goa

I've arrived in Goa. I got up at 5am yesterday in Hampi and began my journey across at 5.30am. It took me all day to get here. First I travelled 12 kilometres through the waking countryside by autorickshaw to Hospet (the nearest railway station) to catch the 6.30am train to Madgaon. I needn't have bothered with the early start: the train turned out to be two hours and ten minutes late and didn't arrive until 8.40am. Once we got going it was a pleasant eight hour ride west. There was a nice man called Imran in my carriage and also joining us the family of Mr Vijay Kumar. While we were chatting I showed Vijay's two year old daughter my photographs of Hampi (I can display them on a screen on the back of my camera). When a picture of me flashed up Vijay pointed and said to his little girl: 'look... there's uncle.' Perhaps he has been reading my blog? Part of the journey took us west through Molem National Park and up into the hills. As the train wound its way up and then down we had to pass through about 20 tunnels. Each time we went into darkness the train passengers started screaming and yelping like they were passengers on a roller coaster. Can you imagine British passengers doing that? On our way down we swept by the massive Dudhsagar Waterfalls. The train goes over of a bridge which runs across the waterfall at a point were the water flow becomes more horizontal. Going across the view was indescribably beautiful and an unexpected surprise. We arrived in Madgaon at about 4.30pm and from there I jumped on a motorcycle taxi which took me to the bus station on the other side of town. There I caught a shuttle bus from Madgaon to Panaji and I finally arrived around 6pm.

I'm staying at Orav's Guesthouse in Panaji on 31st January Road. I don't much like the hotel, but having searched the surrounding area, I can find nowhere better without a major price hike. The main problem is that there are too many bugs and insects, and the whole place has a smell of damp about it. Last night, having gone to bed about half an hour before, I got up to check for something in my bag. When I switched on the light I saw that the floor was covered with ants and three cockroaches, one of which was not much smaller than myself. Weary, disorientated, annoyed, and my eyes squinting as they struggled to adjust to the light, I strutted out to the hotel reception in my underpants. 'My room is full of bugs. You need to come and sweep them out,' I said to the man sat on a chair by the desk. 'But I'm a guest here,' he replied affronted and surprised. 'Oh,' I said, registering my near nakedness. I carried on to the hotel entrance in my blue stripe boxer shorts and found someone who did work in the hotel and got him to come and sweep the room out. The guy saw to the ants but was apparently indifferent to the massive cockroach and almost left it behind. 'GET IT OUT!!!' I reiterated to remove any remaining confusion he might have over the matter. He picked it up with his hand and left the room wondering what all the fuss was about. So ended last night.

So far this morning I've had my customary breakfast of idlis with sambar, and I've been over to the local railway offices to book a second class train ticket to Mumbai (formerly Bombay) for 19 July. This will be my final destination in India and my final train journey. I asked the friendly man behind the counter if I could take a night train. 'No. There is no night train. We only have a train which leaves Goa at 5.20pm arriving in Mumbai the next day at 6am,' he said. 'I'll take it,' I replied, choosing not question his sense of definition.

Today I'm going to explore the local area around Panaji (there's some old Portuguese architecture to see - Goa is another area in India which was once colonised by Portugal) and tomorrow I'll catch a bus over to Old Goa to see some more of the local history. After that I'm heading for the beaches of Calangute and Baga for a couple of days (they're about 40 minutes down the road from here), where I hope it won't rain too hard (it's been raining here in Panaji) but I'll have to take my chances.

chennai, back to bangalore, and hampi

My Anglo-Indian friends may find it amusing to learn that a number of the Indian people I have met over the last couple of months have taken to calling me, 'uncle.' For those not in the know: it is sometimes said that in India (and in Indian communities) anyone held in respect or affection, or simply anyone older and known to the family, is an 'uncle' no matter how tenuous the true relation. I, it seems, have managed to stretch the tenuousness of this label yet further. But I am happy with the idea - I've enjoyed spending time with my Indian nephews and nieces these past three and a half months even if I do stand out a bit in the family photographs (the white sheep of the family perhaps?)

