Sunday 5/7/06 New Delhi.
I have just arrived after a long, hot, uncomfortable overnight bus ride from McLeod Ganj. The monk I was sitting next to refused to open the window, so I sweated and hardly slept all night.

I’ve had it with India. It’s really time to go. Getting on the bus in McLeod Ganj, I’m told that my ticket is wrong, I can’t have the front seat that I reserved nearly a week ago, and that I have to go sit in the back of the bus. I try to explain that I really need that front seat, that I reserved that particular seat far in advance because of my long legs and that I certainly need that seat more than anyone else on this bus. He refuses to listen to me. “Your ticket is wrong, it’s a different agency. Back of the bus!” “How can it be wrong? It’s says right hear Cityland Bus, seat 4. “ I try to remain calm about it, but he’s not hearing me. “Your ticket is wrong, you sit in back of the bus!” I angrily stomp to the back of the bus. I sit in the back seat and my worst fears are realized, it’s impossible to get my legs in front of me, even with the seat upright in front of me. I see nobody sitting in the front seat, my seat. People are staring at me, wondering what I’m going to do. “This is not acceptable.” I head towards the front again and try to talk to the ticket man again. This time, I’m angry. ”Look, I’m 6’6”, I need that see more than anyone on this bus, I reserved it far in advance! It’s not my fault that somebody screwed up and double-booked my seat!” I’m really pissed now, and now everyone on the bus now knows what’s happening. “No, those seats are booked by another agency, my friends are sitting there. You sit in the back!” His friends?! “I’m not sitting in the back!” “Then you go tomorrow!” Laughter in the bus. But I’m not laughing. “I can’t go tomorrow.” He ignores me. That’s enough for me. I go back to my seat in the back, grab my bag and announce so everyone can hear me, “Fuck this shit, I’m sitting in my reserved seat in the front! If they want me to move, they can fucking try to pry me from my goddamn seat!” An American guy on the bus cheers me on, “Now that’s the right attitude!” And it was. This is the attitude one needs in India just to be treated with respect and fairness. It requires a strength of will and of stomach that I have never really needed before, just to get treated fairly. After more cajoling and my demonstration of how it is for me to sit in a normal seat, he relents. His friends sit next to me across the isle. Everything is fine, I sit next to a monk who refuses to open his window. It’s the only window in the bus that isn’t wide open. I don’t try to argue with him, because he’s a monk. I’m sure he’s got his reasons, I just hope it’s not some kind of Buddhist self-punishment.

At our first rest stop, after standing in the crowded “cue” to order drinks, it’s my turn up, and I order a fresh lemon soda. The man comes back with a bottle of plain soda water. “20 rupees.” “No, I want a fresh lemon soda, and it’s 10 rupees.” I grab the menu and point it out. He seems confused. “ Ok, you wait. You want a glass, right? “ “Yes.” That’s what a fresh lemon soda is; It’s a bottle of soda water and a glass that has some fresh lemon juice in it. It’s not complicated. He takes several more orders before a glass is produced and the soda is poured into it. I’m not sure what he’s doing, as there is clearly no lemon in the glass. There is some discussion, and I’m again starting to lose my patience with this bullshit. He’s trying to give me a glass of plain soda water. There’s a long cue behind us now, and I’m starting to raise my voice. “You know what, forget the lemon soda, give me a Limca.” Finally I’m given the soft drink and have to explain that I already gave him 10 rupees, so I only owe him 5 more. At last it’s all sorted out. I’m now labeled the trouble-maker on the bus. Jesus, you almost have to start breaking chairs just to be treated right. I’ve got to get out of India.

The bus finally stops in Delhi. I don’t know where we are, but lots of people are climbing out. I step out of the bus, not sure if this is the final stop or not. I’m immediately surrounded by touts. “You want autorickshaw or taxi?” “I don’t know yet.” “Autorickshaw? Taxi?” “I don’t know yet.” “Rickshaw?” “I don’t know.” Jesus, It’s 6 am and I’ve hardly slept. “You need taxi?” “My friend! Taxi? “ It’s too much. I just put my finger to my lips. A tall taxi driver with a big mustache and dressed in a white gown approaches me. “Where do you want to go?” “Main bazaar” I tell him. “ Ok, I take you.” “Where are we? Is the bus going further?” “No. This is the last stop.” Just then, I hear someone inside the bus “this isn’t the last stop.” I turn and look at the man. He just smiles and shrugs his shoulders. Fucking assholes.
I climb back on the bus. I’ve really got to get out of India. I’ve had enough.
This is just how it is in this part of the world. I don’t like it, and I don’t have to like it.

Cairo, I’m sure, isn’t going to be any better.