Chennai to Hanoi in four easy steps

I'll make this post shortish, especially as a lot has happened, but most of it is uninteresting. As such, I'll do my best to cut out the slower times.

I travelled all day from Cochin to Chennai. When I arrived I was endlessly bothered by touts. In a Zen like state of ignorance of foreign stimuli, I now float by them without so much as a look. They really try hard to get my attention, but it usually works...with one exception. One dude, crawled along behind me in his autorickshaw, every now and again calling out "Rhoom? Yu want rhoom? Rickshaw, rickshaw?". I ignored him for the first 20 minutes, but eventually my now eroded patience and low threshold for irritability had been crossed and he was to feel the wrath of it. Nonetheless, I thought about the situation in a calm and collected manner. I decided I had to make him feel what he was making me feel i.e. discomfort, unease, fear, lack of safety. Unfortunately I couldn't deliver it in the same slowburn fashion that those reactions had been delivered to me, so I thought I best deliver them all in one go for maximum effect.

He called me over and I finally looked his way. With an air of curiosity and a slight frown "Oh! What my this gentleman want?", I wondered over. While he tried his best to use what little English he knew to reel me in, I leaned in closer as if interested and slightly confused...until I was less than a foot away from his face. I then screamed bloody murder with every last breath I could muster throwing my arms to help push out every last bit of air in this diarhetic release of anger.

He threw his entire weight away from me, almost falling out of the open rickshaw. Naturally, shifting his weight that way, he began to turn and hit the accelerator as soon as he regained circulation. Before I knew it he was gone, my throat hurt, but finally I had some peace.

The Salvation Army Guest House I found was grim but bearable. I booked in for two nights.

The next day I had planned to go to Mamallapuram, a former port city where the Pallavas built, what was meant to be, an amazing temple on the shore of the Bay of Bengal around 800 AD. The temple was underwhelming, especially since the photos I've seen of it, all picture a temple longingly looking out to sea while the waves crash on the white sand on which it stands. Instead, it was surrounded by a cruddy barbed wire fence and trees that blocked the view of the water and the usual touts asking if we wanted a guide.

At the entrance, I met two lovely German speaking girls (one was actually German, the other of Persian origin, but had lived in Germany most of her life). They were very sympathetic to my constant moaning and wanted to know all about my trip. We wondered around the town for the afternoon to see the sights together.

The bus there and back was draining to say the least. It took over two buses, several hand gestured conversations and entire dialogues that only involved the repetition of a place name, just to go one way. I was told off by huge woman for sitting in the Ladies section. I don't know why she chose to make a snide comment and a rude grimace rather than just simply explain to the foreigner that these seats were reserved for ladies (I can't help but thinking of Matt Lucas dressed as a woman in Little Britain when I use that word), but it didn't help my mood.

The next day I decided I would do whatever I wanted, rather than seeing any sights. And I decided I wanted to go to the cinema. I didn't care what I saw, I just wanted to watch a film in silence for two hours while I gorge myself on poor quality snacks. Well I didn't get, but what I got was far more fun.

Being its release day, the only film that I could see was Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part I. As a stand alone film, it's average to poor due mostly to poor acting, bad dialogue and awkward scenes. The experience of watching a film with hundreds of Indians however was priceless.

The first main character to appear is Hermione, standing in her room alone, she looks melancholic as she toils with burden of a great responsibility of saving the world. Pathetic fallacy in full force meant that a gloomy English rain sprays the windows and the room made colourless by the grey clouds. In complete contrast however, the crowd went crazy, howling, screaming, clapping as if she was actually on stage. Every main character got such a greeting, Ron Weasley's being particularly groopie-esque.

Spoiler alert (don't read if you plan on seeing the film and haven't already read the book): At one point, the elder Weasley boy delivers the bad news that Mad-Eye didn't make it. Saddened, the camera pans around as the characters bow their heads and look to the floor at the sad news of their friend's untimely but martyrly demise. The crowd however burst into tear inducing laughter at Hagrid's need to stoop down in the Weasley's house due to his colossal nature. I couldn't help but laugh myself. The line that received most applause, cat-whistles and howling was, and I kid you not, "Dobby has no Master. Dobby is a free elf" when the small Harry Potter version of Gollum pronounces his right to freedom in a William Wallace-esque proclamation. I cringed and had goosebumps simultaneously. I'm almost willing to go back to India to watch Part II.

That night I made my way to the airport where I began the first of four flights over two days from Chennai, through Colombo (Sri Lanka), overnight in Kuala Lumpur (Malaysia) and finally Hanoi (Vietnam) where I am writing from now.

Kuala Lumpur is a Western city in Asia essentially. Sky scrapers everywhere, large well planned streets and parks, and shopping malls with the high end mansionhold brands (e.g. LV, Gucci), but impressive mosques and Hindu temples centrally located, markets everywhere, busy streets and a slight hint of South East Asian chaos.

In one of the markets, I paid to dip my feet into a bath full of 4 inch long black fish, that crowded around my feet and in a ticklish massage, rid me of dead skin and the like. It was quite a novel experience, well worth a try.

The night in Kuala Lumpur was relatively fun. I met a very warm and friendly Moroccan girl with whom I could speak French. With another Brit who spoke better French than I did, we had a French style dinner of slowly eating, drinking and discussing politics and religion over three shared plates of Chinese food.

The alcohol slowly peeled back layer after layer of the Brit's personality, at first showing a calm, incredibly bright and well educated person, then tweaks of arrogance and pomposity, and eventually a 34 year old who became a dive instructor to **** girls and nurture his misogyny. Somewhere between a poor quantum physics joke about wave-particle duality (which he recounted to nurture a bond in a fellow geek, but also alienate what he considered the ignorami sitting around us) and endless recounting of his carnal conquests in Indonesia as a dive instructor, he lost my respect - but probably didn't notice for his ego was in the way. He was fully aware of his flaws, he admitted them to me openly. I may have been slightly envious of his brightness at first, but later had little to envy when I found him three sheets to the wind following a group of girls into their hostel, slurring their names which, having got their names wrong, they would correct him and slip away from greasy grip.

Having not drank regularly, any amount is enough to be too much for me these days. A paternally inherited intolerance for alcohol means that sleeping becomes impossible as the room spins whenever I close my eyes. So I was up late waiting for the nauseous side effects to ease and am awfully hungover today.

I'm now Hanoi in North Vietnam. Jo is currently flying across Asia to meet me tomorrow morning. I'm really looking forward to her arrival.

It's not always about hustle and bustle blood

I found my way to the bus stop in Mangalore. As usual, my blind stubbornness led me to walk there, over a mile from the centre with my full backpack. I could probably use the exercise. Exhausted, but ready for the next part of the journey, I found a corner, dumped my bag and sat on the floor to enjoy the stares of the local travellers. An older station guard came over and aggressively ushered me off the floor and into the waiting area seats as if to say "you're not part of the riff raff, so sit on the bloody chairs like a normal person". Without an exchange of words, I agreed with his point and moved.

