Goodbye India. You Smell.

It has been commented that my writing gives the impression that India is a little shit. That it is, but charming and awe inspiring too. It’s just quicker to qrite about the crappy bits, as the amazing bits are far too numerous. Therefore I shall now hand over to The Kelly, for a more flowery and poetic conclusion to our time in India. It’s a bit like Jerry Springer’s ‘final thought’, except I never bummed that horse…

First day in India.

Last Day in India.

‘There is no denying that my sanity has been pushed to its limits at times, the most simple of tasks turn into a mind-boggling bureaucratic nightmare, and the constant hassle from rickshaw-wallahs and touts can crush your very soul.  And coupled with being the silent force that has continually steered Tom away from expensive tat, wicker shoes and Maharaja Big Macs, reading the ‘Dangers and Annoyances’ section of the Lonely planet with meticulous care – so that at least one of us knows a scam when they see one, and always carrying a well stocked medical kit for when Tom gets really sick from a Cadbury’s Crunch Bar (alledgedly) – it certainly could be said that India, and Tom, has been downright challenging at times.
 
But all of that, and dead bodies, aside, India really has not been that bad.  In fact, as a first time visitor to India, I have found it to be the most spectacular and strangely addictive place I have ever been to.  It may be a cliche to say, but it is certainly true that India is unique and mysterious and to even attempt demystifying it is surely a perpetual challenge.  But it is precisely the mystical nature of India that makes it so addictive, and despite everything has made me want to return again one day.
 
Essentially Tom is right – India can be a little gory (as illustrated by the corpse story), the stray animals are definately to be avoided and everywhere you go there is no escaping the requirement to wade through copious amounts of piss, shit and spit.
 
However, the wonderfully serene town of Fort Cochin, currently ranking as my number 1 Indian destination, presented me with the “romantic India” that Tom promised me there would be.  It’s a charming little place consisting of winding streets, boasting brightly coloured decorative buildings all slightly tumbling down and a manner of all shapes and sizes.  As Tom promised, this little nugget of India really was all about colours, patterns, smoky food stalls, giant fishing nets, goats, silk sari’s, beaming school children, beer in teapots, and warm evenings that really do smell of incense and cardamon.  The imposing pastly coloured Santa Cruz Basillica was a particular highlight for me.  As was a trip into Jew Town with its labyrinth of tat shops all stuffed to the brim with Indian delights calling out my name – and my purse.  I vow to return one day with an empty suitcase, a wallet full of rupees and the intention of heading straight back to one Leen’s Exports to buy that coloured glass lantern that I so keenly had my eye on. 
 
And there was the delightful Brahmin blue Bundi, the dreamy whimsical sort of town that you never want to leave.  Armed with the knowledge that Kiping wrote some of Kim here and it being home to Bundi Palace which looms large over the town, the atmosphere here is postively romantic.  Bundi Palace, a decrepid yet colourful edifice has been one of my favourite sights.  Comprising an unimaginable number of rooms, some crumbling away, others thankfully intact and the most beautiful murals of processions of dancing sari-clad women and elephants all painted in turquoise and blue.  Columns adorned with mirrors and high ceilings intricately painted with scenes of historical India made it truly spectacular.
 
And there really is no need for me describe the sheer magnificence of the Taj Mahal (and I do mean just the Taj; corpse not included) a building so magical that it almost appears to be floating in the sky. 
 
It is these wonderful moments that have made India as fascinating and captivating as it is.  But it is everything combined – the good, the bad and the ugly – that, for me, has made India what it really is – an experience. 
 
I have long since held the desire to pack my life in a bag and see some of the world and I am glad the adventure has started with India because now I feel prepared for anything.  I have been thrilled and confused, elated and depressed, shocked and amazed at times.  I have ridden in mail carts on trains, worn the same clothes for weeks, lived with cochroaches and bedbugs, have had cold showers, bargained hard, learnt to say No more than Yes, been speared by a cow and attacked by a dog, lived with disobdient bowels, am continually dirty, tired and hungry – and yet I would not have had it any other way.
 
