The apparent lack of an Indian road traffic code has created a transport environment which nurtures what those in the spin-doctoring game would call 'creative traffic solutions'.



You cannot travel more than 500m on any road in India without coming across a truly novel piece of transport innovation. Some measures, like driving a motorcycle along the raised concrete median strip that separates a two lane highway, appear to be straightforward responses to the problems of traffic congestion. However, others show truly outstanding imagination. Four stars to the man who used himself as the pivot with which to attach his hand-cart to a passing truck. This unlikely partnership passed my bus at some speed on the road between Chennai and Canchiparum. He was clinging to the rear tray of the articulated vehicle like a small boy trying to hoist himself over a tall fence. A strap was wound around his waist and tethered to his ungoverned four-wheeled cart, which wobbled and swayed as the momentum of the truck shifted through acceleration, braking and passing maneuvers. The only regulating force on the cart was the sinewy torso of the limpet like man. I was impressed.



And in this spirit of uninhibited transport innovation India has gifted the world the overnight sleeper bus, a means of public transport which would be illegal in almost every country in the world purely on safety grounds. The overnight sleeper consists, naturally enough, of a bus. A bus which has been stripped of all conventional seating. It its place, running the length of the vehicle on either side of a narrow aisle, small sleeper cabins have been installed. Double beds are situated on the driver's side and, on the opposite side, singles. Lower and upper births are available. In all the bus is able to sleep some thirty passengers.



Each cabin is basically a box with a mattress in it. By some miracle of engineering each box is roughly about two centimetres shorter than the individual who is sleeping within. On the inside a curtain hangs from a rail. It can be drawn to provide privacy from one's fellow passengers however, this feature is rendered somewhat obsolete as the outside wall of the box consists of a large, uncurtained window. Two posts are welded to the floor and the ceiling and run up past the inside of each box. Their main function appears to be to make it difficult to enter the cabin, without providing any real security from falling into the aisle should the vehicle be required to take evasive action.

Needless to say I spent the twelve hour trip from Anjuna to Hampi acquainting myself with a number of deities - many of whom are in direct competition with one another - in the desperate hope that at least one of them would be able to deliver me safely to the ruined city of temples.



I spent a few hours of the trip drinking beer and playing cards with a Californian photographer called Ben, whose relaxed style of speech and lazy eyes marked him out as a stoner of the highest order. If he'd been any more laid back he would have been asleep. But he was interesting company and he told some good stories, all of which he concluded with an odd little chuckle, which started somewhere in the back of this throat, was choked down on his soft palate before escaping through his nose. It sounded something like; nnnnggghhaaaa. I was the kind of sound that immediately makes you want to laugh too and I spent much of the trip in anticipation of that little chuckle. Try as I might I couldn't help but laugh in response.



At each one of the relatively frequent rest stops Ben would announce that he needed "just one more beer" to put him in the right physical condition to bring on sleep. His impressive intake of lager meant he also had to relieve himself at the same time. Watching him attempt to go to the restroom, find a bottle shop and return to the bus in the allocated time was like watching the closing credits of the Benny Hill show in fast forward, except without any girls dressed in French maid's costumes. On more than one occasion he failed to return on time and, in gleeful amusement, I would allow the bus to drive about 100 metres down the road before alerting the driver that we were a passenger short. I'm not proud of how funny I found it to watch Ben desperately scuttle after the bus, shouting for the driver to stop. It's wicked but by Christ I laughed like a drain.

At least I laughed until the third time it happened, when he slumped down in the cabin, short of breath but smiling triumphantly and opened the beer which just seconds earlier he'd been brandishing above his head in order to catch the driver's eye. Its contents erupted all over my sleeping bag and pillow. It was his turn to laugh. Karma is a bitch.


At the last stop before lights out I was buying a bottle of water when I caught sight of a sign over the counter offering instant mental relief through the healing powers of Brain Cooling Balm. I pointed this out to my Californian friend who immediately purchased some. He applied it to his forehead and declared it to be good. I was of a mind to give it a go myself but thought I'd wait to see what effect it had on Ben. He certainly seemed relaxed but weather that was the Balm, the eight beers he'd consumed over the course of the evening or the cumulative effects of more than a decade of heavy marijuana use I couldn't be sure. Judging by the sounds coming from the bunk below it certainly didn't hamper his attempts to sleep.

I'm in Colombo now and I'm heading up to climb Adam's Peak this evening. I might be off radar for a few days but should be back by the end of the week.

That is all,

Dale Atkinson