12
January
2016, Udaipur, India
In a
dusty bus depot on the outskirts of a city, Maya and James remove their
pristine backpacks and put them down on a vast expanse of dried, cracked mud.
The brown ground is fleetingly tinged pink from the sunset and a wind whips up
a whirl of dust and feathers. James throws his large grey-and-black bag down in
a more gung-ho fashion than Maya – he thinks grime and dirt will make them look
edgier, how ‘real’ travellers should look – disguising the fact they started
their big round-the-world trip in Oberoi opulence.
James
used to do the same thing when he was a teen with white, box-fresh trainers –
he’d ask Francesca to jump up and down on his feet, to roughen them up a bit
and make them look less ‘new’, to make him look less of a mummy’s boy.
Francesca always obliged with more gusto than James intended, and the gentle
toe taps and foot presses would inevitably graduate to stamps, painful kicks
and James and Francesca coming to blows.
Maya
doesn’t want to put her beloved new Macpac on the ground in case it touches one
of the many globs of spit there, thick, gloopy and red from chewed-up tobacco,
so she carefully heaves it on top of James’. It was an emotional moment when
Maya found the backpack she wanted to buy. She and James had gone to the
outdoor shops in Covent Garden to get themselves all the gear they would need
for the year ahead, and she tried on different styles, as if she were wedding
dress shopping.
Too big.
Too military.
Too Bear Grylls.
Too masculine.
Too feminine.
When
Maya found the one that was just right – steely grey, sleek zips, and
just the right proportions – she looked at herself in the mirror, the long
empty backpack stuffed with bubble wrap and tissue, like a koala hugging her
shoulders. Aside from it feeling deceptively light, Maya liked how she looked.
I look the part.
Sizing
up her reflection, Maya imagined her departed friend Velma, young and
adventurous, heading off on one of her trips to Buenos Aires, Paris, or
Istanbul, to work in whichever bureau she was to report from. Full of excitement
at the prospect of the sights she was about to see, the friends she would make,
the food she would eat, the men who would twirl her around, at milongas or in
the Moulin Rouge.
Velma would approve of this backpack.
‘That’s
it. That’s the one.’
Velma would approve of James.
She
took her Visa card out of her wallet and bought her backpack and one James had
chosen, grateful to Velma for the inspiration to travel – and the means of
paying for it.
So no,
Maya won’t fling her backpack onto ground stained with spit blobs that were
right in front of where people stood waiting for colourful buses to take them
beyond Rajasthan’s jewels and dunes. Besides, Maya put too much effort into her
capsule wardrobe to just sling all her worldly belongings onto the floor.
I might have to put my face against it and use it as a pillow.
Crowds
jostle, as a brightly painted bus pulls up, bald tyres skidding in the brown
dust. A loud hiss emanates from the back of the bus as Maya and James wait
beside it, inhaling a cloud of steam and exhaust fumes as they let the locals
get on first. James drags and Maya lifts their packs towards the door, where
they politely edge up some steps, cumbersome and cluttered, onto the already
crowded bus. James hands two thin white pieces of paper to the driver and gives
a
hopeful smile.
The
driver urges them up from his perch by the door and signals for them to move
down the back of the bus.
‘Our
bags?’ James asks. ‘Can you open up the side? The baggage storage?’
The
driver shrugs, and ushers them on.
Maya
steps up behind James and whispers in his ear. ‘I don’t think there is a
baggage compartment. We’ll have to take them on with us.’
James
looks irritated and pushes his glasses up his nose. ‘There isn’t room,’ he says
through gritted teeth.
James surveys
the bus. It’s entirely full. Eyeballs look back at him with interest, in
silence. There are no wide, reclining seats waiting for James and Maya. There
are no wide, reclining seats at all.
James
turns back to the bus driver. ‘Erm, I think this must be the wrong bus. We’re
meant to be on the night bus to Bundi. Is this it?’
The
driver gives a gentle, graceful move of the head and James can’t decipher what
it means.
Do we get off?
Do we stay on?
A
young man with thick sideways hair and white teeth, sitting in one of the six
front seats, stands up to make a declaration. ‘Dude. I love your shirt,’ he
says, appreciatively as he eyes the beige cheesecloth shirt on James’ back.
‘Thanks.’
The man looks pleased with himself and sits back
down.
James sees an opportunity – the passenger looks more
agreeable than the driver.
James sees an opportunity – the passenger looks more
agreeable than the driver.
‘Do
you know where our seats are?’ James asks hopefully. He shows the passenger the
thin white pieces of paper. ‘We have sleeper tickets.’
‘Ahh,
sleeper tickets are up there, sir,’ the man says cheerfully.
James
and Maya look to the roof of the bus. There is no upstairs.
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