So don’t let Tom’s ramblings put you off altogether; just come armed with a nose peg, nerves of steel, some immodium, and be prepared to do some very persistent scratching beneath the surface until the real and very beautiful India reveals herself to you in all her glory.  Because she will, I promise.’ – The Kelly

Delhi

The lonely planet paints Delhi as a lawless and dangerous place, something akin to Mad Max. It’s all lies. She’s a pussy cat. Kelly got bitten by a stray dog though. Our time was spent strolling to and from KFC and generally just killing time before our flight to Bangkok

Rajastan and Agra

As you may have noticed, my words have ceased up, just like Michael J Fox without his medication. Turns out Rajastan is blind to the miracle of interweb. As it is to electricity for more than a couple of hours at a time. This, plus the fact that my Mother has commented that my writing is erring dangerously near to that of the telegraph (yeah? well who’s fault is that Mummy? nature vs nurture; either way… you lose) has forced me to reconsider the rather optimistic format of writing a day by day account. Thus it’s highlights from now on and photos will do the rest. Ooh but there are so many! we saw a dead body being eaten by a dog today!

do continue.

Agra

We needn’t have spent five weeks here, Agra for us was India in one day.

Our Bus, as is customary, dropped us off at some random road junction in a nondescript part of Agra. We soon find ourselves standing in the lobby of The Sai Palace Hotel, a hotel we neither asked for nor had heard of. Yet we stayed for the mesmerising theatrics of the manager. Short of recording his sales patter I shall just present it here, unabridged. Imagine an Indian man with the voice of Yuri Geller, and the (faux) french charm of Serge Gainsbourg…

‘Hello Sir, I have many beautiful rooms for you. I have room number six for you. It’s a beautiful room. Right now I also have room number one for you. It’s a beautiful room’…

after agreeing to take beautiful room number 1 for rs350, he continues…

‘Ok Sir, I want you to do one thing for me’

Me: ‘Ok..’

‘I want to show something now… a very special room’

Me: ‘How much is it?’

(as if hushing me with a soft finger to my mid sentence pouted lips) ‘No-no-no…you just look now. Just look…and tell me…tell me..if I got it right. Get some eye tonic huh? you’re young. Do you speak French?’

Me: ‘oui’

‘ The French they say it is…le creme de la creme. You know French?…’

There was no way we were going to turn this guy down.

A porter leads us to the roof, and beautiful room number 15. ‘View of Taj room’ he exhales as he unbolts and opens the flimsy plywood door. The rest is history…

I’ve never stayed in a penthouse suit before. There’s even a glazed and curtained miniature window in the bathroom wall so you can still view the Taj whilst on the loo. 7 quid a night.

After pissing ourselves on the bed for fifteen minutes we  stroll down to the banks of the Yamuna river, directly behind the Taj Mahal so we can get a sneaky peak before viewing it a proper at sunrise. The Kelly talks in excited disbelief at being stood next to something she dreamt of seeing since her childhood. She was also of equal distance (about 20ft) from a stray dog eating a bloated human corpse. Two contrasting visions, two directions. We naturally forget the Taj. If I’d  had the stomach, I could have won countless photographic competitions.

If I was to design a new postage stamp or bank note for India, it would have that one, now burnt onto our retinas, image on it.

The Kelly gets and eyefull. Must happen a lot though. The dog (bottomish right) knew what it was doing. Went straight for the brains.

I have more ‘specialist’ photos on request.

oh yeah, we saw the Taj properly as well…

Round the back.

The Taj’s main gate is a little understated

The Diana bench had a considerable queue. It’s over done anyway.

Bharatpur

At first, our usual tactic of buying a ‘general/cattle class’ rail ticket and just sitting where we could, seemed to have let us down on the journey to Bharatpur. The train had already started pulling away as we stared in vain for a some crevice to climb into amongst all the bodies. We just ran for it and ended up jumping aboard the mail car just in time. The posties weren’t too impressed, but they let us sit on peoples parcels until the next stop when we barged our way onto an AC car under the pretence of being western and knowing no better.

We came for Keoladeo national park, but my lasting memory of Bharatpur was a wedding proccession that passed by our guest house one night. The Kelly’s, however, shall remain Keoladeo National Park as she was ill in bed at the time. No night time snapshot of a photo would have done it justice so these simple words will have to suffice.

