The train arrived at Margao at about 3am. All the 'retiring rooms' (station accommodation) were full and I didn't fancy trying to get into town and obtain a hotel room - most hotel doors would have been locked hours ago. So, in common with about 100 others, I dossed on the concrete apron under the station's exit awning. I'm very impressed with India travellers: so many have light baggage, including a blanket and maybe a sheet or lunghi. They'll spread out the blanket, use their bags as pillows, wrap themselves in the sheet and sleep apparently undisturbed. I was very taken by the sight of the old bloke next to me - cocooned in his bright orange lunghi, he epitomised something for which I don't have the words.
I got a few hours sleep and by 9am this morning was booked into the GTDC Margao Residency. It was a posh-ish hotel at semi-budget rates and gave me the cleanest sheets yet, a much-enjoyed sit-down toilet and a proper, hot shower. I hadn't realised how much I missed these until now. They felt utterly luxurious. I've done a lot of running around to get no-where very much today.
Well yesterday wasn't very successful: I intended to do quite a few things, then be asleep by early afternoon so that I could be refreshed for visiting Suriya today. It didn't go as planned...
I bagged up a lot of stuff to post home. It now needed an outer wrapper and I couldn't find a tailor or post-office baggage-maker to make one. However, I got talking to the lady who runs the cybercafé in the hotel, Mrs Khan, and she's offered to make me one.
Although I loved the rough romance of luggage racks and dossing, I realised there's a penalty for doing too much of it. I wasn't worried that I got greasy and smelly (except that it might have offended others) but I was concerned that ultra-budget travel wouldn't be conducive to me enjoying Indonesia because I'd be too tired. So, after trying at two cybercafes (one's server died) to book online, I got a motorbike to the station and booked the cheapest class of sleeper* for the trains to Mumbai and then on to Kolkata. I was able to make a firm booking for the Mumbai trip and get waitlisted for the Mumbai-Kolkata leg. I was 5th on the waitlist so I was pretty confident of getting a berth. If this failed, I'd upgrade to an air-conditioned class which had spare berths. The total journey was 2733 km and my tickets cost Rs820: 0·4 pence per kilometre!
*not ACII or ACIII so I didn't know what to expect and was looking forward to finding out
The server death I mentioned above caused me to lose an hours keying of emails and other stuff. Grrrr!
I do recommend slow motorbike-rides in the evening cool of Margao as a way to relax. The roads to the station aren't too bad and there's a fun flyover above the rail-tracks. On the way back, I was on what the driver called a taxi-bike. It had a rear handgrip that supported my back, a wide, flat saddle and felt as though I could be driven on it all day long. (Of course, driving myself would be another matter.)
Buying stamps and envelopes was fun. Sticking stamps on envelopes was achieved by glopping on glue from a pot with the aid of sticks, straws or biro inserts. I found a stationer but it was closed until 3.30 (by which time the post-office would be closed). I bought the envelopes and stamps I needed and my next task was to post things. Oh, while I was waiting for the stationer to open, I got a haircut. Blimey, I looked like Boris Karloff!
My other major task was to try to change my tickets so I arrived in Pekanbaru, not Medan. I had spoken to Singapore airlines when I was in Madurai and the operator there told me I should simply email my requirements to their central unit: I'd have a reply the next morning. Er, no, so they were due to get a shirty Random Bozo soon. I don't mind if someone tells me 'tough luck, this isn't possible' but I do mind if someone tells me 'yes, we'll do this' and then doesn't. GRRR
I also had a wee dose of Mughal's revenge today. It was almost funny to get this now that I was back in trouser-wearing, cutlery-using not-quite-India. I missed blokes wondering around in shirts and dhotis with their brollies tucked into their shirt collars. I missed most of the women wearing sarees or salwar khamise. Here in Goa, many women wore midi-skirts and blouses with leg-o-mutton sleeves and some wore jeans and tee-shirts. (I know it's not my role to tell anyone else what to wear but I do enjoy the colours and fabrics of traditional Indian clothing.) I ate at the hotel's restaurant: it's relatively expensive and I missed so much Kerala's routine chaya and parotta stalls. It was a bit saddening that a single chapatti here cost more than four filling iddlies with chatni and sambar from street vendors in Madurai. Goa's officially in south India but the menu had no iddlies or dosas: maybe they're too lower-class!
While searching for myself (well, why else am I in India?) online, I came across this. Just in case the article expires, here's the text.
© (except the blatantly ripped-off bits) Random Bozo 2006