My 'prepaid' (fixed-fare) airport taxi is a little Premier Padmini straight out of the 70's. The interior is dark, and buzzing with mosquitoes.
'Hotel?' asks my driver, shaking his head and yawning (he would yawn excessively throughout the journey).
'Manama.'
'Nama?'
'MA-nama.'
'Panama?'
'No!' Rising frustration on my part - it is 3:30 in the morning. The chap at the hotel bookings desk at the airport had found the Manama languishing halfway down a list of budget hotels, after the first few we tried were full. It occurs to me a touch unfair to expect my driver to have heard of the Manama when no-one else had. I try a different tack.
'P. D'Mello Road.'
Incomprehension.
'Central station? CST?' It is not, of course, the central station, but the Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus. A forgivable mistake, given the hour. In any event, it has the desired effect of sparking a flicker of recognition.
'CST - Victoria terminus?' asks the driver.
'Yes!'
So off we putter into the darkness.
Accommodation next to a railway station, as any traveller knows, is generally to be avoided. The rule holds true even where the railway station in question is a listed World Heritage monument.
The lobby of the Manama is lit by a single, naked light-bulb. In the darkened recesses lies a jumble of bodies, in various stages of slumber, sprawled over seats and carpets. The night manager, when at last he appears, reeks of sweat and booze. I am given a room on the ground floor - with a window that doesn't open and a threadbare brown bedspread with a dubious stain.
You get what you pay for!
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