I left 'French' Pondicherry for Chennai (known until 1997 as Madras) last Wednesday and stayed in what is India's fourth largest city (population of seven million) for four nights. Chennai used to be another of the main bases of the British Raj which is why it has grown so large. The city is by the sea and has its own broad sandy beach and a long promenade, and spreads inland without much focus. There's not an awful lot for a tourist like me to go and visit except a few museums, Fort St George, and a couple of churches and temples. It was very hot in Chennai while I was there and I found the weather a bit hard to cope with at times. Politics seems to be ubiquitous, and in particular there are pictures of M. Karunanidhi, the Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu, absolutely everywhere you go. M. Karunanidhi is one of India's most successful politicians. Now 83 years old he has won every election he has contested over the last 60 years. Aside from being a poet, he was once a scriptwriter in the Tamil film industry, and is apparently known for his way with words. I thought he gave the appearance of a mafia Godfather with his black shades (taking his cue from Rajini he never seems to be without them), yellow scarf, and benevolent smile in the posters, but he is clearly a very popular and well liked man.

On Sunday morning I went to Chennai Central Station and boarded the first of two trains northwest to Hampi in Karnataka. I had to change to a second train in Bangalore and there was a gap of nine hours between the two, so I checked my bag in at the left luggage counter at the railway station and headed into Bangalore itself with a few hours to kill. In one of Bangalore's bars I met the former Indian test cricketer, Sadanand Vishwanath, and we ended up spending the evening together drinking whiskey and beer. He was terrific company, an intelligent bon viveur with a good sense of humour and an open mind. He runs a cricket academy in Bangalore these days and was keen to tell me about his Scottish grandmother amongst many other things. We were also joined by Vish's friend Jerry, a former jockey, whose company was equally as enjoyable. At 10pm, feeling rather drunk, I had to dash back for my train and to collect my bag. I just about managed to do both and was soon in a deep sleep on the rocking train. The evening had been another unexpected pleasure in India.

I've been in Hampi for the last two days and I adore it. The area is peaceful, beautiful, otherworldly, and rejuvenating. It feels a bit like being on another planet or the moon in someways. Hampi is the former capital of the Vijanagara Empire, one of the mightiest Hindu civilisations, and is covered in the temple ruins the Vijanagara's left behind as an epitaph. The landscape, hilly and littered at every turn with enormous rocks and boulders, is like something out of 'The Flintstones.' It's been lovely just walking up and down the pathways and along the river taking it all in. There aren't many people about (tourists I mean) and I've been able to relax in my own thoughts and company along the footpaths and tracks. Yesterday I hired a bicycle and rode out to some of the ruins which are a bit further afield in an area known as the Royal Centre. Most enjoyable has been the two kilometre walk out to the Vittala Temple. Yes, it's been lovely. The only down side is the resident mosquito population. They're everywhere and seem to have a predilection for my calf muscles.

Tomorrow morning I leave Hampi at 5.30am. By evening I should be in Goa.

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Monsoon update: I'm still evading it really. No rain in Chennai, no rain in Bangalore, and it's only rained for about an hour here in Hampi, and that was pretty light, although it has been cloudy most of the time.

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Shorts update: most of the holes in my two pairs of shorts which were 'fixed' by the tailor have now re-emerged. Certain pockets are now exclusion zones, but two or three are still operable and provide me with another storage space to get by. I think they will just about make it to the end. Just.

rajini and 'shivaji'

