Miss Manners

The morning began, as so many do, with a naïve faith in the “getting there & away” section of the Lonely Planet. It also began with a hot sun, a long walk, and three travelers each crabby for their own reasons: Ben hadn't slept well, Isaac was getting sunburned, and I was still pouting from the night before, when my bargaining abilities had been called into question. I had, in fact, been provoked into one of the big Asian no-no's: causing everyone to lose face by demanding that Isaac fuck off.

And so now I was on strike: I wasn't going to lend the boys my superior eyesight or map reading skills until they, hopelessly disoriented, broke down and begged for some help. My protest was a secret one, though, and Ben gamely navigated us over a footbridge and across the shimmering expanse of parking lot without realizing he was being punished.

He almost got us to the central bus terminal when a travel agency promoting its ticket-booking abilities distracted us. We followed the sign towrds a dank staircase, up two, three, four flights of stairs, and the higher we climbed, the clearer my view of the rag picker in the next street, her dingy sari, her bare feet sinking into a mound of plastic bottles and rotting fruit. I hated India. I hated Ben and Isaac. I proclaimed my intention to go back downstairs and wait in the alley while they chased after the mythical travel agency.

In the alley I sat down on crumbling ledge of concrete, and the owner of nearby business lit four sticks of incense and wedged them into cracks in the wall. He offered me a chair, and my stony little heart relented a little: I didn't hate India quite so much. The incense curled into the damp air. A woman with a pail of murky water walked by once, twice. People stared at me. The midday heat accumulated.

After a while, Isaac joined me, assuring me that Ben was just them in the process of buying us tickets for an afternoon train. I was torn: they had somehow succeeded without me, but I was also ready to have tickets. We sat. People continued to stare. Minutes continued to add up. I decided tickets were sweeter than I-told-you-so's.And then Ben joined us, announcing that the online ticketing system was down. I could still win this one, but my spirit just wasn't in it anymore. I decided to cooperate.

The Lonely Planet came out again. It directed us to the entrance of the central bus terminal, from which point a man possessing neither uniform nor reliable information took over, insisting there was no train on Mondays but nevertheless prodding us upstairs, past a freshly painted train timetable and into hot, lightless room ringed by the shadows of crouching men: the train reservation office. A cryptic sign on the ticket window admonished “no Q’s.” No questions? The steamy, seedy darkness, the paint fumes, the rules against asking questions were too much. Isaac announced we were leaving.

We took our strategizing out into the street, out into the sun. An older man, no doubt intent on selling us some good or service, chose the wrong moment to interrupt, asking where we good sirs were from. Ben answered no, no, no, NO NO! NO!! The man insisted: where were we going? what did we need? Ben told him to fuck off. The man told Ben he was a very naughty boy. Once more, but rather half-heartedly, Ben muttered fuck you. And here Isaac and I,having dutifully read our copy of Culture Shock:India, had been worried about offending people by eating with our left hand or pointing our feet at them.

We decided to split up, Isaac and I inquiring futilely into a few more private bus lines and Ben venturing back into the train office, solving the mystery of why this government-run enterprise was so dark and useless: the power was out. And so we came to terms with our only option: a second-class passenger train leaving from Margao, a transport hub one hour to the south of Panjim. Encrusted with sweat and street dust, anxious about the time, we decided to take a taxi to Margao.

We found a taxi, negotiated a price--I made a vocal point of not participating in this pointless ritual--and climbed in the car. We were on our way! And then...a protest march rounded the corner. For fifteen minutes we watched workers—mostly men but also a few women; mostly miners, but also clerks and dental technicians—stream chanting past us with their orange union banners. By the time the last raised fist had past us by, India's ridiculousness had brought us together again. There would be no more fuck you's directed either at the citizens of this fine country nor at each other.

An hour later, we were at the Margao train station. Isaac walked right up to the ticket counter, handed over seventy rupees, and within a minute was holding three tickets and some change. It was that easy.