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©  2007  Rose George

Apologies for the interrupted service. As rhodri cunningly observed, I spent much of the last week half-asleep in a bamboo hut or on the beach or in the sea and that’s hardly interesting for anyone but me, is it. It was certainly interesting for me, not least because I did no work, and because life got a lot more sociable after the last entry I wrote.

Because rhodri, though a fearsomely incisive reporter, was wrong about the sewers. I did think vaguely about going to investigate a “piggy toilet”, a Goan specialty which does what it says – there is toilet and there are pigs and the pigs take care of what comes out of the toilet. But it was 200 metres away and that was too damn far. Finally, three hours before leaving, I dragged myself away from the bar and the coterie of handsome boys who staffed my beach camp (Goa is aesthetically pleasing all round), and walked to where I was told the piggy toilet would be. No-one spoke English. I tried a couple of times but then, being a fearsomely incisive reporter, gave up and went back to the bar for a sundowner beer.

It’s been that kind of week. A good kind of week.

The bus from Goa to Bangalore leaves every night supposedly at 9.30pm. Though on my ticket there was a seat berth and number, there was some confusion when the Bangalore bus arrived. “Full!” said the miserable sod taking the tickets. It turned out not to be full and probably not to be my bus either, but I wasn’t going to hang around the delightful Canacona Old Bus Stand, far too near the temptations of the beach and the bar, so I got on it and sat half-upright all night while wondering at the appalling state of Indian roads. I’ve been on Indian roads, and some of them are long and straight and flat expressways. All these roads seemed to be hairpin potholers. I dozed for most of the night thinking of all the “bus falls off cliff” headlines I’ve seen in my life. In the morning the backbreaking jolting was revealed to be the crapness of the bus. As four lads next to me said, “It’s got one tractor wheel and three scooter wheels.”

From now on, I think all Indian buses should come with a warning. Beware: This bus has 1000 joltage.

Bangalore seems nice, but I am not well and I haven’t the energy to explore it. I did care though about the Ladies Club which I passed in an autorickshaw early this morning, which promised finishing classes for young ladies in Vegetable Carving. That must be a useful skill in the hi-tech IT centre of India. “Yes madam, how can I help? Oh please excuse me a moment while I finesse this cauliflower.” I did manage in the afternoon to go to a police station and report my iPod missing. It’s been missing for weeks and could be anywhere between Tokyo and Bangalore, but I told them it had been stolen last night. “We can’t say stolen, Madam, because you would have to go back to Goa to report a crime. Put “lost.” “Lost” covers all manner of things.” So I handwrote my own police report about my iPod missing in action, dictated by the sergeant in command, who when it was finished, asked if I was married, how old I was and what I was doing in Bangalore. Dictating my own police report, obviously. Leaning on the wall of the police station was a board covered with mugshots. It was called a Rogues Gallery. I asked to take a picture. “Yes, Madam, if you don’t misuse the photograph.” But he was puzzled. “Don’t you have rogues in the UK?” He’s got a point. Every police station should have a Rogues Gallery. I’m going to put it to my MP.