'Only pigs come as a herd! A lion always comes alone' - Shivaji

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Although Rajinikanth, known as Rajini, is a 58 year old grandfather from Bangalore and married to a school teacher, he is also the undisputed superstar of Tamil cinema and a cultural icon in South India for the last twenty years. He lives in Chennai (which is where I am now) and performs in everything from comedy and drama to action films, and his followers border on being fanatics. Loyal fans scream, shout, and whoop, whenever he is on screen, and won't hear a word said against him. According to the IMDB: 'directors cannot kill off his character in a movie for fear that the theatre will be burnt down by his crazed fans who consider him almost a god. He is said to explode like a tiger on screen.' He came to my recent attention in Ooty when I went to see his new film: 'Shivaji - the Boss,' his first in two years, and reputedly the most expensive Indian film ever made. The son a police constable Rajini was first employed as a bus conductor before he joined the Madras Film Institute and got into movies and is seen by many as a hero of the lower classes.
Rajini's personal appearance is striking and unmistakable. He's not particularly tall and very slightly chubby. He looks his age. He has a huge white smile which he flashes every few seconds and a pair of black shades which are surgically attached to his face. He has a black moustache. His enormous black hair, which is not dissimilar in size and style to the stage wig which Gary Glitter used to wear, is curiously detached from his head and seems to have a life all of its own. It's almost an independent organism in itself operating separately and in a different time to the rest of his body. He often wears black leather jackets and trousers, or clothing you would more readily associate with a 20 year old or even a teenager.
Rajini also has a number of trademark actions which feature in his films and these include flicking coins, acrobatically bouncing chewing gum around (he's doing that all the time - and it gets a big cheer from the crowd), and swapping guns from hand to hand whilst flying through the air (he also swaps pens like this if he is signing a contract or writing a note).
In the film 'Shivaji' itself (part of which was shot at Ramoji Film City), Rajini plays an Indian millionaire called Shivaji who having made a fortune in America (in the computer industry) has returned to India to build a free hospital and university for the poor. His philanthropy is made evident from the very beginning when on the way back from the airport a poor woman with a baby begs him for money. He gives her a massive wad of cash, and then turns to his assistant looking disgusted and says in Tamil something along the lines of: 'I'm gonna sort all this out. Things are going to change around here.' Things don't run smoothly though because rival businessman Adisheshan (the villain) is not happy about Shivaji's return and plots to destroy him by bribing local politicians. By the film interval he has almost succeeded, and Shivaji is left with only one rupee to his name and the hospital/university project has to be put on hold.
While all this is going on Shivaji romances and marries the beautiful Shreya who is bowled over by Shivaji despite the fact that he is old enough to be her father's father and wearing a wig that would rival Louis XIV for size. She is initially hesitant because an astrologer has told her that if she gets married her husband will be killed soon after (Shivaji does later die briefly as part of his plan to win his money back but is soon brought back to life - it's too complicated and silly to explain). There's plenty of comedy in the film, mostly revolving around the romance with Shreya, including a scene where Shivaji eats fifty chilli's to prove his love, and also - after she tells him he is too dark skinned to marry her - a sequence where he is transformed into a white man complete with blond hair.
In the second half of the film Shivaji wins back double his money, kicks Adisheshan's backside, eradicates poverty in India, and is near enough proclaimed a modern day messiah. Throughout the film Shivaji repeats his catchphrase which is to say his own name, pause, and then add: 'cooooooool' after whilst smiling broadly and smugly.
'Shivaji,' like Rajini, is pretty ridiculous but I enjoyed it much more than any of the Hindi Bollywood films I've watched in India. In fact, I thought it was brilliant. By comparison, the characters in the mainstream Bollywood movies ('masala movies') seem to be almost, dare I say it, ashamed to be Indian and keen at every turn to demonstrate their 'western-ness.' Rajini and his characters are proud to be Indian, and do things their own way. I like that and I think it is a more healthy way for an Indian movie to be. There's more integrity and less cultural insecurity. This aside Rajini also has an irrepressible energy on screen which is infectious. If you would like to see some poster images of Rajini take a look at my photos from Ooty, or alternatively have a look at this website:

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http://www.sivajitheboss.com

pondicherry

Day 100 in India. It is a popular misconception that the British controlled the whole of India during the days of the British Raj. They didn't. There are some areas which have never been touched by the hand of British Rule such as Pondicherry, a small seaside town of 220,000 on the east coast just below Chennai. Pondicherry, recently renamed Puducherry (to sound more Tamil) and more informally known as 'Pondy,' was a colony of the French from the early eighteenth century and remained in French hands even after India became a Republic in August 1947 (it was finally handed back in the early 1950s).

The French certainly left their mark. The streets of the French quarter (which is more of a half if you ask me) are arranged on a grid pattern, and each of the roads has a French name. The local restaurants serve approximations of French food, and the local town hall is called 'Hotel De Ville.' French-style architecture abounds. It is rather surreal and unexpected when you arrive, but the shock is followed by pleasant surprise because the area is pretty, well ordered, and very green (almost every street is lined on either side with mature and thriving trees).

As with everywhere else in India, they don't like giving you change in Pondicherry no matter how close the money you pay with. Even if somebody charged you 1249 rupees for something and you gave them 1250, for example, they'd still irritably say: 'you haven't got the exact money have you?'

