The entrance to Busaras is invariably flanked by a small but vocal group of minor criminals, amiably harassing the stready stream of backpackers, who amble in haphazardly; clumsy with fear and the weight of their rucksacks. Inside this entranceway there is a small porch where one will here some muted chatter. Most, however, stand in silence, getting their last angry fixes of nictoine before the long, languid bus journey to Nowhere, County Offaly. The air here is lazy sunshine. More doors, and then the bald, functional awfulness of commuter waiting rooms everywhere: dirty, utilitarian furniture, weak sodium lights flickering overhead, thoughtless tiles. People wander by, grazing on crisps, pastries and pointless magazines. The steady throb of buses buses buses lures listless travellers to queue and push and grumble and moan and, finally, leave.