Shit, Piss and Buses...

You have been warned. Some days are not so fun.

A bus station in a dirty provincial town. Me and my bag.

There is an overpowering smell of shit and rotting vegetables, of sun curdled sauces and sewerage. Buses arrive full and leave fuller. Conductors stand in the doorways blowing whistles while the drivers beep their horn, trying in vain to stop people boarding while the bus is still moving. People throw bags in through open windows to claim seats, others help their children wriggle through to fight the good fight from the inside. "You must fight," the stationmaster says, and waves his elbows around violently to demonstrate queueing Indian style. I stand in a crowd of mostly women, near the back, and think about milling into this brightly coloured group with my elbows. I realise that if I use my feet first, I can take out the children, the elderly and the smaller women, saving my elbows and upper body strength for the more troublesome opposition like the burly women and the occasional amputee male. I am pleased that with only a moment's thought I have improved on India's time honoured queueing system and I allow myself to be shuffled backwards as the crowd swells afresh with new males.

As I reverse out of the crowd the taxi drivers circle me like flies, as if I am the source of the stench. In their buzzing, I catch something about buses too full, no trains, bomb scares, short cuts, they lie as much as they need to lie to fill their taxis. The flies circle me aswell, and walk their shitty little landing gear all over my sweaty skin. The flies taste the open sewers, taste the pastries in the market stalls and come to see if i taste any different. They're happy out.

Beggar kids come up and flash their smiles or put on a hungry face depending on how they've sized you up. At this stage I've developed a rough "Need rating" in my head based on their age, the severity of their disability and the level of desperation on their faces. I don't see any other way.

I go to the stationmaster to ask when the next bus might be that I'll actually fit on. He ignores me patiently, and shouts some more at his friend/enemy who less patiently ignores me with a sneering smile.

I retreat to the bathroom to wash my face. Washing my hands under the tap I am joined by another who starts pissing in the sink. It dawns on me that he's a well dressed man who probably didn't get well dressed in life by pissing in sinks. If one of us is gonna confuse an Indian urinal with an Indian sink its probably gonna be me. A gentle mist of urine floats down from my neighbour on to my flip flopped feet.

Some of the cubicles don't have doors, but people seem happy enough to squat there anyway. The cubicle I get into has shit liberally sprayed on the walls up to chest height, which is impressive from a squatting start. It looms above me as I try and squat, with rucksack on back, struggling not to touch anything. Any hooks on the back of the door for hanging coats or bags are ripped out by the local kids so that tourists will leave their bags outside while they toilet. It works apparently.

I stumble out and back to the bus stand. Not much has changed. Buses come and go but the crowd remains. I ask a couple of people whats going on. No-one knows, but then this is India. No-one ever knows .

The crowd is getting older and more female, and my elbows start to itch. Soon, soon I will make my move.