First came a wooden platform mounted on four bycycle wheels and pushed by about 8 men, which housed an organist, a singer and a considerable pa system. Next came a melee of suited, inhebriated men dancing amongst an equally inhebriated and tone deaf marching band, each member dressed as low budget judge dread. This was followed by a very respectable group of sari clad women, followed by the decorated, white-horsedrawn grooms carriage. Sat around the groom were a number of young boys dressed like little princes who pulled faces at me as they passed. The whole proccesion was lit by fairy lights and a string of men on each side holding what appeared to be the tops of victorian street lights. These poor attendants were not only having to wrestle with the lights, drunkards and opposing traffic bashing into them, but also the power cables which ran along both sides of the procession until they reached the generators at the back, of which there were three. These were of the tractor engine variety and mounted on their respective push bikes, each manned by yet more exhausted looking attendants.

This was just the grooms proccesion. The bride’s was making its way accross the other side of town.

Box Car Kelly

Sawai Madhupor

Home of Ranthambore National Park. And nothing else. Our accomadation cost us so much that we could only afford one ‘tiger’ safari. There were no tigers. but there were two mongoose, some wild boar, one owl, countless sambar deer and the taste of vomit in my mouth that I never got rid of since puking up twice on the bus journey from Bundi.

Bundi

Bundi greeted us with the usual sight of a cow, covered in feaces, munching on a pile of litter. However this cow had a rotting, stillborn calf hanging half out of it. We had to drive past it twice in the rickshaw whilst we dropped of a swedish girl we met on the bus from Chittorgarh. Our hotel was a beautiful old Haveli, covered in wall paintings and little alcoves and the view from the roof top restaurant was amazing. However, we dined under constant threat of monkey attack. We were provided with a sizable stick should death and glory come a knockin’. I took great pleasure in lashing out at any monkey within ten metres. I let my guard done one morning though and a monkey made off with my pancake. Not that I was too concerned. It turned out my pancake was just a floury omelette and thus inedible. Not accustomed to such culinary incompetance I had foolishly ordered two and had to hand out the second amongst the many chipmunks. Later our waiter and general hotel dogsbody was to finally stop us dining on the roof. He stuck up conversation by asking if my parents were dead and then launched into what would have been a harrowing sob story if it weren’t for his broken and emotionless english; ‘I am Indian. First wife. DEAD. One baby. After four months. DEAD. Second wife. Baby. No Love. HIT….’ and so he continued. He finished by pointing out that tips supplement his wages. The Kelly was visibly shaken to fits of laughter behind her frozen grimace.

Bundi is famous thanks to the other Mr Kipling, who wrote part of Kim in a palace by the lake, which now houses the irrigation pumps. The Maharajas museum is full of photos of the former Maharaja partying hard and shooting tigers with Hollywood stars (of the movie of Kim), Frank Sinatra and the guy that invented the ball point pen, who bagged a tigress and her two cubs. All together there are about thirty dead tigers in the musuem, amongst other animals, and the taxidermy is far worse than any haggered owl at a carboot sale that I have ever seen. It mostly looks like somebody has just dunked dead animals in a vat of varnish. But still, it’s the best/only place to see tigers around Bundi these days. 

The town itself was amazing and seemingly untouched by tourism. No tat shops and no tour coaches. Just acres of cows, crap, monkeys and narrow brahmin blue alleyways to wander down. The palace was also a good one; semi ruined, empty and reeking of bat piss.

We took a rickshaw out to Rameshwar falls. There was no waterfall, just semi naked men washing in the pool where it should have been and a river of used underpants making its way down the gorge. We expected such.

Chittorgarh

An unfriendly place, and the setting for the most unromantic valentines day ever.

We got our first of many public Indian busses to Chittorgarh, planning to stay two nights. But as the bus pulled away leaving us stood next to some open air urinals and surrounded by a crowd of unfriendly, solely male stares, we decide that just the one should cover it. As we made our to our hotel we are constantly berated by crazed rickshaw drivers and some deformed, begging child that walked like a crab and spoke in a blubbery jibberish. After stowing our bags we got in the first rickshaw to the fort, which, although impressive, never quite made up for the skag pit of a town… or the fact that a monkey attacked me…or that a man in a temple put a dot on my forehead that looked like poo. 

