The G. Factor

Sir,

 

I sleep fairly well, waking up a couple of times for stops and just general commotion in the aisles.  Every time I check my bag, it's still right where I left it.

 

About 07:00 I reset my bed into seats and start watching the stops about 09:00.  Since this is the J.V. Express, I'm expecting the terminus to be V, but that may not be true. 

 

I get my ticket checked for the fourth time and ask the conductor how many stops to V.  He riddles them off in his head and says, "Ten."

 

Wait a minute, I thought we were due in at 10:00.  "What time do we get there?"

 

"17:00."

 

Ooooooh.  Hmm.  Well, for one thing, I could have kept the bed down for a lot longer, but for another that's going to put me at V. in the evening.  I'd like to make the hop to Gr. tonight, but I also don't want to roll into there after dark. 

 

So let's see ... if I can get a car right away, I'll go; if I can't, I'll get a room and leave tomorrow, BUT that would mean I lose a day and I don't really want to do that.

 

We're starting to see camels as part of the labor force which means two things: the deserts are getting close, and we're now, probably, officially in Islam country.  The landscape is getting drier and drier -- the people getting fewer. 

 

By the mid afternoon, I'm the only person left on my coach. 

 

And the desert train bullets on. 

 

We're far enough out in the country now that people stop and watch as the train goes by.  It's a big deal for the kids especially -- probably one of two sights that people see during the day (the other being the eastbound express).

At 16:00 I shift mental gears.  I have to be ready for V.  We're in the middle of Gu. and the rules are different here.  Islam is going to run the show and it's not inconceivable I would be under some risk.  I'm pretty sure the Department of State has an advisory against just being in Gu. -- and this, for sure, is the state where the train bombings occurred (although I'm a long way from that border).

 

I run through the five pillars of Islam in my head (one hell of a lot easier to remember than the ten commandments, I might add) and brace up.

 

We pull into V and I'm not expecting this.  It's a small town, bordering on nothing.  For the terminus of an express I'm expecting more.  This may not be easy.

 

Most people hop off the train, down off the platform, walk across the tracks and then climb up the other side.  That seems a little too high risk for me so I follow the women and small children down the block or so to the end of the platform and then wrap my way back around.

 

We've been heading almost due west which means it gets dark later here.  I look at the sun, it's about 90 minutes to sundown.  Let's see, what would I pay for a car?  It's about an hour to Gr.  I'd do RS1000 easy.  Now I've just gotta see if there's a car.

 

I'm not even off the platform yet, not even to the station, when a young, small, Muslim is on my arm.  Extremely aggressive. 

 

"D.?  D.?  Are you going to D.?"

 

Interesting.  D. is probably next on my list, but after Gr.  I'm surprised he's asking about it.

 

"No, sorry, I'm going to Gr.  Can you take me to Gr.?"

 

"D.?  D.?  Are you going to D.?"

 

I stop.  "Listen to me.  Gr.  How much to Gr.?"

 

He says, "Gr.?  Selpenthreepees."

 

I think he's saying RS700.  I say, "I'm sorry.  I don't understand your accent.  Fingers.  Use fingers."  He flashes me 7.

 

Now normally this would be an opening bid and we'd crawl down from here, but I'm not certain of the place I'm going and he may have to drive around a bit and I might be able to use him for D. later.  Less than $20 is reasonable anyway.  "Yes."

 

We get into his car, there's a large crescent moon and star above the rearview mirror.  He's put a board over the decaying upolhosertry in the back seat and covered that with a blanket.  Aside from that, the car is in great shape and he's clearly very proud of it.

 

"This car is my father's," he beams.

 

"It's a nice car," I say.

 

"Yes."

 

"What's your name?"

 

"I am Mhustak.  What is your good name, sir?"

 

"I am b1.  My friends call me, 'Red,' like the color.  You may pick either, as you choose."  He particularly likes this and calls me, "Mr. Red."

 

It takes about five blocks to get out of V., and this guy is an amazing driver.  A great driver.  No chances, no blind passing.  In fact, he's more cautious than I'd be.

 

"Where are you from, Mr. Red?"

 

I've already practiced this one.  "The United States ..."

 

"Unitysprates?"

 

I try the short version, "America."

 

He puts it together, "Oh, USA.  USA!  No one here from USA!  Never."

 

"I know.  They're all afraid.  They're afraid of you."  He laughs.  Gotta throw in the kicker before I get kidnapped.  "George Bush, bad."

 

He shakes his head and closes his eyes.  "I know.  That man.  Something wrong.  Not right."

 

"I know.  I'm sorry," I say.

 

After an hour or so we get to Gr., but it's a city he's not familiar with.  He stops to ask directions and the car gets swarmed with touts.  One guy, much to Mhustak's dismay, talks his way into the car, "I will show you."

 

I tell him where I want to go and he gives the classic con artist line, "It's closed."

 

"I don't care, let's go there."  Mhustak is pretty shaken but is noticeably relieved by the fact that this hasn't fazed me in the least.  I lean forward and whisper to him, "Don't worry.  We'll be fine."

 

We get to the hotel, and sure as hell, it's closed.  Probably the first time in history that a tout has used that line and been correct.

 

And I now break the cardinal rule or travel -- you should never ever have a tout recommend something.  Ever.  Because they will get commissions and you'll end up being charged, maybe 50% more.

 

But, it's going to get dark and I need to be situated.  I can't be on the roads at night, especially the roads of Gu.  "Make it nice," I add.

 

We go to another place with a couple of whiteys sitting out front.  No rooms.

 

We then drive clear out of town and then keep going.  The bad thing about something like this is you're at the complete mercy of whatever pricing scheme people set up to travel back-and-forth to town.  But I've seen Gr. and it's just like the guidebooks say -- a relatively nasty place.

 

We get to a place called Anil Farm House.  It's a large mango plantation.  There are several buildings set apart from each other, immaculately groomed.

 

I ask to see a room and he gets two keys.  The first room he shows me is the River View room.  It's a clean room with a bed and a bath and a large patio overlooking a muddy trickle of a river.  All for the low price of RS2000. 

 

The second is the Mountain View room.  The layout is the same as the River View room except here the jungle has been trimmed back to give a view of a small grassy knoll in the distance.  This one is RS1500.  $35 a night for this in the middle of no where with night approaching?  Sure.

 

I pay Mhustak and get a phone number in case I want him for D.

 

The management apologizes that the only food they have this evening is thali (essentially an In. mixed platter) and I say "no problem."  I take a shower and then head for my first meal in 36 hours.

 

"Hey, how many guests do you guys have right now anyway?"

 

"Three."

 

That may even be a lie.  I may be the only one.  If I'd known that, or at least thought about it, I would have taken a lesser room. 

 

No matter.  I made the jump and did it pretty damn cleanly.

 

I sit down to dinner and have three people do nothing more than stand and watch my every move.  I've had this type of thing happen to me in the past in In.  It used to really freak me out, now I just sit and read.

 

The food isn't bad.  Greens in puddles, yellows in puddles, roti, and an extremely good dahl.  I get to wash it down with icy cold 200ml pony cokes.  They're surprised by how little I eat.  "I just look big," I say.

 

I set up the plans for a jeep in the morning ...

 

... and maybe, just maybe, there'll be lions,

b1