The Bus Crash

I decided to approach the overnight bus trip to Hampi a little differently from my previous Indian long-haul journeys. Rather than simply dose myself with valium, which helped with the ordeal but left me feeling groggy, I went for a yoga session in the morning, swam and lounged on the beach all day, did another yoga session in the afternoon and then went for a massage.
Surely, this would leave me sufficiently relaxed so as not to neccessitate the use of prescription drugs to knock me out.

I found the bus stop without much trouble. It was a non-descript shack by the side of the road, distinguishable only because of the rucksacked tourists waiting hopefully under an awning by a flickering streetlight.
We waited an hour until a bus stopped.
Before we had a chance to get on, it drove off again.
We stood around, a little bewildered, myself, a Finnish couple and two Argentinian women. It had definitely been our bus. It had been the correct company, it had said Hampi on the front, and it had arrived at the right time (about an hour late). The driver had even seen us and stopped, albeit momentarily, so we couldn't be at the wrong stop.
All these possibilities were discussed at length in broken English for about 10 minutes, until another, identical bus, appeared. The Goa-Hampi route was evidently popular enough to require two buses to accommodate demand.

I boarded and took my seat, deciding immediately that my pre-journey yoga, swim and massage combo would definitely not be enough to sufficiently lull me to sleep.
I took a valium.
The bus was fitted with a mixture of reclining seats and beds, and was heaving with more people than could reasonably fit either. A large Russian man stood over me, drinking from a bottle of rum and talking to his friends who were seated one row infront. Somebody's feet hung from the top bunk and swung dangerously close to my face, while the Japanese man I was seated next to, refused to open the window despite the lack of AC.
As soon as the engine started, I realised that one valium simply wouldn't be enough, so took another immediately. My seat was positioned directly above the wheel-axel, so every bump in the road - and there were a fair few - was amplified and directed up through by spine.
The Russians began to sing, and more feet started to appear from above, swinging rhythmically with each over-revved, psychotic turn or gear change the bus driver made. The windows that were open let in a warm, sickly combination of air and diesel fumes and the engine was deafening.
I washed down my second pill with remnants of a bottle of warm water, pulled my cap down over my eyes and pushed play on my Ipod, setting off over 8hours of uninterrupted Buddha Bar compilations to not only set the mood, but more importantly, put me to sleep.
I only remember hearing the first 20 minutes or so.

When I woke, drowsy and confused, my Ipod had stopped. Out of batteries, I assumed.
It was dark and silent. Very silent.
The bus was, in fact, not moving, and the engine was off.
I lifted my cap and looked around. The bus seemed suspiciously lacking in Russians and dangling feet. I looked at my watch. 2am. I had been on the bus about 5 hours, but it was way too early for us to have arrived at Hampi already.
Maybe this was just a toilet break.
I got up and heard people talking and shouting outside, so went to the door, passing the few people who had been lucky enough to book beds and were consequently still asleep.

There had been a crash.
Our bus hadn't been involved, but the road was blocked and we'd stopped.
A truck and another coach had evidently had a head-on collision, the coach swerving slightly and ending up in a ditch with its front caved in. The truck was still on the road but was in a similarly flattened state.
I got off the bus and stood looking at the chaos infront of me.
Two coachloads of people stood around in the road. Some were bleeding, some were crying. Some, like me, were standing, slightly dazed and unsure of what to do.
A crowd of local Indian men were crowding round the front of the coach and there was a lot of shouting and directing going on.
A young American man stumbled up to me.
He had blood on his hands and a small gash above the eyebrow which - gushing blood as headwounds do - looked a lot worse than it really was. He said that he'd been sitting at the front of the bus by the driver and had fallen asleep. He woke up, he said, as he hit the ground, having travelled through the windscreen. He seemed remakably calm, placid even, and without knowing exactly what else to do, I offered him a cigarette - it's what they do in action movies. He wiped the blood from his hands onto his trousers and took one from my pack and i lit it for him.
We watched the scene for a few minutes, feeling slightly dislocated from it.
Lots of people were wandering around in a state of shock, but nobody, surprisingly, seemed very badly injured. The driver, however, was still in the coach, unconscious at the wheel. The group of noisy Indian men were trying to get him out without inflicting further injury.

It took a while for me to recognise the bus and to register that it had been the one that had passed us at the stop in Goa. Had it not been full, i would have been on it too.
A very calm English woman approached me smoking a cigarette. I recognised her from my bus. She asked me if I had any valium or codine and that if I did, it would be a great help if i distributed them amongst the people in shock and those in pain. She had given all hers away already. I said I did and boarded the bus to get them, not stopping to think whether she had been going round asking everyone, or whether I just looked the type.
We both walked around together, me giving out prescription medication, and she offering people what she had left, cigarettes and water.
Miraculously, very few people had even sustained more than cuts and bruises, and the driver, now conscious, although the worst off, was definitely not as bad as you'd expect from looking at the wrecked vehicles. Most people seemed just a little dazed and disorientated - like me, i guess.
As the last of my drugs disappeared and the crowd started to get bored and reboard our bus, it was obvious that there was very little more to do other than gawp morbidly and take a few voyeuristic photos, so I did.
The truck and coach had been pulled to one side of the road and now it was clear for us to proceed. We pulled off and I heard someone telling their friends that apparently all the drivers here drink this special amphetamine-based alcohol to keep them awake on the late night shifts. Evidently sometimes the alcohol/amphetamine mix was off and they became more sleepy and drunk than awake and alert.
I pulled my cap back down over my eyes, and didn't think about the passengers on that coach who, although alive, were now well and truly stranded by the side of the road for at least another few hours.
I slept again almost immediately.