The fort consisted of a series of temples, towers and ruined palaces which were great for rambling around if it weren’t for the aforementioned monkeys.

Surprisingly though, the food was amazing. Paneer is the new haloumi. Haloumi was the new meat. And so I make the full transition to vegetarianism. Until I get home and then I’m going to bite right into the first cow I see.

For some strange reason our room had cable tv. HBO eased the pain with a showing of Wedding Crashers, but couldn’t make up for the stench of crap coming from the squat toilet in the corner.

Udaipur

‘Cor blimey, this coach isn’t anything like the one in that picture the man showed us’ I says to The Kelly. ‘Thinks we’ve bin ripped off’, says The Kelly. Twas a hellish, dusty, bone shaking twenty hours before we arrive in Udaipur. And it was freezing. Our room was lovely though; on the banks of Lake Pichola with hand painted ceilings and an uniterrupted view of that palace from Octopussy.  Best of all, we had a hot shower, which we took to with the excitement of wartime, cockney evacuees seeing the sea for the first time.

Nothing really happened in Udaipur. It was just…nice – see photos. Oh, we did meet up with me art school chum, Mr Rob Sollom and his friend Will. Which again was nice, and good to hear that they had been ripped of more times than us.

My new hobby. There are so many trusty worthy brands to choose from.

This fucker near killed the Kelly with a swift whack to the chest and arms with those horns. I think that’s why they’re painted red. 

Kerala and Mumbai

Friday 8th Feb

I had promised the Kelly monkeys, and today I delivered, albeit with equal numbers of stray dogs. Elephanta Island is awash with both. Although we were officially there for the rock cut cave temples, the monkeys made better viewing and photos.

Monkeys are sooo easy to bully. I beat the crap out of this little guy. Just forthe Crack.

 

Thursday 7th Feb

We are awoken by one of our invisible room mates snoring so loudly it’s almost as though a grizzly bear has drunkenly wandered into our room during the night and passed out under the bed. We get the hell out of our skag-pit room as soon as possible and book our bus to Udiapur before The Kelly lures me into The Prince of Wales Museum with the promise of taxidermy. The miniature painting exhibition was amazing, but sadly I found the taxidermy in the natural history section to be rather sterile and lacking real imagination in the narratives. The one highlight was a very determined looking flying squirrel. We leave to find a suitable western toilet for The Kelly’s increasingly disobedient bowel movements and pay handsomely for the privilage at a swanky deli. It may have only been the price of Pret a Manger, but we have become acustomed to dining out for the price of a mars bar. However it’s exclusivity was tarnished by the colonial guilt we feel at having to step over the street kids and stray dogs outside and avoid thier  mal-nourished eye contact whilst safely inside and tucking into a very nice swiss cheese and proscuito sandwich.

On our way back to the grot box for a nap we are approached three times by Bollywood scouts looking for extras . Our hopes of a nap are dashed by the same fucker still snoring down the corridor.

To further anihilate our budget and distance ourselves from the squalor we must return to each night, we go for drinks in a particularly up market bar before once again returning to find sleeping beauty is still going. I just hope that whatever is causing their breathing difficulties is terminal.

For Thomas P Stables. It looks even bigger in real life. The naan, not The Kelly.

Wednesday 6th Feb

Turns out there are some poor people in India, and they all live in Mumbai. I reassure The Kelly’s clearly moved expression that Colaba isn’t anything like the squalor we pass on the taxi ride from the train station. It would be patronising to compare our over-priced, window and toilet less skag pit of a room to any of the slums we pass… but the artex ceiling really is hideous. JOKING. I’m genuinely not THAT insensitive. The poverty here can be overwhelming at times, mainly due to the inconcievable void between rich and poor.

