"Who's the Gora in our wedding photos?"

Worried I would miss the last bus from Benaulim in Goa to Margao and eager to escape a room where the floor looked like it was moving due to an infestation of ants, I headed to the bus stand extra early...unfortunately missing the sunset on the beach.

The bus was not dissimilar to the Kenyan Matatos, only bigger as it was an actual bus, rather than a taxi. After giving the bus runner Rs 10 and not getting any change, I got suspicious. The other passengers were smiling and laughing. I put my hand out for change, he nodded his head no. Another guy said it was Rs 7. Rs. 3 (5p) doesn't sound like a lot, but it's the principle of not being ripped off just because I'm white. So I kicked up a stink. He said he had not change. So I demanded my money back and gave him the exact change. He dropped a Rs 1 coin, he asked for another. T.F.L. buddy (for those of you who don't know the acronym, I'll let you figure it out, it's too rude to spell out), you should have kept you're eyes on the prize.

I arrived in Margao with too much time to spare, so wondered around, found some food and walked to the train station - it was a fair distance away, but I had nothing better to do, though I must say I walked through a rather gritty part of town. I had bought what is known as a Wait Listed ticket for the 1:30 am train to Mangalore in Karnataka. Clueless as to where and what to do, I spoke to the information centre, they said to wait until midnight. Midnight eventually came, outside the office were sheets printed on the old fashioned MS Dos dot paper. I found my train....number 2619....my eyes ran down the list of names....as if I had read my passmark for an important exam, I was overjoyed to see my name on the list: Charles Stuart CONFIRMED A1 33. Halle-freaking-lujah.

While waiting I used the internet to write up the District Naan post. My internet use time came to 1:02 ish, I got up and handed the shopkeeper the (already extortianate) Rs 40 for the hour I had used. He went to check the computer, by now 1:05 ish and so demanded Rs 10 more. I was so sick of being treated like a cash machine by salesmen that I, at first, firmly said that I had used an hour and so would pay for an hour. Less than a minute later, it had escalated into a Paul Mason style row, arms flailing, swear words flying and my final offer "40 rupees or nothing. Your choice asshole." I threw the money down and walked out.

After several platform changes, my belated train arrived. I found my bed, only to be kept up all night by the neighbours.

Top 3 most annoying things to do on a sleeper train:

1. Snore;
2. Leave your mobile on full volume, not answer it the first three times it rings an obnoxious ringtone, but take the call the fourth time; and
3. Turn the lights on and started chatting to your friend at 3:00 am.

I finally got some sleep around 6:00 for a few hours before being awoken by the sheet collectors "Mangalore! Mangalore! Mangalore!" he shouted. "Shit! Shit! Shit!" I replied while jumping off the bed so high, I was putting my socks on while airborne. "Mangalore not here. 5 minutes" he added seeing my reaction. OK. Chill. It was at least another 30 minutes until the Mangalore stop...

Frazzled to say the least and on Delhi Belly High Alert, I decided to sit in the waiting room to rest my weary soul for an hour. Lots of men, having just got off an overnight train from wherever were getting changed, showering, brushing their teeth and sharing toothpaste and talkem powder. Semi-rested, I made the walk from the station into town and found somewhere to have breakfast.

My LP guide said there was a park and church up the road. I thought this might provide a nice place to rest and read for a few hours. I marched up the hill with my big bag on my back, small bag on the front in the sweltering heat. Even in the shade, my sunburn was warming and radiating heat. I found a concrete bench in the shade under some trees, next to the church and a Portuguese style building which was actually a college.

The concept of peace and quiet does not exist in India. When I opened my eyes, swarms of women and their daughters in their best Sarees were headed my way, a few men sprinkled about stood around like lemons, occasional ostentatiously hawking rather large spit balls.

One small people carrier, along the lines of a Renault Espace, was filled with three dark shadows, heads tilted in my direction. The gentleman in the driver's seat even had to shrug down to be able to stare at me. The staring happens everywhere, but in these sorts of circumstances, even in broad daylight, it can be quite uncomfortable and intense. To break the tension, take command of the situation, but also as a sign of my decreasing patience and increasing irritability, I waved and smiled comically. Back home it would be considered sarcastic, but they didn't quite pick up on that element, so they reacted quickly and all waved backed simultaneously. I went back to reading.

Eventually one of them bucked up the courage and walked over, the others stood behind hesitantly as he smiled nervously. The usual novelty conversation ensued. I took the chance to ask what was going on...church maybe? He said that the church was over there, pointing to another building, but this was a wedding. My eyes lit up. I had to get in somehow. Before I knew it, they had gone. I'd missed my chance and regretted not dropping some hints, or even asking outright.

An hour later, another guy came over and started with the same conversation opener and questions. I dropped the least subtle hints about food and the wedding until he said the magic words "Are you hungry? We go in!". I felt like Charlie when he'd won the Golden Ticket to go Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory in the Roald Dahl classic.

The party was pretty dead, but catering was still going strong. He offered me a plate and told me to load up. Rice, masala gravy, some curried chicken, some vegetable curry, the works. He then made me get a second plate. Within 15 minutes I had inhaled two massive plates of Indian cuisine.

Opposite where I was eating was some sort of gymnasium, filled with red chairs, lots of people and pumping music. I couldn't dare ask. After washing my hands, he said "Do you want to see..
- YES!" I interjected before he could finish his sentence, nodding my head excitedly.

Inside the gymnasium, on the stage behind a sea of red plastic chairs half full, were two couples setting off into the..wonderful...world of arranged marital bliss. My new friend told me that 2000 people will have come to the wedding today, each eating, going up on stage, offering presents, shaking the grooms' hand and having their photo taken.

My friend disappeared for a minute, I could see he was talking to a gentleman at the front. In no time, he had brought the man back. He said we were going up on stage to meet the brides and grooms. No dude, you gotta be crazy, I can't do that.

Well in front of a few hundred Indian people, a scruffy, tall, lanky white kid with shorts, dirty from curry, bushy long hair and wonk classes was escorted up on to the stage for a meet and greet, and a quick photo. Slightly embarrassed, I couldn't stop grinning.