The Eastern monsoon had begun by the time the bus had arrived. A light drizzle turned into the Jaws ride at Universal studios. The water was hammering down across all the bus' windows as if the fire brigade was holding a high pressured hose above us - the viz was zero. The bus driver gave up after a few corners of blind driving, unlike blind flying, the instruments aren't precise enough to juggle the roads of Karnataka.

The gentleman next me, by the name of Kumar, was a pleasant Keralan on the way back to Cochin where he ran the outsourced branch of a British software company. His English was perfect having visited the London branch many times. Travelling with his wife and daughter, they were returning from a religious mini-pilgrimage to a temple near Mangalore for a day's worth of prayer.

The rain eased and we eased out of town. After a pitstop for food, I felt it was a good time to go to sleep. After wishing me a "goodnight!", watching me put my seat back and eye cover, Kumar thought it a reasonable time to watch Indian music videos on his iphone...without any headphones. The immediate inescapability and less immediate inevitability of the tortured cat like piercing shrills of the female singers constructing the four walls of the cell of my mental prison in which my patience and subsequently reasonabless would erode, are laughable in retrospect. A moment of silence would cause me to hesitantly rejoice with the hope of freedom from these acoustic shackles. But my ankles were reshackled a dozen times before I could finally rest peacefully...well as peacefully as you can get on an overnight bus.

I arrived in Cochin where I found some slightly more expensive accommodation than I had been used to, but well worth it. I immediately napped. My malaria tablets have a habit of making my dreams more vivid and overnight trains and buses have a tendency of making reality a little out of grasp, dangerously blurring the distinction, so when I awoke to discover I was still several floors deep in my travelling inferno and not at home, I couldn't help but feel a little disappointed. Regardless, I got on with my jobs, laundry, booking a backwaters tour and buying a ticket to get to Chennai.

After another surprisingly slow struggle, I had managed to secure a day train to Chennai on the coming Wednesday. The relief that I should make my flight was enough to re-energise me for the afternoon. I caught a rickshaw over to the main jetty where I caught a boat to Mantancherry, a few islands away. The mood was far more relaxed in this part of town, clearly an influence of the European architecture from the 16th and 17th century incursions of the Portuguese, Dutch, British, etc.... The Mattancherry Palace/Dutch Museum had some very interesting and well preserved murals depicting the Hindu Trimurti (Vishnu, Shiva, Brahma) and scenes from the Ramayana and Mahabharata. The rest about the maharajas of the area was a little dull.

Around the corner was the local synagogue. After my travels through Israel, I was quite excited to see this. Most interesting was the mini-museum at its entrance that had a dozen paintings depicting the history of the synagogue and the Jews in India. They had arrived in 72 AD after the destruction of the Second Temple by the Romans; this was one of the four corners of the Earth to which the Jews were sent, known at the time as the Malabar coast. They lived relatively peacefully in Kerala for over a millennium and a half until the Portuguese arrived mostly to trade, but also to unilaterally install Catholicism in the country (not that it hadn't already been tried by St Thomas, one of Jesus' apostles who was begrudgingly posted to spread Christianity in India, twice!). They swam between the islands, a rabbi with his wife on his shoulders, to rebuild their lives in Mattancherry.

The synagogue was a little different to many I saw in Northern Israel, but most the same. Same same but different, as they say here. A simple and modest layout, a mysterious curtain on the back wall hiding some famous old scriptures of the Torah and candle chandeliers hanging from ceiling with usual references to the twelve tribes of Israel (e.g. twelve candlesticks).

I got a rickshaw over to Fort Cochin, the other side of the island, the more touristic part of town. It had an increasingly relaxed atmosphere and European architecture (small ground floor, fully detached houses painted white with lots of greenery). I saw the Chinese fishing nets, rarely used nowadays due to their relative inefficiency to modern technology, they are barely a tourist attraction. The St Francis Church lay at the end of a street of mid-range tourist hotels, European cafés and seemingly expat run restaurants.

The East Monsoon struck again and I had to dive into a book shop to find some shelter for an hour. I flipped through a lot of books I wouldn't mind reading and considered buying An Idea of Justice by Amartya Sen, but already carrying several books, one still only half read, I thought best to save my money on this occasion.

The Santa Cruz Basilica was well positioned at sunset to have the red sky behind it, but camera now on the fritz and a cantankerous child standing in all my photos (until I threatened to beat him) meant that I didn't quite get the picture I wanted. On the way back I thought I'd stop in one of the many cafés for some chai and cake...or two. I had an excellent nutella like chcoloate spread (without the hazelnut) mixed with other nuts and fruit in a shortcrust pastry cup. I finally headed back to my hotel in Ernakulum after sunset.

The next day was spent touring the Keralan backwaters. The peacefulness and slow pace of the day was a welcome break from the hustle and bustle of the city. I use this term as a reference to the lads from Birmingham of Indian origin, that joined me on the tour. Dressed almost in an identical uniform of a black tank top, white checkered shorts, black Lacoste shoes, oversized glitzy watches and Ray Bans, the taller, better looking one attempted to console the smaller, fatter one by explaining to him that "it's not always about hustle and bustle blood".

The morning tour of the islands and backwaters on the houseboat lasted four hours. They showed all the locals spices and how they grow naturally. It was interesting to see all the things I'm used to cooking with in the kitchen, out in the wild all within a few metres of each other - especially because I probably wouldn't be able to tell what it is without a label. The afternoon tour was a three hour tour on small canoes amongst smaller canals, but was rained out for a short while. I spent most of the first tour talking to an older American who was working as a consultative economist in Kabul to the Afghan government. We had some very interesting conversation about state and economy building. The latter tour was spent talking to a couple very well traveled lesbians, as friendly as they were butch, they advised me on Vietnam, Cambodia, Malaysia and China (the latter of which I am seriously considering cutting out of my trip). I can't say they sold China to me.

We got back in the early evening. I ventured out to get dinner only to find either restaurants with little to offer or restaurants full of scam artists. For example, I picked up a menu in one place, before having it snatched away from me and another handed to me...unsurprisingly, the prices were 20% more...so I walked out. It may only be a few rupees difference, but I refuse to be treated like I'm a get rich quick scheme. Principle over practicality. Chennai, or at least the area I was in, has a hole in the market for affordable friendly restaurants. I finally found a place further away.

I was hoping to get on the internet that night to write this very blog post, unfortunately the East Monsoon came in heavy again. I got stuck in the restaurant until it closed, when I got stuck outside instead. The lightening was strikingly close and the rain torrential. We don't get weather like this in Europe.

My patience and irritability on short fuses, I was calmed by watching a young boy playing with his mum, curiously looking over at the white person. His mother smiled and told him to say hello. Shyly, he did. A smile goes a long way. I wish I had met more genuine people like that and less of tourist blood sucking
touts and rickshaw drivers.

Watching the boy cheekily play with his mother by climbing all over her, then laying out flat and not responding to any orders with a big smile, I was struck at how children up until a certain 'culturation' age have a universal culture that allows them to communicate the most basic, genuine and above all else unmistakably clear message (e.g. joy, sadness, pain, etc...). The fact that a cheeky little boy is so endearingly charming to watch and that "a smile goes a long way" regardless of culture, makes me like to think we keep a bit of that universal human nature as we grow older, even if it is watered down or crowded out.