Tuesday 5th Feb

Monday 4th Feb

Genrally agreed to be our best day yet. We hired us some 125cc of raw, twist-and-go, power to negotiate the pot holes and goats of Fort Cochin, Jew Town and Matancherry. We vowed to one day return to curio shops of Jew Town with a cheery wave from the window of an articulated lorry and the words, ‘fill ‘er up’ as we embark on a crazed Michael Jackson shopping frenzy. One, ‘Leen’s Exports’, was a particularly big fuck you to Alladin’s comparitively dull, empty cave.

The scooter proved a particularly good for drive-by tat shopping. Whereby we slow to walking pace passed a chosen tat stall to peruse their goods safe in the knowledge we can easily out-run any hawkers should we need to.

The Kelly is eaten alive my mosquitos whilst distracted by a cheese omelette at lunch time, after which we tour the listed sights of Fort Cochin – The Maritime Museum, The Indo-Portuguese Museum, The Dutch Cemetary, The Bishop’s House; all closed.

Kerala

Sunday 3rd Feb

A horrid day, completing the formalities of visiting Kerala. It’s pretty much law that you can’t visit Kerala without a leisurely cruise on the backwaters. A thirty second jaunt would have been enough to tick it off the list, but we stupidly booked ourselves in for eight hours of boredom, sweat and sunburn. For three hours we are punted down a sweaty ditch, stopping off at designated posing peasant photo oportunities. At one point we were even lead along a well trodden path encircling a house with children just watching tv inside, where we paused for yet another photo oppurtunity. Any more intrusive and we would have all been queuing up to give some poor coconut farmer an aenema.

Small girl or small banana?

Et voila .

Saturday 2nd Feb

We took the ferry back to mainland Ernakulam to book our mammoth train journey to Mumbai. The chaos of an Indian ticket hall was something I had not missed, but gladly never materialised. We breakfast at Pizza Hut, where we feel safe enough to break the first rule of travelling; never eat the ice cream. I vaguely remember visiting Pizza Hut as a child and I’m pretty certain it didn’t have a bell boy…and it was behind Dixons. Whereas in India nothing says, ‘ sue me, I can afford it’, like Pizza Hut. The decor and food are still as stagnant and faithful to the brand as back home though. This includes the ‘Ebony and Ivory’ desert. I’m afraid it’ll take a more inspired metaphor than the combination of vanilla ice cream and chocolate brownie to rid the world of racism.

Our road.

Friday 1st Feb

We are woken by the sound of a man puking up his own pelvis. Such was the volume, it posed the question; if he was that ill how did he have the strength to be sooo fucking loud? If I’d been able to locate his violent death throws I would have happily drowned him in the toilet he seemed to be using as a bass bin.

Today was the day we finally got out of Varkala. It had been too long and we had grown fat on seafood and beer. We had yet to feel like we were actually travelling. So riding the rails, Kerouac style, was the perfect antidote. We got the pick of the seats on the train north to Kochi; sat on the floor, our toes dangling out of the open doorway and ‘Lola vs powerman- era’ kinks on the musicbox. On arrival at Ernakulam we’re whisked by ricksha to the ferry jetty and arrive at Fort Kochi surprised at the success of our first proper journey in India. Fort Kochi is exactly as described in the lonely planet, seeped in faded colonial and nautical history and as catholic as that ‘ex-hitler-youth’ pope bloke. The line ‘more goats than rickshas’ rings particularly true as we are indeed greeted by a couple of meandering goats rather than the usual bickering gaggle of ricksha drivers. Still, it’s not long until we’re offered a room, which is lucky as we don’t have one. Though we eyed the offer with suspicion by default, our worries are shot dead in the head on viewing the place. We even get a lounge and roof terrace.

Wednesday 30th Jan

Today we took a stand against one of the many coconuts that regularly smash holes in our roof. Within seconds of it hitting the ground, I had grabbed it and presented it to The Kelly, who deliberated over its fate; thumbs down, it was to be eaten. Between the bounty advert , Bear Grylls and generally being male I felt sure of an easy victory, but armed with the smallest knife in the world it took a little longer; about an hour. Kelly only ate a quarter of it and I don’t like coconut. Still, man 1, nature 0.

