Worlds Apart - Part 2

February 2004: Bournemouth, England to New Delhi, India.

Location: United Kingdom
Area: 244,820 sq km
Population: 60 million
Capital: London

The first leg of my momentous journey saw me pulling out of Bournemouth train station early this morning endeavouring to look as calm and collected as possible for the sake of my mother. For her part, she attempted to divert my attention from the fact she was crying by frantically waving a white hanky as the train lurched from the platform. My travels haven’t got off to the best of starts. Amalgamate the nerves, excitement, darn-right fear and a backpack the size of Wales and I’m possibly the clumsiest globetrotter you ever did see. Despite it being a chilly day in February, simply carrying my worldly possessions on my back from the car to the train caused me to sweat profusely. It’s NOT a pretty sight.

‘Do you mind?’ said one lady as I ambled down the aisle of the carriage. With my bag stuffed to the gunnels, I’d opted to tie my walking boots to the outside. As I swung sharply around to give Mum one final wave I managed inadvertently to kick the woman in the face. At least they’re brand new and not caked in mud. The only mileage they’ve done consists of a couple of laps around the lounge in a last minute attempt to wear them in.

Wrestling with my backpack, I finally got myself comfy before checking my phone for messages.

‘Good luck Billy no mates!’ It’s nice to know I have Alan’s support. Jimmy’s text simply read, ‘Bon voyage idiot boy.’ Had I expected anything else?

In an ever-changing world it’s sometimes reassuring to know some things remain the same. It’s been five years since we welcomed in the New Year in Northern Ireland: Jimmy is still with Maria; Alan still has an unhealthy fascination with AFC Bournemouth and Bob and Ellie, despite getting back together, are still to be married. A full five years since Bob’s stag trip to Amsterdam and wedding bells are yet to chime. I should have known it would all change the moment I decided to travel the world. Just two days ago, I got a text from Bob announcing he and Ellie are due to get married in December … oh, and could I be back in time for the preparations because I’m to be the best man.

It seems an age ago Mel and I got it together. Don’t feel like writing too much about it - it’s upsetting, especially after the day I’ve had - but to think of all we went through. Look at me now. How did it all come to this? My feelings for her are still raw in spite of what has happened and the fact she’s more than played her part in putting me in this unsettling situation. I tried to muster the courage to say a final farewell before departing but looking up at the sash window on the second floor where she once stood with that inviting smile, I realised it’s all too late for that now. After much hesitation on the corner of her street, I rearranged my shoulder straps and, pulling the peak of my cap down over my eyes, made my way back to the tube station.

So this is it. My intrepid adventure - certain to push me to the limits as I navigate my way around the world - started with me failing to find the correct terminal building at Heathrow. I only narrowly made the flight from London to Delhi via Vienna. Much of it was spent fidgeting, strumming my fingers on the armrest and feeling sick. As I walked into the arrivals hall at Indira Gandhi International Airport I felt like some reluctant contender coming out to fight for the heavyweight championship of the world. Hoards of screaming faces jostled behind the barriers, thrusting arrival boards in my path. Somehow in the midst of total confusion, I managed to spot my name, ironically held up on a dog-eared piece of paper by possibly the smallest man in the airport.

‘You Mr Mugwah?’ he asked.

‘McGrath, yes.’

‘Mugwah?’

‘Muck … Grath.’ We barked my surname at each other a few more times before I reached for my passport to confirm the name corresponded even if our accents didn’t. He beamed me a toothless smile, chuckling under his breath before leading me through the melee and out into the Indian night. Our transport to the hotel was a very dubious looking white Ambassador, very similar to the old Morris Oxford. The driver, sat on his booster cushion, took a firm grip of the enormous steering wheel and the car lurched into life. It wasn’t long before we turned onto a multi-laned highway. His frequent lane swapping was made even more petrifying by the fact he kept taking his eyes off the road to look at me and smile. I’m not sure if it’s compulsory to wear a seat belt in India. Having swerved violently to avoid a motorcyclist, much to the amusement of the driver, I thought I’d ask a question.

‘How … long … is … this … transfer?’

‘About an hour sir,’ he said in almost perfect English. I discreetly clicked my seatbelt into place.

The first thing to hit me in India is the smell. A dense fog hangs over the city. It reeks of a musty bonfire. It’s not localised though and stayed with us all the way to the hotel.

I’ve been particularly worried India is going to be a baptism of fire so I was pleasantly surprised and reassured by the standard of the hotel lobby. This is to be my base until the tour starts in a couple of days’ time. My apprehension soon came back to bite me on the arse though as I was led to my room down here in the basement. Another strange smell greeted me. This time it was a potent concoction of methylated spirit, disinfectant and paint fumes. The baggage attendant nodded curtly and left me to survey the room with open-mouthed astonishment. Although technically below ground level, there’s a very small window, covered by loosely hung off-white vertical blinds. The dark mould around the edges of these blinds is almost a perfect colour match with the grubby grouting between the tiles in the bathroom. The room looks like a converted site cabin with a bed plonked in it. The single office chair has seen better days. Only three of the original four castors remain and foam stuffing protrudes from the one remaining armrest. The work surfaces are splattered in paint and covered with a thin layer of dust whilst the cupboards don’t have any doors. Before leaving the UK, I was advised to buy a silk sleeping sheet in case I ever stay in less salubrious accommodation. Gingerly peeling back the tatty duvet to reveal discoloured bed sheets, I quickly decided to give the sleeping sheet its first outing. This is supposed to be a three-star hotel. It gets worse than this?

I’ve knocked back my malaria tablet with a swig of whiskey from my hipflask. God this room is depressing. At least I can smoke in here although I’m not sure that’s wise considering the level of flammable fumes. None of the buttons on the television are intact but after much trial and error I’ve managed to get it going by poking the complimentary pen in appropriate holes. Fuck all on though so I’ve resorted to kicking back on my bed, blowing smoke up towards the rickety ceiling fan (which looks like it might fall down and chop me to bits at any moment) and inhaling the strong smell of paint fumes between drags. This has got to be the most uncomfortable bed in the world. It looks like it’s been reclaimed from the local tip. It’s getting late though. Best I try and get some rest. I’ll go in search of water tomorrow. I wonder if the early explorers, when they first started out, wanted nothing more than to be at home in front of the fire with a nice warm mug of their mum’s tea.