The next day I caught my early 16 hour day train to Chennai. It gave me time to read amongst intermittent naps and plenty of train food.

"Who's the Gora in our wedding photos?"

Worried I would miss the last bus from Benaulim in Goa to Margao and eager to escape a room where the floor looked like it was moving due to an infestation of ants, I headed to the bus stand extra early...unfortunately missing the sunset on the beach.

The bus was not dissimilar to the Kenyan Matatos, only bigger as it was an actual bus, rather than a taxi. After giving the bus runner Rs 10 and not getting any change, I got suspicious. The other passengers were smiling and laughing. I put my hand out for change, he nodded his head no. Another guy said it was Rs 7. Rs. 3 (5p) doesn't sound like a lot, but it's the principle of not being ripped off just because I'm white. So I kicked up a stink. He said he had not change. So I demanded my money back and gave him the exact change. He dropped a Rs 1 coin, he asked for another. T.F.L. buddy (for those of you who don't know the acronym, I'll let you figure it out, it's too rude to spell out), you should have kept you're eyes on the prize.

I arrived in Margao with too much time to spare, so wondered around, found some food and walked to the train station - it was a fair distance away, but I had nothing better to do, though I must say I walked through a rather gritty part of town. I had bought what is known as a Wait Listed ticket for the 1:30 am train to Mangalore in Karnataka. Clueless as to where and what to do, I spoke to the information centre, they said to wait until midnight. Midnight eventually came, outside the office were sheets printed on the old fashioned MS Dos dot paper. I found my train....number 2619....my eyes ran down the list of names....as if I had read my passmark for an important exam, I was overjoyed to see my name on the list: Charles Stuart CONFIRMED A1 33. Halle-freaking-lujah.

While waiting I used the internet to write up the District Naan post. My internet use time came to 1:02 ish, I got up and handed the shopkeeper the (already extortianate) Rs 40 for the hour I had used. He went to check the computer, by now 1:05 ish and so demanded Rs 10 more. I was so sick of being treated like a cash machine by salesmen that I, at first, firmly said that I had used an hour and so would pay for an hour. Less than a minute later, it had escalated into a Paul Mason style row, arms flailing, swear words flying and my final offer "40 rupees or nothing. Your choice asshole." I threw the money down and walked out.

After several platform changes, my belated train arrived. I found my bed, only to be kept up all night by the neighbours.

Top 3 most annoying things to do on a sleeper train:

1. Snore;
2. Leave your mobile on full volume, not answer it the first three times it rings an obnoxious ringtone, but take the call the fourth time; and
3. Turn the lights on and started chatting to your friend at 3:00 am.

I finally got some sleep around 6:00 for a few hours before being awoken by the sheet collectors "Mangalore! Mangalore! Mangalore!" he shouted. "Shit! Shit! Shit!" I replied while jumping off the bed so high, I was putting my socks on while airborne. "Mangalore not here. 5 minutes" he added seeing my reaction. OK. Chill. It was at least another 30 minutes until the Mangalore stop...

Frazzled to say the least and on Delhi Belly High Alert, I decided to sit in the waiting room to rest my weary soul for an hour. Lots of men, having just got off an overnight train from wherever were getting changed, showering, brushing their teeth and sharing toothpaste and talkem powder. Semi-rested, I made the walk from the station into town and found somewhere to have breakfast.

My LP guide said there was a park and church up the road. I thought this might provide a nice place to rest and read for a few hours. I marched up the hill with my big bag on my back, small bag on the front in the sweltering heat. Even in the shade, my sunburn was warming and radiating heat. I found a concrete bench in the shade under some trees, next to the church and a Portuguese style building which was actually a college.

The concept of peace and quiet does not exist in India. When I opened my eyes, swarms of women and their daughters in their best Sarees were headed my way, a few men sprinkled about stood around like lemons, occasional ostentatiously hawking rather large spit balls.

One small people carrier, along the lines of a Renault Espace, was filled with three dark shadows, heads tilted in my direction. The gentleman in the driver's seat even had to shrug down to be able to stare at me. The staring happens everywhere, but in these sorts of circumstances, even in broad daylight, it can be quite uncomfortable and intense. To break the tension, take command of the situation, but also as a sign of my decreasing patience and increasing irritability, I waved and smiled comically. Back home it would be considered sarcastic, but they didn't quite pick up on that element, so they reacted quickly and all waved backed simultaneously. I went back to reading.

Eventually one of them bucked up the courage and walked over, the others stood behind hesitantly as he smiled nervously. The usual novelty conversation ensued. I took the chance to ask what was going on...church maybe? He said that the church was over there, pointing to another building, but this was a wedding. My eyes lit up. I had to get in somehow. Before I knew it, they had gone. I'd missed my chance and regretted not dropping some hints, or even asking outright.

An hour later, another guy came over and started with the same conversation opener and questions. I dropped the least subtle hints about food and the wedding until he said the magic words "Are you hungry? We go in!". I felt like Charlie when he'd won the Golden Ticket to go Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory in the Roald Dahl classic.

The party was pretty dead, but catering was still going strong. He offered me a plate and told me to load up. Rice, masala gravy, some curried chicken, some vegetable curry, the works. He then made me get a second plate. Within 15 minutes I had inhaled two massive plates of Indian cuisine.

Opposite where I was eating was some sort of gymnasium, filled with red chairs, lots of people and pumping music. I couldn't dare ask. After washing my hands, he said "Do you want to see..
- YES!" I interjected before he could finish his sentence, nodding my head excitedly.

Inside the gymnasium, on the stage behind a sea of red plastic chairs half full, were two couples setting off into the..wonderful...world of arranged marital bliss. My new friend told me that 2000 people will have come to the wedding today, each eating, going up on stage, offering presents, shaking the grooms' hand and having their photo taken.

My friend disappeared for a minute, I could see he was talking to a gentleman at the front. In no time, he had brought the man back. He said we were going up on stage to meet the brides and grooms. No dude, you gotta be crazy, I can't do that.

Well in front of a few hundred Indian people, a scruffy, tall, lanky white kid with shorts, dirty from curry, bushy long hair and wonk classes was escorted up on to the stage for a meet and greet, and a quick photo. Slightly embarrassed, I couldn't stop grinning.

District Naan

Poverty in India is harsh. Harsher than what I have seen in Africa, mainly because it's often an urban poverty with incredible inequality, when Africa has a more rural poverty, where people live on limited means, but with less inequality.

Kids in in Africa are seemingly very happy, but they still run up to you and ask for money - see my earlier blog post regarding what I think about this. The conclusion being that the dependence on charity often overflows from necessity into greed due to unconditional charity by tourists and development focused institutions (e.g. World Bank, IMF that have only recently refound favour in the financial crisis due to years of poorly structured aid to African countries and South-East Asian economies).

In India, kids do come up to you and instead of speaking the words "give me money", they simply cup one hand and use the other to peck the one and then lift it up to their mouths to signify feeding, as if they're hungry. Their clothes often worn and filthy show semblance of former bright colours worn away by time, user and mostly the slum/garbage dump where it was picked up. Their hair often so dirty it sticks up by itself, usually black and wiry, but with streaks of brown. They tilt their heads and try to syringe sympathy from you.

