Bus or bust

Travelling on a bus in India is a test of willpower - and patience, and strength and personal space and the senses.

In order to save myself approximately five pounds on a straightforward taxi fare from Calangute to Arambol, I thought it would be cheaper - though not simpler - to do the journey by taking the bus with a change halfway through. This would take about 1 hour and cost 25p. No contest!

The first leg from Calangute to Mapusa passed uneventfully and the bus was fairly empty. The leg from Mapusa to Arambol was another world. It started in Mapusa bus terminal which was chaotically busy. When I found the bus and got on, all the seats were taken and much of the aisle too. Even the compartment at the front for stowing large luggage, such as my backpack, was being selfishly monopolised by an enormous sack stuffed full of hands of bananas. With a bit of vicious pushing and shoving and no doubt some damaged bananas, the driver made a space in which to wedge my bag.

Now we were ready to leave - or so I thought. But no, the ticket collector was still outside, shouting out our destination in a bid to get more customers. They came in droves. The aisle where I was standing slowly got more and more cramped until I thought, 'They must stop taking passengers soon, or there'll be no room to fit any more in at stops along the way.' But still they kept piling in. It was like pouring dry rice into a jar: you think it's full, then you give it a shake and suddenly more space is created and you can fit in a few more grains. When the ticket collector had to brace himself, by holding onto the door frame and heave himself backwards against the people inside to get himself inside the bus, he decided it was full.

We set off. The tightly packed bodies now had to adjust themselves to account for the movement of the bus, as well as the stops and starts. Suddenly, as they grabbed onto the filthy handrails above their heads, I found an elbow in my face, a head in my armpit and myself unable to prevent my backside being pushed into the stomach of the lady clinging on behind me. The bus lurched through potholes and over speed bumps, forcing us all to sway wildly in one direction, then another. My nose was filled with the smell of hair oil, stale sweat, close body contact and thick diesel fumes. Even the sack of bananas failed to sweeten the pungent mix.

Then the first stop arrived. I breathed a sigh of relief. At least those getting off would lighten the load. No-one got off. Instead yet more people heaved and dragged themselves on. A man with a large, heavy briefcase got on and failed to see or care about my foot which he trapped painfully under his case. I managed to yank it free and make room for it - by treading on the toes of the boy behind me. He, in turn, shuffled his away and a chain reaction of shuffling, shifting, settling began, to make room in this incredible 'tardis' bus.

In fact, the driver was the lucky one. He had acres of space around him and his enormous steering wheel, so much in fact, that he had space enough to create his own mini shrine on and round the windscreen. It was like a mini temple on wheels.

Above the windscreen there was a framed picture of Ganesh and two other Gods, draped with an orange marigold garland that had passed its sell-by date some days ago. It hung limp and lifeless until the bus moved, when it was flung into a frenzied swaying, whipping the Gods with its withered blooms.

In the left-hand side of the windscreen, half-blocking the driver's view, hung a large, neon-orange plastic lantern with a long wavy-cut fringe below it. When we moved the plastic tassels clattered together and waved in the breeze, like the tentacles of some demented, giant, day-glo jellyfish.

Below the framed picture was a little tray in which a tiny statue of Ganesh (God of good luck - was this a Bad Sign on such a clapped out old bus?) was dwarfed by a large, papery red hibiscus bloom. Below that tray, another with more ominous contents. It seemed to be filled with a selection of spare parts and tools. I caught the glint of a lightbulb, a spanner, a fanbelt and other nuts and bolts, washers and wires that might be needed in the event of a breakdown. In view of the load on board, this seemed quite a likely outlook, so the tray was a wise, if alarming precaution.

I was sure the electrics would be the first to go. Above the driver's head a couple of lengths of cable were carelessly looped, fraying and showing bare wires at either end. Their dubious hazard level was not helped by the bunches of now-desiccated leaves that formed a garland of older vintage than the marigolds, carelessly flung over the wires. One spark and they, the wires, the bus and the passengers would be engulfed in an immense ball of fire.

Not wanting to dwell on my own wildly-exaggerated imaginings, I thought it best to look away. Re-adjusting my grip on the handrails, I caught sight of the ceiling - and wished I hadn't. It was thickly encrusted with a greasy brown layer of many years' build-up of hair grease, hand grease, dust and dirt. Maybe, I mused, this actually had a practical application. When a tall person, such as myself, got on they could 'Velcro' their head to the sticky ceiling using this ancient grease and be stuck fast and secure, no matter how much the bus lurched. I decided that the cause of hygiene would not best be served by trying this out, so with head cocked to one side to avoid contact, I held my grip.

Sweat was beginning to trickle down my back and legs now and the Eau d'Enclosed Autobus perfume was intensifying. A short man, unable to move elsewhere, had his head thrust under my armpit. Looking the picture of misery the poor man was - I was paranoid enough to believe - desperately trying not to breathe.

I wondered whether the saving I'd made by taking the bus was worth the colourful journey. I was persuaded that it was by one simple gesture. A young girl of about 13 had been fiddling with a packet of bindhis during the journey, trying to decide which one to put on her forehead. When she looked up and saw me watching her, I smiled and pointed out a turquoise dot, which went perfectly with her outfit. We didn't exchange a word. As she left the bus, she pressed a bindhi onto my forehead and thrust a slightly grubby bright pink synthetic flower hairclip into my hand - an spontaneous gift. This was such a touching gesture, from someone with whom I'd had no more than an exchanged glance and smile.

When I got to my beach hut, looking in the mirror, I saw that she had returned the favour with a tiny shiny bindhi in the exact same shade as my coral-coloured shirt.