My bus up to Pondicherry turned out to be a nice air conditioned coach with comfortable reclining seats and the journey ran to time and without problems apart from, around 3am, when the driver hit a speed bump he hadn't noticed without slowing down (he was probably falling asleep like his passengers). This bounced me out of my seat and I head butted the window on my left with some force. The bang really hurt and warranted the emission of a profanity on my part. Tomorrow morning I'll catch another bus up to Chennai which will only take about three hours, and will hopefully not include a free concussion or turn into a bit of a pallava*.

I'm staying on the top floor at the Hotel Continental in Pondicherry. It is adequate although my room is very, very hot indeed. I'm not sure why. I have a television set with cable television and last night after a meal at 'Madam Santhe' I went back to my room and watched: 'Concert for Diana' on a channel called Starworld. Looking on the Internet just now I see that one British newspaper has said of the event, 'it was as if Marks and Spencer had organised a concert,' which about sums up my feelings on the matter. I was tired but hung on and on to hear Elton John sing (one of my most guilty pleasures). In summary: I liked watching Bryan Ferry and Rod Stewart, Status Quo made me laugh, and Ricky Gervais proved a bit of a disappointment.

Also to note: I have begun reading the final of my books for this trip: Milosevic by Adam LeBor. I've only read a couple of chapters. It's well written and it's good to think about something which has nothing to do with India even if the subject matter is a bit hard going and serious.

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* The Pallava kingdom was an ancient South Indian kingdom. They established their capital at Kanchipuram around the 4th century CE. They dominated the Telugu and northern parts of the Tamil region until the end of the 9th century, for about six hundred years. Throughout their reign they were in constant conflict with both Chalukyas of Badami in the north and the Tamil kingdoms of Chola and Pandyas in the south and were finally defeated by the Chola kings in the 8th century CE.

madurai

'India is a country of nonsense' - Mahatma Gandhi

I feel like I know what he means sometimes. Greetings. I'm sitting in Office Point Internet Cafe in a plywood computer cubicle. An Indian version of 'Rasputin' by Boney M is being played over speakers in the background. The computer I sit at keeps converting my text into Japanese script (this is annoying) and there are no fans and I'm too hot (this is annoying).

I'm in Madurai in Tamil Nadu and have been for two days now. This is my second visit to Tamil Nadu, the first having been when I stayed briefly in Ooty up in the Nilgiri Hills a week or two ago. Tamil Nadu is one of the few areas in India where Hindi is not really spoken (the first language is Tamil), and the attempted imposition of it by the federal government has proved a point of antagonism in the recent past. I am staying in Room 302 of the New Ruby Hotel which is in the old part of the city on West Perumal Maistry Street, along with all the other tourist hotels, and not far from the railway station. Madurai is quite a dirty place compared with the recent towns I've visited, and West Perumal Maistry Street is especially bad with piles of rubbish three or four feet high every twenty metres or so. But it is not devoid of personality and by no means an unpleasant place to stay. There's certainly a fair bit of life.

I spent yesterday marvelling at the Sri Meenakshi Temple, one of the most famous Dravidian temples in South India, and the main reason for my visit here. It didn't take as long to look around as it might because as a non-Hindu I was excluded from much of the complex. I stayed for a couple of hours but the covered walkways and the warm weather combined to make it quite a hot and claustrophobic environment, so in the end I retreated outside to the fresh air and slight breeze of the nearby Madurai Market where vegetables are bought and sold in something like a medieval setting. As I wandered about I got my camera out and started swinging it from my wrist brazenly. I knew what I was doing and sure enough it wasn't long before stall holders started to 'take the bait' and began asking me to photograph them and/or their mangoes and potatoes. This was all on my second day in Madurai: the day before I had a look around what remains of the Tirumalai Nayak Palace (not a lot), and today - this afternoon - I will visit the Gandhi Memorial Museum.

Tonight I catch a bus to Pondicherry, which is on the east coast three hours south of Chennai. I've booked a ticket on a deluxe private tourist bus through my hotel and the journey will take nine hours. I will find out tonight whether I actually have a seat on a comfortable air conditioned coach as promised, or whether my suspicion that I am to be bundled onto a ordinary government bus having paid triple the price proves closer to the truth. After the fatigue of so many recent bus and train journeys I really hope it is the former (the latter may precede a childish tantrum). We shall see.