Usually it occurs in larger cities, an occurrence that isn't limited to India, but is well recorded everywhere from Washington DC to London. Especially when in traffic, beggars will roam between the cars, cabs and trucks to find anyone they think is willing to give. All of a sudden, they spot the Gora (white man) and rush over. More often than not it's a woman with a child or two, holding one in her hands and the other trailing along behind her. She gives the "I'm hungry" or the "kids are hungry" motion. They press their faces up to the window, tap and try to get your attention.

Other times, it's an elderly couple...which makes you wonder, if they're begging at this age, how long have they been doing it? How have they survived so long?

The worst example is of a young girl, maybe 8 to 10 years old, pulling a small platform with wheels. On it, sits a gentleman with no legs, trying to speed up the process by pushing himself along with his hands. That's when two issues strike you: the welfare state is limited, especially for the disabled, and secondly, the poor are very organised.

Gautmik explained to me that begging is an industry in India, especially in Mumbai. For food and shelter, beggars hit the streets to collect ridiculous sums everyday. The girl pulling an invalid on a trolley is set up to maximise sympathy and thus charity. It's disgusting in some ways, but in other ways you can see the benefit. Imagine the charity as a tax that gets given the a private company that delivers, for a profit, public services such as food and shelter. Usually the government steps in when these business are loss making, but the 'public good' is deemed necessary. Here, there is profit to be made and so the private sector steps in. The beggar gets the benefit that if they hall in a lot today, then tomorrow, if they fall short, they still have food and shelter...in other words, the organisation allows for risk minimisation or insurance.

Regarding disability, this is where you see the most desperate beggars, struggling to live without any help from the state. In Jaipur, Casi and I were walking through the streets between sightseeing stops when a woman with no legs sitting on the floor, lunged at Casi grabbing him and delving into his pockets. She was utterly desperate for anything. In Delhi, sitting in the back of an autorickshaw, a gentleman with ragged clothes and arms cut off just below the elbow, and thus holding a bag on what little he had left of one, stood by the rickshaw trying to reach in for any charity.

India's corruption is the source of leakages that prevent the creation of an efficient welfare state and so why the privatised begging system can step in to fill the hole. The disabled can't work, they are physically unable to. Without a welfare state, they really have nothing, so they turn to organised poverty, a veritable business of begging. And business is booming.

One has to keep a realistic perspective on it. The slums in Mumbai are not the cesspools depicted in films such as Slumdog Millionaire (which was disliked all over India when released here). They are buzzing hubs of business, industry and slum suburbs (slumburbs). Perfectly educated, middle class, white collar workers, having been born in a shack in the "slums", owned by his father and his father before him, are at home like any of us are in our brick wall houses or the Masai people are in their cow dung huts. Producers and traders gather together in enclaves to produce and sell goods from their native origins (e.g. Gujarati women making certain Saris, Muslim women making square cushions with eclectic patterns made from copper coil, etc...). They even have public services, such as transport. It's a way of life that functions perfectly well.

Nonetheless, poverty is aggressive in India. You have to be cold enough to shrug it off, but find a way to maintain your humanity somehow. When begging becomes big business, I struggle with the latter of these.

Gonna Go to Goa

Having failed to find the magical charm of India, especially in Rajasthan, which people outside India talk so warmly about, but having only found what people actually travelling India berate about endlessly, I had low expectations for Goa.

I had another long night's travel on a bus between Mumbai and Panjim. Due to my ticket being unreserved, I was shifted seat three times with the quality of seat deteriorating each time I moved. I got an hour's rest by curling up into a ball over the seat next me...until it was filled...then I was to sleep upright for 12 hours. The young guy who sat next to me spoke excellent English and even used vocabulary I would only expect of someone who lived in an English family like "shady" and "doze off" using it describe some riff raff at the back of the bus playing incessant music on their mobiles.

I arrived in Panjim around lunchtime. I found the usual shady looking canteen, but being conspicuously full of locals, always delivers fresh food. After a brief stint on the internet, I had found some local numbers of PADI courses (the scuba diving course) in the local area. After a few short calls and a few minutes of my usual fun-sucking indecisiveness, I decided to take the course starting the next day from a local dive shop.

A gentle older man greeted me at the resort and after a quick discussion, I was signed up. Since I didn't have the cash on me or a place to stay, he said he would give me a ride down to the ATM and to a local hostel that was cheap, but very decent, in his opinion.

We walked out to a large range rover. I thought "finally, some comfort travel". Then we kept walking...to the scooter stand. I willingly jumped on the back; my travel bag strapped to my back, I gripped my day pack with one hand and the other around his waist. Whizzing around Panjim couldn't have been more fun. Traffic was the lightest I've seen in India, well paved roads, overhanging palm trees, slow moving water in the distance and small houses zipping by in the foreground.  There could definitely be some charm in Goa, I thought. Though not a holiday hotspot, Panjim's charm comes from the mix of its overtly Portuguese inheritance and tropical flora. It's what I would call tropical suburban (or tropurban for fun).

The hostel he took me to was basic and had more rules than useful staff, but with a student discount, I got a bed in 10 person dorm for just over a pound a night. It had quite a high turnover, with buses of Indians rolling in late at night and gone the next day, obviously on a break to somewhere nicer.

When I arrived, the bed next to mine was occupied by a young Mediterranean looking chap fast asleep. I figured he'd been partying hard in North Goa and was resting a day or two before moving on. I couldn't be more wrong. He was a 30 year old New Yorker...with the hilariously aggressive and nasal NY accent...who had been horrible ill for a few days and was resting up before exploring Goa. Born and bred in Brooklyn, he got into the clubbing scene way to young, but nonetheless would dance from midnight to midday. After being a successful plumber, he gave it up to go to dance school. He was accepted at one of the best in NY and went to perform with Cirque du Soleil. But the dance world is cutthroat, and this began to wear him down. So he settled into a more relaxed life as a yoga teacher, lifeguard, waiter and DJ. He was in India travelling, but also hoping to do a course in Ayurverdic massage. We ate most meals together while I listened to his great stories and shared a not dissimilar view of India.

The PADI course was overly underwhelming. Having dived a lot before, but never having managed to fit in the PADI, I found all the exercises and theory straight forward. The others, though unexperienced and sometimes a little slow, managed easily as well. The first day was spent in class with one pool dive. The second we went out to Grande Island to perform the same exercises in the Arabian Sea.

Quite excitingly, we got to see two cuttlefish mating, with a third that approached to intervene. Though it wasn't quite a private party with four scuba divers watching them mate, I'm not sure what the third cuttlefish expected to get out of his intrusion into the couple's private moment. The male cuttlefish suddenly turned a bright white from a brownish red - a sign of aggression and a warning to the third cuttlefish to back the hell away. It was a sight I'd expect to see only on a well edited David Attenborough tv series.

The third day was back in the classroom and the fourth back at sea where we got to swim around a shipwreck. It was incredibly eerie as the water was very murky, the viz (visibility in the scuba world - I use the term with a pinch of pretentious salt) was only a few metres at best. I almost accidentally touched a scorpion fish, not lethal but incredibly painful; it would have complemented my already badly sunburned shoulders. A lion fish, a sea snail and a few exercises later, I was a certified diver.



