‘Here is bus, Madam-Sir!’ chirps our auto-rickshaw driver as we pull into the dust-bowl that is Khajuraho’s bus station. ‘Very, very good! Bus is deee-luxe!’

True, the 11:15 am to Jhansi via the Orchha turn-off was billed as a deluxe service, but the vehicle we’d just pulled up beside was not exactly what I had in mind.

‘This bus?’ I ask incredulously, hoping that he’s very, very wrong.

‘Ohhh, yes, Madam!’ he trills back.

‘This bus is deluxe?’ I ask, thinking it’s patently clear that nothing deluxe has even been NEAR this bus, let alone conferred any sort of title upon it.

‘Yes, Madam! Very nice one, this bus!’

‘Sir, this bus is good – but your rickshaw is more deluxe than this bus,’ I stutter back. Finding this inordinately funny, the rickshaw-wallah starts doubling over and jigging about in mirth.

My mood, on the other hand, is somewhat darker. It’s been a while since we treated ourselves to a good old-fashioned developing world bus trip, and the memories are all flooding back.

We WILL be circling around for anything up to an hour, unable to leave town until we finally pick up some magic number of passengers. Passengers WILL be carrying ten times their body-weight in baggage. There WILL be burlap sacks of stinky stuff whose owners choose to stow them directly under our two seats before proceeding to fall theatrically to sleep leaning against us in a fashion designed to supplant us from our chairs. There WILL be both small children and elderly people falling violently ill and retching at every corner. And, finally, the horn WILL play an ungodly role in our driver’s traffic management.

And it’s all true, a tragi-comedy of travel proportions played out on a bumpy, rutted road that jars every bone in your body. The bumpiness combined with the bus’ doubtful roadworthiness means that the whole contraption becomes one giant, rattling, grinding pressure-cooker. The panes of glass in the windows rattle fit to break, and slide precariously open every few seconds. The sound of glass and metal being thrown against one another at this velocity produces a noise that vibrates in your inner ears like nothing else on earth. The experience can only be described as being like riding one of those earthquake simulators at a science museum – only here there’s no shutoff button, and the ride only stops six hours in.

Thanking my lucky stars that this trip is a relatively short one, I am nonetheless relieved when we reach another town’s busyard, so I can hop off and find a loo.

Where things take an unexpected turn.

To the hapless traveller, this scene looks fairly anodyne. Nothing appears amiss. It’s just four squat toilets – and they all have doors! My thoughts at this stage? ‘Gee, I’m happy there’s a toilet here at all.’

HOWEVER ... lurking inside all four stalls is a truly dreadful surprise.

Do. Not. Click. On. This. If. You. Wish. For. Your. Precious. Sensibilities. To. Remain. Intact.

The picture is fairly horrifying, but I can assure you that using the squat with its bonus prize in place was far, far worse. Unbelievably, all four of the available squats featured the same nasty kicker – just in different colours and textures.

It was far from being my most horrendous toileting experience - I believe China takes all spots in the Top Five Worst-Ever (you name it, it happens in China - no doors, no toilet, open sewers masquerading as toilets, and one incident in Tengchong for which I believe Andrew and I are still receiving trauma counselling) - but still, my precious sensibilities got left at the door.

Ouch.