Kerala

Tuesday 29th Jan

Had a terrible dream in the night that I’d somehow got so entangled in a rose bush whilst wearing my Carhartt siberian parker, that the fire brigade had to free me by cutting my precious jacket away. They wouldn’t listen. I miss my siberian parker, it was like being back in the womb, every time I donned it in Canada. We took a walk up to the temple and the tank (big public bath). On our return The Kelly purchased a coconut to quench her thirst with a ,’when in rome’, look of faux excitement. I declined one, knowing full well that a warm mouthfull of coconut milk is the last thing I’d drink to quench my thirst, second only to my own urine. The coconut didn’t even last long enough for a photo opportunity before it was discarded for being ‘too heavy’, ‘too sweet’, and ‘generally rubbish’.

Much like Tom Cruise, The Kelly often requests midget shop assistants to make her look bigger

A classic pose for a modern man.

Monday 28th Jan

Only the one anecdote today as we spent the whole day on the beach doing nothing. We did however have a lengthy stand-off with a spider the size of my hand in our bungalow. It eventually made the first move and was felled with a flip flop, a woeful epitaph if ever there was one.

Sunday 27th Jan

Elephants number five and six spotted en-route to Varkala, one ridden by a man with a proper Tom Selick slug tache; a timeless look. We are full of expectancy as our ricksha squeezes through the rutted alleyways and palm trees approaching our ,much lonely planet-hyped, bungalows. We are not disappointed, our relief palpable. We almost tumble over the considerable cliff as we go to check out the view of the beach. Our little bamboo hut is straight out of a Wes Anderson film; much like living in a faded, but deluxe, 1970′s frame tent, with faux-tiled linoleum walls in the sweatbox of a bathroom and flimsy varnished plywood walls. It’s teeming with ants and already today, crows and falling coconuts have gouged several holes in the roof, but it oozes charm like Burt Reynolds with an abscess (Smokey and The Bandit Burt Reynolds, not Dolland and Atchinson Burt Reynolds).

We stroll along the cliff, perusing the various tat shops and restuarants before sitting down to breakfast. Being such a vast departure from the chaos of Thiruvananthapuram, everything here feels a little too easy, in a dream-like manner. Much as though somebody has opened a door amongst the chaos with the words, ‘ Sir..there is another way….hmmm’, as he gestures to the lush green pastures concealed within, and like drugged children we gleefully accept his invitation and fall asleep forever with glazed, sickeningly content smiles on our faces…as he ROBS US BLIND. But for now we don’t care, our experience of paradise only blighted by the plague of crusties on the beach, practising their yoga or fire pong and generally talking utter shit. The Varkala crustie bridges the gap between the ,Euro-Techno Crustie and the , ‘Shit. I’m 45 and still working in Waterstones, who the fuck am I?’ Crustie. They swarm like ants over anything with the words ayurveda or yoga on it and dance like tits. They’re not spiritual, it’s weakness I tells ya. Weak and fickle.

Saturday 26th Jan

It’s a national holiday so town is a little quiter. We negogiate a rickshaw to Neeyar damn and the wildlife reserve. I ruddy bloody love rickshaw rides. We pass by a particularly foul smelling fish market, thus debunking my constant re-assurances to Kelly that,’ no no , the sea food here is sooo fresh…it’s fine to eat’. She makes me promise not to eat any more fish masalas. It feels a little like an intevention. I promise to lay off the fish masalas, recognizing that it’s not just my life I’m wrecking. Neeyar damn is as I remember, ‘once grand’ art deco leisure park and gardens…gone shit. The damn looks like it’s holding though, and at least this time the wildlife reserve is open and tours are running. Last time I came we were told we could just walk around, ‘maybe you see panther, maybe elephant..’. We enquire about the the much touted ‘Lion Safari’, but settle for a stupidly overpriced boat trip across the lake to the elephant rehabilitation centre. Our boat pauses off the Lion Safari island, where my question, ‘Lions, in an Indian wildlife reserve?, is answered. The solution is simple; put the lions in a cage! Glad we didn’t bother with that. The Elephant Rehab Centre has four elephants; one for ridin’, one for cuddlin’ and two to stay the hell away from as they still look a little jacked up on the brown. It wrecks lives. We take a ride and a cuddle before watching bath time and speeding back accross the lake to our waiting rickshaw driver.

