I had to fly down from Shanghai to Mumbai and then a short flight to Goa. We flew via Taipei. It took 17 hours and I was exhausted.
At Goa airport I was, as promised and as usual, met by a driver. This time, however, the driver took me to a Fiat Panda, one of the smallest cars I have ever had the misfortune to travel in. I presumed that the hotel would be a short ride away. ‘Three hours’ my driver corrected me when I asked how long we would be cooped up on this journey, my knees in my face.
Everything proceeded and I contented myself with looking out of the window as India passed by the tiny window. Cows lay by the side of and in the middle of the road, undisturbed because they are sacred. A factory belching black smoke dominated the landscape for a long while and made me wonder if it was another Bhopal waiting to happen. And then one of those terrifying moments. An hour and a half in, the driver suddenly stopped the car and instructed me to
“GET OUT!”
He seemed to be shouting. We were in the middle of nowhere. We had pulled over to the side of the road, under a tree.
“GET OUT!” he repeated.
“Why?”, I enquired.
This was it, I told myself. This was where I become another orange jumpsuit wearing western captive of an extreme terrorist group or where I would be adducted and robbed and wake up in an ice bath with a note telling me that one of my kidneys had been harvested. Reluctantly, and full of trepidation, I emerged from my Fiat cocoon.
“GO!” he shouted.
“Go where exactly” I replied indignantly. Surely her wasn’t just going to abandon me here?
“My brother”. He indicated an identical, white Fiat Panda a hundred yards up the road.
The brother emerged from the other car and beckoned.
“We swap. You go with him now”.
The two brothers did a shuttle run, it appeared. One from the airport to the half way point, the other from this be-knighted location on to the hotel. Very sensible, really. But very frightening when communicated so abruptly and without warning.
Eventually, we arrived at the hotel. I was greeted with a bow, the hands in prayer, and garlanded with a mala, the flower necklace.
“Is there anything we can get you, sir, anything at all?”
“I’d love a beer please!”, I replied.
“I am sorry, sir, this is a yogic hotel. No beer.”