The other students included a girl who looked and acted 15, but was 25 (even the dive instructor remarked). Apparently she was a primary school teacher, but she desperately required to babied around...asking annoying unnecessary questions constantly and at a volume only attention seeking children speak at. Remarkably hairy for a girl, her boyfriend, who was her singer teacher from Texas, was over 70 years old. It was a little odd, but hey, as long as it doesn't harm me or anyone else, I'm happy for them.

The third student was a very pleasant Indian guy who worked in the cruise business. We had a good chat about the Maritime Labour Convention and what the cruise industry's reaction to it is. He lived in South Goa and drove everyday, so on the last day of the course, he gave me a lift down to Benaulim where I found a small room...that would eventually fill with very fast moving ants. I thought I had had my fair share of ants in Africa, apparently not.

Tonight I head to Mangalore in Karnataka by train. I've been wait listed, but being the second in line, I hope to get on without too much trouble.

Explosive Bombay

We arrived in Mumbai in the mid-afternoon, well rested, but hungry as only a few wallahs with odd meals had been served on the train. Though I did have a very tasty plate of vegetables and fruit...I felt a little bad because I ate it all, saving none for Casi (my reasoning, if ever he reads this, was simply my hunger and the fact that he was gone for so long - inexcusable).

Christine, part of the community of couch surfers (online profiles show your languages, interests and most importantly where you live, travelers then contact you to host them or simply to have a coffee in an alien place - what do you get in return? To stay at people's houses when you're traveling. It's a good way to save money and meet people/locals) met a French girl at the station. She told us a bit about Mumbai, helped us get on our way. Though I was sometimes unimpressed with her lack of knowledge about Mumbai, she was brave trooper, who interestingly was working for the manufacturing branch of a French company in India, learning Hindi, as part of a government programme.

We tried to find the tourist office at the train station...it was closed for Diwali...all tickets counters were closed. I had no ticket to leave Mumbai for Goa, so we spent a stressful few hours figuring out that everything was closed. All the while, we are being hassled by taxi drivers. My irritation level was getting close to boiling over into an 11 out of 10.

We gave up and made our way to the hotel that I had booked a few weeks in advance. Luckily they were able to upgrade us to a twin room and for two nights, though relatively pricey. The room however was a big step down from Udaipur. A small third floor room that resembled a basement apartment that would be best put to use by an Austrian pedophile, lit by one flickering neon light, and a fan, that must have once been used in a 1920's L'Oreal advert, hung precariously from one wall. If I stretched out my arms I could touch both ends of the room and also would need to duck my head down to avoid hitting the ceiling. It was grim.

We ate a mid-afternoon dinner at a small Muslim owned canteen next door. Regardless of its hectic staff, simple bench/table combos and clinical decor but questionably hygienic feel, the food was excellent. After a eating there few times, Casi and I realised that all the meals were the same basic curry with only a slight variation...add a fried egg, cheese, coriander, etc...

We headed down to Colaba, the trendy Southern tip of Mumbai, to meet the girls and other couch surfers. Loads of French people turned up, Casi and Christine for a short while were the only non-French there - a chance for them to get a little closer. Gautmik, the brother of a former work colleague of mine, joined us there. The most immediately interesting thing about him, his brother and family, is their lack of surname like Cher, Bono or Prince, except superstar fame is replaced by excessive intellectual ability.

After heading to a boring and overpriced expat style restaurant (I didn't come to India to have American food) and some confusion over where and when the fireworks would be, we headed to the bay front to watch a Baghdad style light show.

Seconds after stepping out of the car, a rocket flew through some nearby bushes and straight passed us before exploding on the other side of the car park. I looked at Casi slowly and with wide eyes; he laughed uncontrollably. Bombay was living up to its name.

All along the bay, people were setting off fireworks, flying in all directions, including some that wouldn't leave the ground creating a semi-sphere of red/white/green light, eardrum bursting sound and a crater of destruction.   One was set off a few metres from us, I heard the wick fizzle and disappear into the cylinder, a puff of smoke came out....but no rocket - it had failed to launch. Fearing for my life at worst and my eyebrows at best, I dived down covering my head ... the others laughed. Closer to us, all sorts of fireworks and gunshot like bangs were going off, eventually I became used to it. Fire fountains and balls were going off less than a few metres way...set off by kids with sparklers. It was incredible to see it from so close, a great experience that I'm not sure I would repeat, but I would definitely advise doing once.

Casi was busy charming Christine. Gautmik and I were convinced she was interested, despite her having a boyfriend back home - the constant smiling, head tilting, touching her hair - they're what we call in the industry indicators of interests. Despite Gautmik's numerous subtle hints to go back to his house and my prodding, shaking and shouting, Casi was too in the game to take in any exterior stimuli.

Eventually it was time to roll out. The others wanted to eat, so we headed to a restaurant surprisingly and conveniently close to our hotel. Gautmik and I headed in to the hotel, where he spoke with the receptionist to cancel our second night there, so we could stay with him. Gautmik was a continuously generous host; this was just the first of many miracles he would perform.

Once we knew that we were staying there the Friday, but no longer the Saturday, Gautmik could go home. I felt quite relieved as I had worried that Casi's *****footing around and the group's flakeyness meant he was withheld from returning to his apartment, even though he had work the next day.

The restaurant they had chosen was severely overprice, so my stubbornness lead me to the cheap Muslim canteen next door to eat similar, if not better food, at a third of the price; I also had 5 minutes of well needed peace.

Finally we got to bed around 1:00 after an awkward goodbye kiss that would fuel Casi's ego and relieve his surprising, but soon apparent insecurities. Brother, if you're gonna talk the talk, walk the walk!

The next day began with some sightseeing and failed attempts to buy tickets to Goa. I eventually found a bus ticket which, as per usual, was slightly overpriced. We met up with the girls to wonder around Chor Bazaar in the afternoon. I've eaten at the restaurant of the same name in Mayfair a few times, so was interested to see the real Thieves' Market. As you would expect, it has some of the usual junk any Indian market has, but also has streets of shops with an incredibly eclectic mix of decorations, ornaments and electronic paraphernalia from varying origins.

Gautmik met us at the train station for an evening in the Bombay suburbs. His friends joined us at his 13th floor flat overlooking the Western end of the suburbs, out to sea. They were incredibly well educated and spoke English excellently. Casi was surprised just how much he had in common with them...for example, one had been to Oktoberfest and traveled around Europe with plenty of drinking stories to tell. I wasn't so surprised. India's population is as diverse as the population of the entire European continent, I would expect to find some barbarian bottom feeders, but also well-educated, technologically up to date and well opinionated high fliers (especially because I know some back in the UK).

They took us to their favourite local restaurant where we ate an incredible amount of food. All of these kids had solid frames and I can't blame them, as I imagine I will too by the time I leave on the 20th. The banter between these boys had an incredible energy. If seen from afar you would have thought a fight was constantly erupting, but it was just good ol' fashioned tom foolery - all in Hindi of course, so Casi and I stood there dazed and confused. The night eventually pittered out and we headed to bed.