I've conceded defeat and taken both my pairs of shorts to a local tailor to be fixed properly. My own sewing just hasn't risen to the occasion. The tailor has done a good job, sewing up seven individual holes and rips altogether. I'm glad I've got them sorted out: it was getting a bit ridiculous. The last straw was broken while I was at Madurai Market: I knelt down to take a photograph of a woman at a stall and ripped two massive holes (from seam to seam) in the knees of the pair I was wearing. I was surprised to find that the tailor had a postcard photograph of Ipswich town centre on the wall in his shop. I tried to explain that Ipswich was not far from my home town, and that I had been there, but I think the point was lost on him.

I am still evading the monsoon rain for the moment. In fact, the weather in Madurai is great. It's a hot day outside and there's no sign of rain whatsoever. I've seen no rain since Fort Cochin. I hear on the news that Mumbai has ground to a halt, including all trains in and out, it having rained so hard the whole city is underwater, and more rain is expected. But here... nothing. I'm not complaining.

A final note: I weighed myself yesterday: I currently weigh 13 stone and 2 pounds.

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Later in the day...

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4pm: I've just returned from the Gandhi Memorial Museum here in Madurai and have a few observations to note. First, they purportedly have on display the the loin cloth dhoti Gandhi was wearing when he was assassinated. This is interesting because the Gandhi Memorial Museum in Delhi also has this item on display!! I saw it in Delhi a month ago along with the bullet that killed Gandhiji. The dhoti I saw in Delhi did not look the same as this one: it was red with blood whereas this one was white and unsoiled. Second, the letters Gandhi wrote to Hitler which I saw in the Himachal State Museum are also on display here in Madurai. So what's going on? Either Gandhi did everything in duplicate (including the wearing of clothing) or something doesn't add up. I'll leave you to judge. I certainly have - see the quote at the top of this entry.

Also, whilst at the museum the stitching in my shorts came apart. Such was the quality workmanship they lasted a grand total of seven hours. Un...b-e-l-ievable.

alleppey and kovalam

Still in Kerala. On Saturday I travelled south from Fort Cochin to Alappuzha, which is more commonly known as 'Alleppey.' It took about three and a half hours by bus. It was raining at the beginning of the journey, but by the time we arrived the rain had stopped and I was able to make my way to my hotel without getting drenched. Alleppey is the gateway to the Kerala backwaters. The town itself is unremarkable with little of note to see or do, but that's not why you go there. You go there to board the boat of your choice, and chug off into the serene network of canals and rivers which stretch for miles around. I stayed at the KTC Homestay Guesthouse, which was located on a footpath by the north canal and not far from the bus station. It was a quiet place and they provided me with a clean nicely decorated room. On Sunday I boarded my boat, a small passenger ferry, and spent the day on the water, travelling from Alleppey to Kottayam and back again. This took about six hours in total. Lucky for me the weather was good and it didn't rain at all. The sun was even out. Shiva, it seems, decided to spare me. The scenery was wonderful and so peaceful - calm rivers and green banks covered in palm trees and other vegetation. Little or no noise except the chugging of the boat and the noise of the wildlife in the undergrowth. Some of the island villages we rode through were quite seriously flooded following recent heavy rainfall, but nobody on shore seemed to be bothered about it. I suspect it happens every year, and is just part of the cycle of life.

Yesterday I left Alleppey and travelled further south by bus to the coast and Kovalam. I could have stayed longer on the waterways and backwaters if I'd hired a private boat for myself but I wagered that the weather wouldn't hold, and thought that I'd had a lovely day already - having seen some lovely scenery on the passenger ferry - and that I'd leave it at that. I also thought I would feel a prat on a private boat by myself all day, or that I'd get bored. So it was on to Kovalam. Kovalam is at the very bottom of Kerala (and also the very bottom of India). It's the most popular beach resort in the state. I'm staying at the Seaview Palace Hotel on the beach front and my room has a balcony which looks out on to the Arabian Sea. It's a lovely hotel, a marvellous location, and the room tariffs have been slashed by two thirds because it is 'off season.' The weather is still holding out and I'm enjoying being by the warm beach and the pleasant sunshine. The small beach is very developed and has very dark (almost black) sand but the place retains great charm in spite of this. It's just me and a few other tourists down here. We give each other smiles and looks smugly indicating: 'see - everyone said not to come down here at this time of year but we knew better.' Actually, it hasn't all been good. Last night at 8.20pm I found a massive cockroach (about three inches long) in my room. Following initial combat manoeuvres I eventually managed to spirit him out of my hotel room door using a complimentary bath towel as a weapon. Not before half an hour of buggering about though. I've passed a security resolution in my mind allowing me to use extreme force where necessary in future circumstances of this type and I'll issue a warning now: cockroach; if you decide to come back a second time:

