Writing from: A borrowed laptop in a darkened hotel room under a very noisy fan in Aurangabad.
Arumbol was lazy and beachy and all good.
My last memory of it was having my clothes washed by Jesus (a large Indian man in a white shirt with the word Jezu emblazoned in bright red on the front) and his grinning, giggly wife (who found her joke that women’s pants cost less to wash than men’s because “they’re so small!” so hilarious her smile took over her whole face (she hadn’t seen how big my pants actually are at this point. Move over Bridget Jones).
We were then spirited onto an air-con frozen ‘sleeper’ bus (on which I did not sleep) at 9 pm and regurgiatated from it onto a dusty highway roadside on the outskirts of the Mumbai, a little bit broken inside, 12 hours later.
For future reference please note that a girl cannot (and will not) go for 12 hours without the toilet whilst being rolled from side to side into her bunkmate and the frozen window grill alternately throughout the journey.
I would like to share my horror with you all at home. It helps with the healing. And it goes to show that it’s not all sunsets and mango lassi on the sand. But I won’t.
I would also like to post about Mumbai (I am in Dehli now and am off to Rishikesh in an hour) but the Indian internet cafes appear to be about as fast as me carving the words into a stone tablet. So it’ll have to wait. Leaving you with images of me going to the loo by an Indian roadside when there is so much more to tell you. Ah well. Laters, folks back home.