On Sunday, Gautmik, having already paid for our dinner and drinks, treated us the breakfast of kings...Lassis , Bhajis, Mango juices, the works. Luckily Casi managed to intervene before Gautmik paid again, his generosity was overwhelming. Fully loaded and barely awake, he took us to film city in the hope of catching a Bollywood movie or tv show in the making. Unfortunately, the Diwali weekend put a stop to that; nothing was being filmed. We did a quick, but comprehensive tour of the city before being dropped off in town. I can't thank Gautmik enough for his hospitality - it was amazing.

Casi and I hung around for a short while before going our separate ways. A bromantically emotional goodbye later, he was off to Hyderabad for his dissertation, and I to Goa by bus....

I've been expecting you, Mr. Bhond

Casi and I took a bus from Jodhpur to Udaipur leaving at 7:00 after getting in at 6:00, an early squeeze that involved a quick and spicy breakfast. Though bumpy at times, it was surprisingly bearable and shorter than we expected. It was quite a scenic route through the hills.

After another protracted negotiation with a rickshaw driver, we visited a hostel suggested to us by Chandra. Out of courtesy we saw it (though I would have happily skipped it as he made me feel overly awkward), but lacking a lake view, we moved to the next. Casi gave up and let me scout around for accommodation. Very quickly I found a place with a great view and negotiated it down to Rs 200 (barely 3 pounds). A tree blocked our view of the lake where at the reasonable hour of 5:00, Indian women would wash their clothes by beating them with paddles (I'm still not convinced that beating your clothes with all your force is the most efficient way to clean them); a Hindu temple within arm's reach of our West facing window would mean incense would be carried in on the morning breeze and constant bell ringing on the evening winds; the hotel next door was under construction, so our heads were inches away from hammers, bricks, cement, metal beams and the acoustic pandemonium when those elements are transformed into a suspiciously sturdy structure; and a toilet so close to the adjacent wall that you had no choice but sit sideways on it. Regardless, it was the best room we had had so far because it was so relaxed and light filled compared to the schmorgasboard of accommodation that we had between Varanasi and Jaisalmer.

We spent the afternoon and whole of the next day resting. I slept an uncountable number of hours. We saw the City Palace. We ate at several of the over-abundant rooftop restaurants...

Meanwhile...Christine, having taken an earlier bus to Udaipur, had met a young Indian man by the name of Ankit. They really hit it off on the bus, so he invited her to stay at his family's house. In a show of surprising courage and perhaps a sprinkle of stupidity, she accepted and (thankfully) had a wonderful time with this guy's family. She couldn't stay the second night because his parents were leaving for a funeral, uncomfortable about their son staying in a house alone with a girl, it was best she left. As such, she found our hotel and checked in to the room below us. She happened to walk into the restaurant hotel as we were having a cooking lesson with the cook; I will try to import some cooking knowledge, but it was more impressive how quick they made such tasty food, and though fresh, how disgustingly fatty it was.

Ankit came over around 21:00 to hang out with Christine - this was our first chance to meet him and Casi's first chance to size up the competition. Ankit was a slim but sturdy Indian, young and handsome, but beginning to bald at 25, with an impressive grasp of English having studied in Australia. He had done a Masters in International Business and was soon to head off to Africa, in particular, Senegal, Cote d'Ivoire and South Africa where he would be joining or starting companies (seemingly simultaneously). His business acumen and forthright courage were impressive. However, this was soon to turn into an over-controlling and patronising pushiness hidden behind a child like naiveté of an over-caring host.

The next day, Casi and I were awoken by a phone call from Ankit. Though we had agreed to meet at 10:00 in the restaurant for breakfast, he was already there at 8:45 with Christine. We showered and packed up our stuff as quickly as possible to eventually make it to breakfast at 10:00 (...as per planned...).

Due to the upcoming Diwali festival, the rooms at our hotel were all pre-booked, so unfortunately we were kicked out and had to find somewhere else to stay for our final night in Udaipur. Before we had managed to finish breakfast, Ankit had called us from the roof of the adjacent hotel with Christine to tell us he had found us two rooms. Casi and I had already checked out the place - it was grim and overpriced. However, the price had dropped dramatically and Christine was already checking in, so we accepted nonetheless.  Inside the construction site, the lack of light complemented the faded colour of the walls and sewer stench of the toilet.

Ankit headed to work and we hit some sights. We got a boat out to Jagmandir island, sitting neatly in the middle of a lake, it's ornamented with marbled elephants and arches all around. Inside, it has a lovely, but heavily overpriced, restaurant and a small and well kept botanical garden. It was a great place to get some views and photos of the palace.

We headed back where Christine and I went shopping for a few presents, while Casi worked on his essay back at the room. We met Ankit back at the room where after thorough inspection, he insulted our purchases as poor quality and overpriced. He was getting closer to insulting me personally.

Kids were throwing bangers in the street and, I think, into the construction site right next to our room. The blows were akin to the sort one would hear in a Kabul market - scary as hell. I said that kids shouldn't be allowed bangers that big, they'll blow their hands off. Ankit retorted that I can't say that because it's part of the culture. I flipped. I am completely pro-religious freedom, but I will not support kids blowing up their hands for Lord Rama....who supposedly made his way back from Sri Lanka to Ayodyah by a path lit by candles...candles - yes, fireworks - yes if properly regulated and organised, kids let loose with sticks of diamond - hell no. It's like saying that if you support religious freedom, you support female circumcision in Saudi Arabia or the stoning of someone outside the city walls for working on the Sabbath in a Christian nation...or even suicide bombing in the name of Allah. I recognise the major difference in the examples which were intentional and the actual facts where the kids are negligent...but I think that should be included just the same.

We had planned to go to dinner with Ankit and two English girls we had met earlier that day. We managed to find each other, despite some awkward moments and relaxed organisation. Finding a restaurant was the first hassle. Once we did, Ankit proceeded to choose and order for people as if none of us had ever ordered food at an Indian restaurant. Each order had to pass through him.

As you might expect, entire meals were forgotten. The rest of us were eating happily...though there were a few garlic flavoured milkshakes rolling about...but Casi's Chicken Butter Masala just didn't turn up. As if comunication in this country wasn't hard enough, our host was making it infinitely harder.

The bill arrived; he duly snatched it and began questioning everything. There were no mistakes. An old-married-couple-on-the-verge-of-divorce style bicker broke out between Christine and Ankit before we could all pay, have a few photos and escape le Diner des Maladroits.

I felt vindicated when one of the English girls mentioned that last time she was India for Diwali "so many kids had their hands and/or fingers blown off".

Over a few cups of chai on the lakeside, we started to relax. The two English girls had a good sense of humour which allowed Casi and I to break out the more risqué jokes.

When we returned to the hostel, Ankit, not at all interested in the rest of us, forcefully questioned Christine as to what her plans were for the next day. The doctor prescribed some 100mg chill pills to be taken three times a day with plenty of food. If the problem persists, we'll consider surgery.

