, pissing ourselves. First a gang-bang, now a three-in-abed. Priceless.’
‘We weren’t, though. There just wasn’t anywhere else for Caz to sleep.’
‘Whatever. This hotel’s a boring shit-heap, anyway. How about we join up with these fine young ladies at the Moon Cottage Hotel? It’s right down by the beach.’
‘Will you pass me my boxers?’
He chucked over some underwear, which I put on under the sheet. I noticed that Caz had somehow slept through the whole thing, while Fee was seemingly in shock – staring at the wall opposite and generally acting a bit like Caz.
I got out of bed and gave her a gentle pat on the arm.
‘Fee? I think you should get up.’
‘No,’ she said.
‘Pardon?’
At that moment, her mouth opened wide, and she started yelling at the top of her voice. ‘NOOOOOOO! I CAN’T! I CAN’T GET OUT OF BED! THIS IS THE MOST COMFORTABLE BED IN THE WORLD! I CAN’T! I CAN’T I CAN’T I CAN’T! NOOOOOOO!’
The hotel manager charged back into the room.
‘WHAT IS THIS RACKET? YOU…’ Then, catching sight of the half-naked Swedes, he spun round to face the wall. ‘Oh my God! This is too much! I cannot cope with this.’ Now he was almost crying. ‘Please. Clothe these women. I simply cannot have it. And this noise is simply intolerable…’
‘NOOOOOOO! I CAN’T GO! I CAN’T GO!’
‘I have other guests to consider. You are ruining the reputation of this establishment.’
‘IT’S A BED! A REAL BED! I HAVE TO SLEEP IN A REAL BED! I’M NEVER GOING TO SLEEP ON ONE OF THOSE WOODEN BOARDS AGAIN! NEVER! NEVERNEVERNEVER! AND THERE’S A CARPET! I NEED THE CARPET!’
‘Get this shrieking harpy out of my hotel.’
Caz chose that moment to wake up. Seeing Fee wail, her face instantly crumpled, and she sat bolt upright, exposing her breasts to the room. She started rocking faster than ever, twisting her hair around one finger and moaning to herself at a disturbingly high pitch.
‘It’s an asylum!’ shrieked the hotel manager.
‘Don’t worry,’ said one of the Swedes. ‘The girls are a little upset. We’ll cheer them up again, and then we can all leave. Don’t worry.’ She put an arm on the manager’s shoulder, causing him to yelp.
The manager, his face a livid red with the pain of not looking at the sublime tits hovering just underneath his chin, wriggled out from under her arm. ‘You have twenty minutes, then I’m calling the police.’
He marched out, suavely tripping over a chair leg on the way and slamming the door behind him.
The same Swedish girl then walked up to the bed, and put her arm around Fee, who was now moaning in competition with Caz. ‘You’re not happy, yes?’
‘I CAN’T GO! I CAN’T! IT’S A PROPER BED!’
The Swede looked at me.
‘They’ve been having a hard time lately,’ I said.
‘Do you want to go home?’ she said.
‘I CAN’T. I CAN’T. I’VE GOT TWO WEEKS LEFT. I CAN’T GIVE UP NOW. I’VE NEARLY FINISHED. I CAN’T GIVE UP NOW.’
‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough fun for the moment? You might be happier at home.’
‘BUT I’VE NEARLY FINISHED. I CAN’T GO NOW.’
‘There’s no more beds here now. This is your last one until you go home.’
This set her off again.
‘NOOOO! I CAN’T GET UP! IT’S A PROPER BED.NOOOO!’
‘NOOOOOOO!’ wailed Caz, her first word for more than a month.
‘Well,’ said the Swede, ‘how would you like if we take you into town now? We ring your parents and explain that you are not happy, then we go to a ticket agent and book you to go home, asking that your father pays on a credit card, yes? That way, you will be back in a proper bed before you can think about it. You won’t have to sleep on a hard bed ever again.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Maybe one last night, then you can go straight to a proper bed.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course. You two…’ she turned to Ranj and me, who were cowering in the corner, and clicked her fingers at us. ‘Go outside and I’ll make her dressed. What’s her name?’
‘Fee.’
‘And her friend?’
‘Caz.’
‘OK. Now go.’
We stumbled next door while the nubile half-naked Swedes stayed behind to help dress the mad Englishwomen.
In silence, I watched Ranj getting dressed and packed. After a few minutes, the half-naked Swedes ushered in the now fully clothed Fee and Caz, and I went back next door, still in my boxer shorts. In the corridor, I noticed twenty or so chambermaids crowded around the fire exit, staring at me with their eyes on stalks. I shrugged at them and slunk away.
Ranj, who had spent the week practising his uncle’s signature, paid the bill with an elegantly flourished American Express Gold Card. That afternoon, the competent Swede rang Fee and Caz’s parents who, by the sound of things, embarked on nervous breakdowns of their own in England. Fee’s mum took charge and booked flights from the Air India office in London, arranging for us to pick up the tickets at Trivandrum airport.
