Where are you Ste?

If you’re in that taxi going home after a few pints, just what do you talk to the taxi driver about? Ok, you can just sit there and say nowt. This makes the taxi driver think you’re either drunk or stupid, so the price goes up! If, like me, you’re a tight arse and recognise you’re a tight arse, attempt to engage the driver in meaningless badinage. “Been busy?”… Another good one is, “Working all night?”… After that, if the driver isn’t interested, I dry up.

My mate Ste, however, is a bloody diamond. In a cab, on the way home after a day out, he wows them! Unlike me, Ste doesn’t give up easy. He can talk bollocks with the best of ‘em! The most uncommunicative cab driver in the world will talk for hours once Ste engages him. I’ve sat there on many an occasion thinking, “Nah Ste, you’ve no chance this time lad”, only for the driver, after pondering his options for a couple of seconds, to waffle on for Lancashire! So Ste, I really could have done with you tonight matey!

Boringly, the day began as it always does, with the sun rising. I checked out of the hotel and away we went. You’ve probably noticed that I missed breakfast? So, shortly after leaving Shillong, we stopped at a roadside dhaba for tea. It must have been a bloody good place because every fly in the area was there. Still, the tea was hot and welcome.

Onwards and upwards and the next time we stop was three hours later in the Khasi hills. I promised myself I wouldn’t do any gags about khasis, it’s just too damned easy! Oh but the place we stopped at you really couldn’t joke about. It was… err, basic. Nah bugger it, it was filthy and even more fly blown than the last place. I was going to order mutton but then, with a blinding spot of inspiration and foresight I thought “Bugger, where will all those flies lay their eggs?” Eh? Genius thinking eh?
But instead of just having nowt, I opted for rice and dal. Don’t brae me, I was trying to be good but in retrospect, eeeeew, that place!

Travelling is a series of highs and lows. You have to experience the lows to appreciate the highs. We all miss our comforts. Slight inconveniences become major obstacles. The idea is to recognise when you are going through that low and kick yourself up the arse. Unfortunately, today, my brain forgot to engage kicking foot.

After eight hours on the road/dirt track my arse was numb. My back was twisted into a Gordian knot and I really could do with no more travelling. So when Jyoti mentioned that it was another six hour trip tomorrow, on bad roads, followed by coming back exactly the same way home. My heart sank.

I checked into tonight’s hotel (Hotel Borail view – Silchar) with a bloody great cloud over my head, despite it being blue skies and 30C outside. I even wrote and deletede one version of this blog. Thank goodness for the “delete” button. Jyoti and the driver soon came to see me, as they both knew I was a bit down. Bless them! We discussed various options and, if the worst comes to the worst, I can always fly back to Guwahati from Aizawl if I can’t hack the road trip. To consider the options and have a slurp and proper food, I slunk down to the hotel’s “Millennium Bar”.

It was the gloomiest place I’ve ever been in. One solitary barman and me. After ordering my drink, he offers me free peanuts. Well, I’d be a fool to say no. And then we sat there, in silence.
Right, here goes, thinks I attempting to make conversation, “Quiet night tonight?”
“I don’t understand sir? Quiet?” he replied
“yeah, err, nobody in yet apart from me, so it’s quiet”
“I don’t understand sir, that’s in the Middle East… Kuwait”
This wasn’t going to be easy…

Now, don’t get me wrong, I roared inwardly. But after that I was totally stuck. Do I try plan B and ask if he’s working all night? Or cut my losses and say nowt? I did the latter. A few more bits of wasted badinage later and I was spent. I eventually sat there, at the bar, in the dark, staring at the ever diminishing volume within my glass.

But then the evening got even more surreal. Big boss barman buggered off, leaving me sat there like Piffy on a rock bun. Junior underling #1 was sent in to keep an eye on me though. He hovered like a fruit fly, not quite knowing what to do. He was soon fired off by, “up and coming lickspittle #1”. Feck, it was a joke! Did they really think I was going to leap behind the bar and empty the fridge?

Ste would have loved this. He’d have turned it to his advantage. We would probably have ended up with a free bar all night, an invitation the chap’s eldest wedding and free crisps for the night.

A few more people entered the bar and I entered conversation with some bloke from Portsmouth. I chatted for ten minutes, run out of things to say and like all investigative journalists, made my excuses and left. I sometimes hate being a piss poor conversationalist.