A more relaxed breakfast allowed us to enjoy the morning and midday in peace. I purposely forgot to turn my phone off...mostly to have a lie in.

Christine had agreed to meet Ankit at Café Edelweiss (an exclusively white café due to a recommendation in the Lonely Planet guide) at 12:30. Casi and I, though originally interested in joining his family for Diwali preparation, had decided to go in another direction by that point. Having bought Christmas presents, I needed to send them on to Australia to lighten my load for the next month. Casi had bought some large wooden masks that he wanted to send home, again so he didn't have to lug them back to Thailand, then the US. As most simple tasks in India, this was an incredible hassle.

Half a day was spent finding the post office; waiting for the boss to turn up (though other staff are there, they are useless in that they don't know how to send anything); waiting for the guy who wraps parcels; having this old guy wrap them; going back to the post office; filling in three forms; showing our passports and paying...

The wrapping is by far the lengthiest and most ridiculous of tasks. I had a carrier bag with a few soft items in, nonetheless, this old man, who can only be described as a Mahatma Ghandi look-a-like (no hair, no teeth, white pyjamas) had to find a box that was slightly too big, cut it down to size with a wooden ruler and tape it up with my stuff inside. Then he sizes up a few pieces of white cotton cloth and sows them together using a sewing machine that had jumped out the early 1900s. His toes grip a panel that when pushed back and forth, makes the sewing machine begin to weave the needle in and out of these two pieces of cloth he is merging. Eventually a pillowcase emerges and he shoves my box into it - a very tight squeeze. He sows up the loose ends by hand and finally melts red wax on to the stitches and imprints them with a two rupee coin.

It took over an hour and a half just for the wrapping. The posting was horrible overpriced.

Overspent by a hectic day, we headed to a café to chill where the English girls would eventually join us...though not before a failed attempt at finding a café started by an English woman all the locals were raving about and regardless of a map, was impossible to find. We had planned on grabbing dinner before catching our train to Mumbai/Bombay.

Due to Udaipur's idyllic palaces (floating or not) and surrounding picturesque scenes, it was the setting for the James Bond classic: Octopussy, starring Roger Moore. Much to our delight, the restaurant manager set up a television on the roof and let us watch the film over dinner. It was surreal to be sitting on the set of a film while watching it. A fort sitting neatly atop a steep hill is in a transition scene in the film and was actually in the background to the television simultaneously.

Meanwhile across town...Christine was being bugged incessantly. She had bought a Sari (traditional Indian outfit) that she had had tailored. When they went to pick it up, the trousers didn't quite fit because they weren't the right size. Ankit's explanation was that she wasn't putting them on right. He got his mother to literally explain to Christine how to put trousers on...one leg at a time.

He tried to convince her to change her train to a later one, but thanks to her pushiness she managed to make it just in time. We met on the train, where Ankit sat with us talking until the train started moving, he finally panicked and jumped off. Understandably, Christine wanted some serious alone time on the train.

17 hours later we arrived in Mumbai.

Good Brakes, Good Horn, Good Luck!

The theme of transport and traffic in India deserves a blog of its own, a post won't do it full justice. Traffic is beyond anything I have ever seen anywhere. There are lines on the roads and I imagine that there are formalised rules of the road, but the informal rules provide an unstable, but nonetheless, functioning equilibrium that makes "good brakes, good horn and good luck" the necessary cocktail for survival.

Every road is jam packed with vehicles, whether a small back alley among Jodhpur's blue houses or a raging six lane roundabout around Delhi's India Gate. Rickshaws with skinny, sweaty little men fighting to cycle up a hill; middle aged men on motorbikes (often frowning at the gora - white dude - as they pass by), honking incessantly with a needle-to-eardrum horn and a spotlight headlight, often with women wearing a full sari in traditional bright Indian colours perched on the back; autorickshaws, small three wheeled mopeds with a yellow and green shell, a leather bench and nothing protecting you from the outside traffic (often we can reach out to touch other cars), this is the cheapest way to travel if you can haggle; Tata cars full of commuters with their own driver...because driving in Delhi is "jhust t-hoo mach, jhust t-hoo mach"; buses packed to the brim with people, limbs popping out of each window and horns that echo all down the carriage (I don't know where the acoustics find space to echo); and Tata trucks full of rubble rumbling by, the wheels of which are often bigger than the autorickshaw you're sitting in.

Horns are not used to tell someone that "you're in my way asshole!", at least not most of time, as in the West. It's certainly not rude to use the horn, in fact, it becomes a courtesy. Most trucks have "Horn Please" written on the back. The horn is used to tell someone "I'm coming on your right/left side (asshole)!". Cars often don't have a wing mirror on the passenger side and even if they do, it's not being used. Instead the driver behind must let you know he's coming. To sum it up anecdotally, the blind spot becomes a deaf spot.

Survival requires pushing, shoving, knowing when to jump into a little spot and a lot of patience. And maybe some earplugs too.

Chandra the Camel Man: "What hees up ... mhon?"

On the train, I met a fellow traveller by the name of Christine from Canada. Having recently left her friend in Jodhpur, she was travelling South to Mumbai through Jaisalmer on pretty much exactly the same trains as I had booked. Figuring that, as a girl alone in India, she may want the company of two strapping young men, I invited her to join us. Finding it difficult to gauge her reaction, I assumed that she would join us unless she said otherwise; travelling by herself, she must be independent enough to say "I think I'll do my own thing" if that's what she wanted.

Quick introductions on the platform to Casi, who had once again slept in the 3rd Class sleeper with the peasants, goats and a sandstorm, were ticked off the list before heading into the gauntlet of touts. We had already been approached by a very nervous, fast talking Indian on the train that was clearly doing rounds up and down the carriages looking for white kids reading the Lonely Planet guide. Regardless, we were approached by an older gentleman who gave us his card and said he worked for a travel agency that can arrange camel back safaris. We suspected every might be. He also added that he used to have a hotel in the fort, but decided to close it down because of the environmental and ethical issues of overpopulation in the fort - a statement suspiciously similar to a paragraph from the the LP Guide. Tired and worn, we agreed to jump in his jeep as he promised to drop us off in town.

On the way to the fort, he finally comes out with the truth that he did have a hotel, but it was outside the fort. He wanted us to go there, see the rooms and decide what we might want to do. Fine. Whatever.

The rooms were decent. The hotel was clean. It had rooftop restaurant - they ALL have rooftop restaurants. In fact, not a single hotel does not have a rooftop restaurant. The area was in fast development; everywhere houses and hotels were springing up with white signs hand painted with red writing. We decided to have lunch there while we discussed rooms and a camel back safari package he had offered us.

Competition is tight in this market. There are so many hotels and they are all exactly the same. However, by grabbing us straight from the train station, he had a monopoly on our attention, especially given that our information was limited. We only knew what we were willing to spend and what the LP guide said. We negotiated hard, but he only came down Rs 100 from a Rs 950 initial price...which he said was non-negotiable...everything is negotiable in India. We made a deal to stay the night and set off early in the morning out into the desert.

We saw the fort that afternoon. The view of the town from the fort was impressive, but otherwise it was full of the same shops with Ali Baba pants, Indian Saris, Pashminas, Muslim made cushion covers, etc. as everywhere else. Tourist memorabilia.

