A Seriously Shambolic Sojourn

One of the most dangerous and frightening things you could ever do in the world is ride an express government bus in India. Forget the tigers and the bears, the snakes and scorpions, the streets at night, or the silent sea currents; the ancient buses and their deadly drivers will skin you alive far more ferociously in a flash. We boarded the bus at Munnar having accumilated a wealth of snacks for the five hour ride. Sebastian had warned us this endeavour may be in vain given the nature of the journey, but this caution went unheeded in our naive ignorance.

We boarded bouyantly, and stationed ourselves as the back of the bus. Pulling out from the centre of Munnar we got off to a slow and shakey start through the busy and thus heavily pot-holed streets. But a few km down the road, the driver began to unleash his insanity. At first it seemed fun. Sitting over the unforgiving wheel arches provided significant upward trojectory on the speed bumps, and centrifuge thrills on the corners. We laughed gaily, making videos of the escapade with joy as we ventured through the sunlit expanse of glowing green tea mountains.  

But it was not long before the speedometer began to creep to loftier levels than we'd percieved the dilapidated vehicle to be capable of. Gathering momentum and screaming into the sharp bends, I began to feel encroaching nausea. The beautiful scenery turned into thick jungle, and as we descended in twists and turns down the hills, we were flanked by sharp walls of cliff on one side and disquieting sheer declivities on the otherside. The concrete slabs which formed rudimentary barriers between the maniac drivers and the sharp drops showed severe signs of distress with frequent and catastrophic cracks and holes from other careering lunatics.

An hour of persistent death defying momentum ensued. It is not okay to hurtle into a hair-pin bend at speeds exceeding 50km per hour on the wrong side of the road whilst overtaking 3 cars and 1 other bus with such sheer drops but a hair's breadth away. Much of this activity was experienced with eyes closed. We arrived in some small, unfriendly town as the land levelled out for a much needed break. I slithered insalubriously from the bus and staggered to the nearest shaded doorway, which helpfully smelled faintly of piss, and tried to regain strength for the remainder of the journey.

The Indians seem to show the same stoic disregard for bus safety and passenger ettiquette as they do for sanitation. Bodies thrust themselves on or off the steep staircase as the bus trundles on regardless. The government standards of British buses make these journeys seem laughable. Each vehicle carries deep ravines of scarring from poorly judged squeezes and muscle battles on the road. A constant cacophany of horns accosts the ears on any functioning road as drivers would rather be alerted to other motorists's presence audiably, rather than employing the use of the smashed or non existent wing mirrors.The following 4 hours left of our journey were far less eventful and we made it to Allapuhza in one piece, if not a little raw.