Stranded in Mumbai

We ended up staying another night in suburban Mumbai -- but not at the Ramee. It was way out of our league, 10x than what our budget allowed.

I'm sure you've guessed by now that the reason for the delay had something to do with our onward train tickets to Jodhpur.

We arrived at the Bandar station early. Mumbai traffic is so bad, the bell hop at the hotel suggested we leave 45 minutes before our departure time for the 7 - 10 km distance. I added 15 minutes to this, just to be on the safe side.

We found our train, and our car, but couldn't find our names on the list pasted outside of the entrance.

"How come our names are never on these things?" Benjamin asked with annoyance.

I thought about it -- when things were OK, our names had been on the lists, it was only when things were not OK that our names were not there.

A dark cloud passed overhead...

"Why does it say March 31st?" Benjamin pointed to the date on the passenger list. Our tickets were for the 30th.

"Well I'm sure they wouldn't post a list for this train, that goes to Jodhpur today, with tomorrow's list... That makes no sense," I replied.

We were perplexed. And then all of a sudden it dawned on us. We'd missed our train by a full 24 hours!

Panic set in. Alarm bells in Benjamin's head were so loud, I thought there was a fire alarm going off at the station.

Like in a movie, where the action suddenly freezes and then plays in slow motion so the audience can put complexities of the plot together before things speed up again and move on, I was playing the events over in my head...

When we'd made the arrangements with the travel agent, we originally asked for plane and train tickets for the same day -- but he told us it wasn't possible because the train departs at the same time the plane arrives -- so our tickets required one night's stay in Mumbai. We'd checked over every detail on the tickets when we received them except the dates.

One possible explanation for this is that we often have no clue about the date or even the day of the week. After several weeks on the road, we began to move from one day into the next as if there really is no separation... no distinguishing borders... time became fluid, punctuated by a rhythmical cycle of eating and sleeping.

The travel agent, our newfound savior in the religion of transportation woes, had let us down. He made a mistake and booked train tickets we never could have used, even if we did notice the departure date before it was the day after.

Benjamin's alarm bells were ringing even louder now, snapping things back to regular speed, the slow mo reverie gone in an instant.

We looked at the clock. We had 30 minutes to sort things out so we could get on the train to Jodphur or else... or else... what???

I began to feel helpless - desperate - frantic, even. The reality of missing the train because of botched dates that we didn't check was just too much for my fragile nerves. For one thing, Mumbai is an impossible chaotic and huge city, and we had nowhere to go. It was easy being stranded in Kochi. We could simply go back to our cozy guesthouse in Fort Cochin to regroup. We couldn't afford to go back to the Ramee, and the extraordinarily high cab fare was ravaging our wallets as well. We could have gone into the city proper to find a cheaper guesthouse, but for some reason the idea of sitting in jammed traffic for several hours and finding 'last minute' accommodation seemed as insurmountable as scaling Mt Everest in high heels.

In addition, the Bandar station was decrepit and located in the center of a massive slum... outside, a crowd of beggars, rickshaw drivers, and touts loitered, waiting to pounce on people like us. There was no place to find peace, to collect the thoughts in our heads.

We felt truly stranded. I had the feeling from dreams where you are standing in your high school auditorium in front of the whole student body naked... it's a certain sort of devastation that seems so vast, you might never recover.

The sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach fired up into a burst of adrenaline. WE raced down the long platform like giant turtles on speed (with our packs on, we looked a bit like turtles).

We chose a counter with the shortest line, only to be told by the clerk that we had to go around the corner to counter #4.

We turned the corner, to our dismay, to find a room of lines that at minimum would take an hour, and we only had 15 minutes. Counter #4, of course, was closed -- so we went to counter #9. It had the only English sign and said, "Last minute reservations." In the window, there was a handwritten sign that said, "Refunds available." Seemed like the right place, a one-stop-shop for us.

We got in the 'Q' and soon after a man of similar age walked up, gave us the once over, and then promptly stood in front of us. Benjamin and I looked at each other in disbelief. "Excuse me, but the Q starts behind us," Benjamin said to him. The man moved to stand behind us asking, "What country are you from?"

I was used to this question. Almost everyone you speak with has the same script for small talk. "What country are you from? What do you do? How long are you here?"

The other script: "Are you married? How long? Do you have children? Why not?"

I told him we were from California.

"The U.S.," he said flatly, "that's why the arrogance."

I couldn't believe he was calling us arrogant for asking him to maintain the 'Q' as the signs all around us so clearly request. I ignored him, turning my back before my fragile nerves became unbound and flailed around the room like a downed power line.

Eventually he cut in front of us again, and after a few minutes turned to us with a condescending smile, waved his train ticket in our faces mockingly, and snorted, "See? This is India."

I made some remarks about the level of politeness I've found in Indian 'Q's, which ignited a flurry of comments from him about George W. Bush, I'm sure to do with arrogant Americans, which we most certainly are not. I told him we don't like Bush either so his criticism fell upon deaf ears. Benjamin told me to save my breath and told him to go away.

By this time, Benjamin had reached his boiling point, and when we were told to go to another counter for information on what to do about our tickets, he'd about had it.

To speed up the story, I'll just say that what ensued was a pinball game with us bouncing around the station from one counter to another, to the platform, and back. We couldn't get a straight answer from anyone.

Finally we were at the end of our rope, in search of the train conductor to plead our case. The first guy we found didn't want to deal with us -- simply turned his head and acted like we weren't there. The main conductor finally showed up and wouldn't allow us on the train, but mentioned that if we boarded anyway, we'd be charged the full ticket price and penalty fees. I'd been in India too long to feel comfortable with this option. I pictured us paying enormous baksheesh to the conductor in 'fines' only to be kicked off the train in the middle of nowhere because we were in someone else's seats.

We walked off, heads hung low, accepting the fact that the train was not an option anymore. That's when we decided to go to the airport. The international airport, that is.

It seemed impossible to move around India and if the train didn't work for us, why not fly? And if we were going to spend money on a plane ticket, why not just get the fuck out of India? To Benjamin, fleeing to another country altogether was the most logical move we could make in light of the numerous train incidents we'd encountered in India.

I'd like to describe Benjamin's anger at this point, but I'm not sure how to do it. That's how angry he was. I'd never seen anything like it in the 6 years that I've known him. I'm fairly certain every Indian who walked past us that day will never forget the sight: his eyes had turned red, giant claws emerged from his fingernail beds, steam was coming from his nose in violent puffs, fangs the length of swords were hungry for blood.

We ended up at the international terminal at 4 pm looking for tickets to Bangkok, where we could get our Chinese visas and continue with our trip wearing regular clothes rather than straight jackets or prison attire.

Luckily there were no flights for 12 hours, giving us time to simmer down and fully discuss whether we really wanted to give up on India so hastily. A few tears of frustration and a handshake later, we'd agreed to give it another shot. Benjamin had seen a train reservation booth somewhere nearby... (he's a glutton for punishment).

Note: the story continues with a "good samaritan", a free aiport shuttle to a nearby hotel, a travel agent, bus tickets to Udaipur, one more night in Mumbai...