The earliest flights she could get were for a couple of days later, so we took turns acting as bodyguards. While Fee had taken a major backwards step since the three-in-a-bed episode, Caz seemed to have taken a turn for the better and had progressed from total silence to near-permanent gibbering.
A whole gang of us took them on the bus to Trivandrum airport, picked up their tickets, then let them loose into the departure lounge. The two of them staggered off in worryingly different directions. The chances of them getting on the right plane in Trivandrum seemed slim enough, let alone of changing flights successfully in Bombay, but there was nothing more we could do. Presumably, if you stumble around an international airport for long enough, someone even
tually puts you on a plane going in vaguely the right direction.
By this stage I had told Ranj all about the background to Fee and Caz’s breakdowns, a story which sent him into paroxysms of glee. He insisted that I told only an edited version to the Swedes, leaving out enough for Ranj to be able to pose as a master of Intimate Yoga.
He held off until Fee and Caz had left, but on the very day of their flight he let slip a few words about his yogic mastery, and afternoon sessions on the beach soon became a regular part of the day.
All of the Swedes, except for the goalkeeper, turned out to be centred on various parts of the upper inner thigh or extreme lower abdomen.
Peace
Dear Mum & Dad,
I’m sorry about the last postcard, but I was feeling a bit low at the time. I’m now having an amazing time. I’ve met up with this really nice Indian guy who’s been paying for me to stay at an expensive hotel with him. We’re having a brilliant laugh together and have just moved down to a smaller hotel near the beach, so that we can be nearer the action. I’ll be home soon.
love,
Dave
PS Apparently Liz has been sleeping with a yoga guru in Rajasthan. If you bump into her parents, pass this on.
Dear Grandad,
I’m having a brilliant time. India has been a fascinating experience which has changed me enormously.
Some of the railways here still have steam trains in operation!
I hope you’re well.
love,
Dave
When the Swedes finally left, Ranj slumped into a depression. By this stage I only had a week left in India, so we agreed that Ranj would go home, apologize and get engaged, while I got the train to Delhi. This journey covered the entire length of the country, and according to The Book took forty-eight hours, which, if I left a spare day for emergencies and three days in Delhi for reconfirming my flight home, meant that I had to get a move on.
Ranj and I took a depressed trip into Trivandrum together, and he headed to the airport to see what flights he could get to the Punjab, while I went to the railway station. Back on the beach, we looked at our little slips of paper as if they were death warrants. Well – he did, anyway. I was actually quite pleased to be going home, even if it did temporarily seem like a bit of a shame to be leaving Kovalam behind. In fact, if I’m honest, I was so excited about going back to England that I could hardly get to sleep that night.
On the morning of my train, Ranj got up early and waved me off from the hotel door. We exchanged addresses and phone numbers, but the whole thing was a bit of a sham, and it was obvious that we’d never really see each other again. If we ever met up in London, it would probably spoil things. I didn’t want to meet the Putney Ranj. He’d probably be just another ordinary Asian bloke, and he’d spoil my memories of India Ranj, the priceless nutter.
On the train to Delhi, I felt that I was already on my way home, and had the strange sensation that more than anything else this was exactly what I wanted to be doing. I didn’t want to be at home, I wanted to be going home. All the difficult stuff was behind me, and the long train journey back to the capital felt like a lap of honour. Staring out of the window while I returned to my starting point, I began to feel all colonial about things - as if I was surveying territory that I had conquered. The longer the journey lasted, the more impressed with myself I became. Such a huge distance, and it was all mine - I’d done it all. I couldn’t believe that I’d actually covered so much ground on my own – and without getting killed, robbed or eaten.
For the entire forty-eight-hour journey, I stared out of the window in a state of serene calm, or slept the dreamless sleep of a freshly crowned Olympic champion.
Back in Delhi, I returned to Mrs Colaco’s guest-house and even managed to get the same dormitory bed as last time. I sat on the hard mattress for a while, cross-legged, and contemplated how cool I was. I had actually done it. I was back where I started, and I was still alive. I felt years older and infinitely wiser than when I’d last been in the same place. I had lasted the entire three months without giving up and going home. The trip was a success.
I still didn’t really know what travellers were supposed to do all day, but that didn’t seem to matter. I was a traveller. I’d been to places and done things that most people avoid out of fear. I had suffered, and confronted dark sides of myself. I had experienced the world.
After a while, two nervous guys in clean-looking jeans walked in, claimed a pair of beds, then sat there in silence, looking as if a bomb had just exploded inside their heads. I noticed that they still had airline tags on their backpacks.
‘Hi,’ said one of them.
‘Peace – er, I mean hi,’ I said. ‘You just arrived?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You feeling a bit out of it?’