We were up early the next morning for some tasteless porridge before jumping in the same jeep as the day before for the Thar desert. A conversation with Jo in the car on the way there reminded me that nights out in London haven't much changed since I left, still ending in drunken tears and a trip to A&E (fortunately it was a friend of her's and not her, though not so fortunate for him). Though it did remind me how distant that world is from where I am. Even though I have only been away 11 days, it's seems like a lifetime.

We pulled into a small village where the camels were brought over a hill, not so gloriously, by a small Indian child wearing a white pyjama like outfit. The four camels were kitted up with pillows and covers on which sat the skeletal saddles made of a hard wood and wrapped in a leather like substance. To these we attached our day packs on the front and bedding and supplies to the back.

By 9:00 we were mounted high on our respective miserable looking abomination of a desert dwelling mammals and we were off, heading South. Holding on to two ropes firmly attached to what seemed to be a nose piercing on the camel, were used to direct it left and right. Not sure about how I felt about being lead around by a nose piercing, I let the others lead and my camel naturally followed.

The evening before Casi, after an excruciating search, had managed to find a seven metre long piece of orange synthetic cloth to be used as a turban. The old man in the shop, after attempting to playfully, but painfully crush our hands with a strong wrinkly handshake, had shown us how to put one on. Since the fabric had to come from one large piece that would be split in two, I ended up purchasing an orange turban too. As such, I sat on my camel in my mustard yellow Harim trousers, blue light cotton shirt and an orange turban, my hips gyrating forward, before my shoulders and head would sequentially follow suit with every step the camel took.

Casi, going one step beyond the utter ridiculous, wore his orange turban wrapped like he was a member of the Muhajideen heading into southern Sudan, a large burgundy shirt covered in elephants...best described as a moo moo, as it wasn't so much worn as draped over him...and bright green Ali Baba trousers that could be seen from space by the naked eye. At least the search and rescue party would be able to find us.

We stopped for lunch at an oasis. Our guide, a skinny Indian chap, with no schooling but a surprisingly decent amount of English, cooked a curry, rice, chipatti and chai tea all from scratch. By scratch, I mean he literally mixed the flower, water and salt, kneaded the mixture and cooked it to make chipatti (flat Indian bread). Not terribly complicated, but impressive nonetheless.

The stop was for several hours, enough time for the lingering dark clouds in the distance to draw closer. A storm was brewing.

Just as we were loading up the camels, it hit us. Gale force winds that turned drops of rain into needles coming at us from all angles, whipping our skin through our clothes. We forced our way against the elements back to a village we had not long crossed before the oasis to find shelter in a small abandoned house. Fearing it wasn't enough, we were told to run to a nearby school.

Drenched, cold but laughing, we were greeted by curious kids, all of whom seem to be related in pairs. Our guide quickly found some blankets to warm us up. I figured we were staying in this school overnight, rather than the sand dunes that we were meant to stay on (I was happy just to be off the camel and relaxing for once). Our guide eventually set up camp, a fire, some chai, dinner and finally our beds...though not before some tomfoolery on the roof of the school once the rain had stopped.

We were hoping to wake up early to get back on track. However, our guide, only wanting to make us happy, left us to sleep until gone 8:00. Unfortunately this meant that we missed both the sunrise and an early start. However, it did mean a lot less time spent on that bloody camel.

Trying to make up some time, our guide made our camels run for several long stints of up to 30 or 40 minutes. The camel plodded along at a fast rate, throwing my body up and slamming it back down to rattle my bones inside my skin like a maraca. Straining every muscle trying to hold myself together, my back began to ache. Fearing the early onset of impotence, I found some relief by standing in the holsters, knees bent and holding my ass up by leaning forwards, using my arms as springs against the saddle to soak up some bounce. This way I wouldn't be thrown up and down like a sack of potatoes on a seesaw. I held back the internal screams as I worried I would devalue, if not ruin, everyone else's trip. I couldn't help but think that this was day 10 of 106.

After being told off by a farmer for treading on his crops, we found a sand dune on which to take silly photos, among a few normal ones. A quick baby freeze on top a dune and a naked photo of Casi looking into the distance were just worth the new Charlie Chaplin walk my sore thighs requested.

We had a late lunch before the jeep came to find us and take us back to Chandra's hotel. After a bit of awkward conversation "Hey! What hees up...mhon? I take yu to thrain station mhon. No need for seat belt". Try stopping me from wearing it.

We hung out there for the afternoon and evening, before catching the late night train back to Jodhpur and then an early bus to Udaipur, where we have just arrived.

Jodhpur

Jodhpur had a certain charm, but this was specifically because we got into the old city at 6:00. No one was around. Apart from the odd autorickshaw clattering by with their mosquito engines, the city was as calm as the Hindu cows that populated the streets with their curious looks, skeletal bodies and cow dung.

The Cosy Guest House, advertised in the Lonely Planet guide as one of the few hostels among the blue houses of Jodhpur - consequently known as the Blue City (deservedly) as Jaipur is the Pink City (undeservedly) - is hidden away. The autorickshaw dropped us off at a small side street where a sign indicated the way down a back alley, though at this point, they're all back alleys. We started climbing up between blue houses up a steep hill, avoiding drains filled with a milky water, cow shit that had been spread by the wheels of motorbikes and the odd motorbike itself flying by. Mothers were preparing and taking their kids to school, all very friendly and smiley at the two white guys with oversized bags on their back and under their eyes....another sign indicated the way...an old man shouted and pointed to tell us we were going the wrong way...eventually an end was in sight. Unfortunately all rooms were currently occupied, so we couldn't check in until later that day. We were told most people were checking out, so to come back later. So we left our luggage and went to see some sites, though not before finding some breakfast.

There was nowhere to eat in town. We found one restaurant which at 7:00 was barely open. Another Poori Bhaji and a short intermission in a squatting toilet full of spiders set us up for a productive day.

We hit the bazaar first - dead as a town from the first scene of any zombie movie. We kept going up to the fort. Another steep climb was made easier by the knowledge that, doing this any later in the day, would have meant a torturous climb under a hot sun. The fort wasn't open when we reached the top, so we waited 30 minutes until we could buy our foreigner (over)priced ticket and go in.

Our ticket this time included and audio headset. So I actually learnt a fair amount about this fort. However, having had only a few hours of sleep, I can't remember much. I will attempt to read up on it before I leave which should jog the memory.

We played 'the price is right' with the local rickshaw drivers that waited at the fort exit to take people to the marble temple and garden not too far away. It turns out the price was wrong. We tried walking away, but they wouldn't budge on Rs 80. Alas to cheap, we walked in the sun until we one passed us by and agreed to Rs 50 to the marble temple and down to the centre of town. When we finally got down there, he wanted Rs 100 - sorry dude, you should agreed that when we got in!

The afternoon was spent resting at the hostel, blogging and doing some laundry. A few hours sleep regenerated the batteries enough to get us on the 6:00 train to Jaisalmer.

Apologies for the poor quality of content, it's simply because we are starting to feel like butter thinly scraped on a piece of a toast.