Once back in the town we feel experienced enough to take a stroll down to the east fort area, which turns out to be the posh end of town. They’ve even stretched to pavements. Afterwards we enquire about a bus to Varkala at the bus station for tomorrow, which seems a remarkbly easy proccess. The culture shock is slowly wearing off, but we are still done with Thiruvananthaporam.

The Kelly discovers the cockroach humping her toothbrush. It’s the last straw – I hit it so hard with a shampoo bottle that it’s guts spray all over me. I wipe my brow and holster the shampoo bottle. Kelly melts in my arms.

The pink speckling is a sure sign of years of meth-amphetemine abuse.

The Kelly distracts the little fella with a lo-5 while a wardon sneaks away his crack pipe.

Posh end of town.

Wrong side of town.

Friday 25th Jan

Although managing only roughly 6 hours sleep in the last 48 we still wake at 5am, aided by the call to prayer from what we later discover is the gayest looking mosque in the world, behind our hotel. We breakfast at the Maveli Coffee house, a strange place, somewhere between a helter skelter and the leaning tower of Piza…only shitter (a fitting, but affectionate description that sums up most things in India). Feeling overwhelmed by the chaos engulfing the bus station we find ourselves in, we escape by rickshaw to the leafy suburbs and the zoo. We soon become the main attraction and scores of (about 12) young indians gather round to have their photos taken with us. They soon get bored when their attempts to converse about football or cricket are met with blank, empty stares. We find amusement in a supposedly ‘Himalayan’ black bear struggling down a slight incline in its enclosure to begrudgingly greet visitors, like an elderly and jaded tour guide. After a lunchtime byriani and mango juice (horrible stuff, tastes like guts) we quench our thirst for tat at a government run ‘ethical’ tat emporium. We buy plenty, our spending only limited by the size of our backpacks. Next, the Maliga Palace, a once grand, now crumbling, dusty and full of bats palace. It’s tranquility was much appreciated and only broken by an elderly man farting like he’d just eaten Brian Blessed. We are greeted in our room by a large cockroach. So begins a benny hill chase for half an hour. Kelly conducts from the bed, but he escapes. Kelly says the zoo ticket reads, ‘no molesting of the animals’. Oh silly Indian grammar. I’ve missed you.

The Kelly’s first day in India. Hahahahahahahaha.

Some good squalor.

The Kelly’s first rickshaw ride. I ride them all the time, semi-pro.

Thursday 24th Jan

Everything has gone to plan, I have only one complaint. It is the presence of babies on any aeroplane which I am also on. They don’t pay for seats, they just sit on laps, hitching a free ride like fleas or headlice and vociforously expressing their detest of ANYTHING. We were unlucky enough to be seated directly behind a hotspot for the little wailing parasites, and for six hours they berated us with their intolerable and indecipherable screams. I don’t know what they were whinging about, the inflight entertainment was top-notch and the food genuinely tasty. Maybe they’re just hacked off they can’t stop shitting themselves.

Thiruvananthaporam airport was much the same as I remember it 9 years ago, still antiquated with a stupidly long name. It was, at least, peaceful and rediculous-Indian-bureucracy free*. The Kelly trys once to use the public loo, but returns unfullfilled with news that there was no toilet paper. As the words leave her mouth, reality dawns, I nod like Mr Miagi and she returns to finish what she started. In time she will learn.

The taxi to our requested hotel was surely a trap, we thought. The back alley short-cuts, the hushed mobile phone conversations, all the signs that a mugging or rip off was afoot. Not so, the little guy really came through, and all for about eighty pence. There were no rooms at the hotel though, so we walked the 100m to another, all the while hounded by a rickshaw driver trying to convince us he could take us there for a very reasonable price. I distrusted both his smile and his logic.

A cold shower and to bed. So ends day one

*(The last time I came, everyone on the plane’s passports were collected by the immigration officials and put in a big box. Then everybody was invited to crowd round as , one by one, names were read out from each passport and their lucky owner was invited to ‘come on down’ and retrieve it like some gameshow prize.)

Back alley hotel hunting.