‘Jeeeesus,’ groaned the other one. ‘It’s so hot. I can’t believe this. How are you supposed to do anything here?’
‘You’re not, really. Do nothing. Whatever.’
‘Right.’ He looked at me as if I was talking nonsense.
‘How long have you been here?’ said his friend.
‘Oh, long enough. I’m off home in a couple of days.’
‘Starting uni?’
‘Err… yeah. I suppose so.’
‘What are you reading?’
‘A John Grisham thing. I can’t remember the title.’
‘No – I mean, at university. What subject?’
‘Oh, right. Urn… English.’
‘Really? Where?’
‘York. You on a year off ?’ I asked, trying to change the subject. I wasn’t ready to think about home yet.
‘Yeah.’
‘Just starting?’
‘Yeah. We’re doing a couple of months here, then hopefully a month in Pakistan, then Thailand, Indonesia and Australia.’
‘Cool.’
‘Bit daunting, actually.’
‘You’ll be fine,’ I said, thinking that they were certain to get cripplingly ill at some point, not to mention depression, loneliness, despair, robbery, homesickness, and the fact that they’d probably end up hating each other’s guts. ‘You should have a laugh.’
Seeing these fresh-faced scared little bunnies about to head off around India reminded me how pleased I was that I’d got the whole thing over with. In the end, I was glad I’d done it, but I had to admit that the having done it was more fun than the doing it. Crapping your pants, for example, is a dire and miserable experience; but having crapped your pants – I mean, that’s a pretty good conversational party-piece. I’d get a lot a mileage out of my dog-burger story. In fact, ten years on it would probably end up being the only thing I remembered, regardless of the fact that in all likelihood it wasn’t even dog meat in the burger. I could already feel that the dog-burger story was taking pride of place among my India anecdotes. Based on what I’d heard from other travellers, this story had just the right combination of silly-little-me-I-shouldn’t-have-done-it-ness and I’m-so-hard-I-dealt-with-it-anyway-ness.
It was obvious that no one would ever ask me what the mountains looked like, or how the climate changed around the country – they’d just want to know if I shagged anyone, and how ill I’d got. Luckily for me I’d done both (sort of), so I’d always have something to show for my trip. And whatever happened to me for the whole rest of my life, however boring I became, I would always be able to say that I had gone round India for three months on my own. I mean, I hadn’t done the whole thing on my own, but what the hell – I could say what I wanted.
A completely different person
My take-off time was six-thirty in the morning, and it said on my ticket that I had to check in three hours early, so there was hardly any point in going to bed. I managed to get the hotel to arrange a rickshaw for two in the morning, and I spent the evening reading, then went to the meeting place that I had agreed with the driver.
He was fast asleep in the driver’s cabin, and I tapped him on the arm a few times witho
ut any luck. Only when I gave him a pinch did he actually wake up. His head sprang from his folded arms, and he looked at me with startled and panicked eyes, until he remembered who I was. He then grunted and stumbled to a tap in a nearby wall. After having doused his face, he staggered back to the rickshaw, started it up, and we drove off.
All over the city, we passed rickshaw drivers asleep in their little cabins. I hadn’t realized that they didn’t go home at the end of the day. I felt suddenly guilty, as it occurred to me that maybe I’d been a bit meaner than was strictly necessary – haggling over every rupee on every journey. This emotion was instantly swamped, however, by a surge of relief. I realized that for the entire three months, nagging little moments of guilt like this had been gnawing away at me, and in only a few hours I’d be free of it all, for ever.
It was hard to tell from behind, but my driver’s lolling head and wobbly steering gave the distinct impression that he was asleep for a significant portion of the journey. Despite a few close calls, I was still alive when we arrived at the airport, so I gave him a generous tip. A cynic would say that I was just offloading a load of useless currency on the first person I could think of, but I genuinely did want to tip him. If I’d known how little money rickshaw drivers made, I would have tipped all of them.
At first sight the airport was utterly deserted, but after a brief wander I spotted a small group of people in one distant corner of the huge check-in hall. It turned out that this group consisted of five other travellers, all of whom were getting the same flight as me. There was Brian, a BT phone engineer who’d just finished his trip-of-a-lifetime and was worried that he wouldn’t get his job back; his nameless sulking girlfriend with her nose in a Jilly Cooper; Lionel, a trainee chiropodist from Lancashire; Oompt, a German engineering student; and his friend Litty, who was doing a PhD on ground frost.
We sat around and chatted for a while, until Oompt mentioned that he had a Frisbee in his rucksack. Four of us then got up and started playing a huge game of long-distance indoor Frisbee, covering half the length of the building.
While we were playing, I noticed a strange albino-looking woman in an all-white sari step through the doors. When I saw the rucksack in her luggage trolley, I realized she wasn’t an albino, but was probably a Westerner with shameless taste in clothes. Then, when her head turned towards us, I froze and the Frisbee hit me in the face.
Are You Experienced? Page 17
