Oh look... A mouse

Wednesday 2nd October

The morning was a horrible mix of Airbnb & Jack’s hilarity.

We still hadn't booked anywhere for Mumbai, and with limited internet, I got cracking with booking an apartment close to Marine Drive. It was beautiful, and with promises that the owners would either be in London and we'd have it completely to ourselves or in Mumbai and could show us some fantastic restaurants and bars, we fired off some emails. Since we weren't registered on the site, I got to work photographing my passport, verifying my passport, and applying my other details before it would let me book and pay...

Luckily, if I could enter my social network details, it could verify my existence and all my details in a flash. I quickly smashed in my Facebook login and waited nervously. The passport had taken 4 attempts and 20 minutes, we had 30 minutes before the only train to Colombo, and we hadn't been given breakfast or had a tuk tuk turn up for the 15 minutes to the station.

It logged in. Nice.

My birthday apparently being in November and my birthplace Marrakech would be confusing to both the verification system and the people who would be opening their homes to me, but the fact that in the "about me" section of my Facebook account it proclaims that 'I like dick' might put potential renters off. Thanks, Jack.

Changing that quickly, and with a couple of minutes to spare, it fired off the request, along with credit card details.

The train ride was incredible. We were in first-class a/c for the 9 and a half hours, which cost us a relatively expensive £20, but we spent most of the first 3 hanging out of the doors with wind in our hair, mountains in our eyes, and the tightest grips on our fingers.

After 3 hours of mountains, the mind started to wander and we quite guiltily watched the final 2 episodes of Breaking Bad, which I've got to admit was equally as thrilling and gut-wrenching.

We were due to get into Colombo at 8pm, but we asked the best way to catch a bus to the airport as we're trying to save money and tuk tuk rides rack up. We arrived at a little station and were told the train guard would show us the way.

We jumped off, were shown the general direction of the road and the buses, and left to ourselves. We found out quickly that we'd rocked up in the darkness of the night in what must be to Colombo what St. Paul's is to Bristol. We were told that every bus went to the airport by some, in broken English, and also by others with shakes of the head that none did.

Eventually, after feeling a little intimidated by the darkness, the sideways looks at the gleaming white faces (I still haven't tanned), and the realisation that we were out of our depth, we walked to the lights of the main road, which we thought we could grab a bus from.

Waiting by the side of a bean and rice shop, a helpful chap in a pickup with black bags to fashion a roof and sides at the back asked us where we were going. I told him the airport, and luckily it turned out, even though he wasn't in a uniform, and had the appearance of a street dealer in an 80s cop show, he worked for the airline and would take us in the back of his van for free.

How kind, I thought.

"No thanks, mate," I said, "I think we'll get the bus."

"Why? I work for the airport, I'll take you now, just get in the van..."

After protesting that we would much prefer to take the public transport, he got out of the van, his friend who was in the passenger seat got out and walked behind us, there was an old man with no teeth to our right, and a tuk tuk with a passenger in had also stopped to talk to us. The passenger told us to get in the tuk tuk; it was definitely safe. The driver was his friend, and if we got in, he'd give us his mobile in case there were any problems.

The shop with the bags of dried beans and rice was bright in the darkness, and inside, people who had not been able to help us due to their lack of English language skills had started to laugh and sneer, either because of our situation or, more probably, because I looked like a rabbit in the headlights. I don't mind admitting I was starting to brick it.

I said to Suzie that we should probably get away from where we were and possibly get a tuk tuk anywhere, but hopefully in the direction of the airport.

Cool as a cucumber, she replied with a completely straight and unfazed expression, "Erm, okay, if you think, a bus might come in a minute."

I later found out she couldn't hear what the guy was saying, and hadn't realised he was trying to get us into the back of his van, but still, she had much more nerve than I did.

Hopping in the closest tuk tuk, we sped off at considerable speed into the darkness that consumed the route to the planes, and I have to admit, I was slightly relieved when I saw the sign for 'Airport Road,' in the knowledge that we were travelling in the right direction.

We arrived, after various checkpoints, into the safety and warmth of Sri Lanka's only international airport, to be greeted by 30 fat (and I mean fat, like absolutely massive) Indians who were pushing and being a general nuisance in the line for the baggage drop. The Sri Lankan at the desk called us forward, gave a wry smile, and said, "Have fun in India."

We needed a drink.

I spotted a red wine and, wanting to rid ourselves of Lankan cash, bought the biggest glass of wine on the menu, which also turned out to be the smallest glass of wine I have ever seen.

I managed just to log onto Airbnb to see that the owners had replied with some questions and concerns over the last-minute booking and headed towards the departure gate. After the fourth security check, we handed our boarding passes to the hostess, who checked them and asked to see our return or onward flights from India.

"We don't have any," I said.

"We're free fucking spirits," I thought smugly.

"Hmmm, I have to make a call."

The answer from the other end was that we had to have an onward flight; it was a visa condition. And there was no way around it.

We were informed we had 20 minutes before the flight left, and with most of the other passengers boarded, we rushed to a computer to buy the cheapest flight at the cheapest date. We decided that we should fly to Bangkok from Kolkata, as this roughly fitted our plans to visit the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, and we'd have to leave by December if we had any chance of enjoying Christmas with Harry and Imo in St. Lucia. The cheapest date was December 3rd. £50 each. Deal.

The computer whirred and spun and crashed and burned.

Suzie handed me the keyboard, and with the powers that only the geekiest could possess, I hurriedly tapped out the booking details again on another site at near lightning speed. Paid and wrote down the booking reference on a scrap of paper that we handed to the hostess with minutes to spare. We took our seats and got our stories straight for immigration on the other side, as "I'm a free fucking spirit yeah" doesn't quite cut it.

Half an hour in the queue for immigration, we got our bags, cleared customs, and spotted my name on a driver’s whiteboard - Jamme Chalognier - We'd booked the first night in a seedy but reasonable hotel that Stuart Hartley and Elliot Mills had recommended, which did free airport transfers. As we were waiting for our car to arrive, what looked like a big cat or small leopard ran across the car park. Our driver pointed and calmly said, "Oh look, a mouse."

And that was it.

19 hours later at 3am, after one of the most stressful days of my life, lost, nearly kidnapped, stranded, and about to get into a bug-infested bed, I thought, "I'm in India," and I couldn't have been happier.

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