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THERE WILL BE NO MERCY

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So what next? On my way down to Kovalam I stopped off in Thiruvananthapuram (Trivandrum) and bought a train ticket to Madurai in Tamil Nadu for the evening of 28 June. I'll sleep on the train and arrive in Madurai around breakfast time. This will be the next place that I visit.

This will mark the beginning of my fifth and final section of travel in India. If you've been following this blog you may remember that in Delhi, just after I arrived, I sat down and worked out the route through India for myself, and came up with a plan which divided my journey into five separate sections. These were:

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(1) starting in Delhi to make a circuit west through Rajasthan eventually returning to Delhi,

(2) to then make an anti-clockwise circuit of the states north of Delhi (Uttranchal, Himachal Pradesh, and the Punjab) again eventually returning to Delhi,

(3) to travel east from Delhi all the way to Kolkata and the east coast calling at a number of places along the way,

(4) to travel southwest down the length of the country eventually reaching Kerala and ultimately Kovalam,

(5) and finally, to travel from Kovalam northeastwards to Chennai (formerly Madras) and then from there northwest until Mumbai (formerly Bombay) from which I will return to the UK.

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So the first four are now all finished and it just remains to complete section five over the next four weeks before my flight home on 26 July 2007. The end is almost in sight.

only in india

Two recent and bizarre stories in the Indian news...

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(1) 14 May 2007: right-wing Hindu activists illegally break in to a university art gallery and vandalise Gujarati student Chandra Mohan's art work. They claim that Mohan's work is 'obscene and distasteful' because it shows images of naked men. The police act swiftly and arrest... the artist Chandra Mohan. Mohan is finally released on bail after being imprisoned for four days. The dean of the arts faculty at the university is also suspended for opposing the arrest.

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(2) 21 June 2007: The 15-year-old son of two doctors performs a filmed Caesarean section birth under his parents’ watch in southern India in an apparent bid to gain a spot in the Guinness Book of World Records as the youngest ever person to perform surgery. His father, Dr Murugesan, says this is not the first surgery performed by his son and that he has been 'training him for the last three years' because he wants to see his son’s name in the Guinness Book of World Records.

indian bars

Like many people, whilst travelling abroad I like to take the occasional break for a relaxing cold beer and this practice has led me to discover a rather unique Indian institution during the last three months: the provincial Indian bar.

Most provincial Indian bars are down at heel places located on the ground floors, or basements, of small to moderate sized hotels. Typically they are dark and dingy places with no natural light and a depressing air. The bar room itself will either be purposefully windowless or, if there are windows, they will have been boarded up. To add to the effect the lighting will be low and dim. Sometimes ridiculously low. I went into a bar in Bhubaneswar (the Park Inn) and was told I could only sit at the table by the glass entry door because if I sat anywhere else it would be impossible for me to read the drinks menu or see my drink. Air conditioning is compulsory and it is set at temperatures which would make a penguin shiver and a brass monkey cry. The amount of time you can spend in the bar is always limited by concern of catching frostbite. Just visible on the floors, walls, and the table you sit at, will be small cockroaches scurrying up and down, and now and again - inevitably - across your hand. They will be present no matter how clean or modern the bar seems to be.

An Indian bar may or may not be busy. Whatever, the clientele will be male only. The men seem always to congregate in a party of three. They generally have moustaches and look a bit shifty (Roald Dahl said never to trust men with facial hair: 'what are they trying to hide?'). Often the men in the bar will sit opposite one another in silence. The main noise comes from the Hindi film on the television mounted behind the bar, and the drone of the air conditioning unit on full power.

The drink of choice in the bar will be whiskey and water (a plastic bottle of water shared). 'Teachers' and 'Black Label' seem popular whiskey brands. I will be the only person present drinking a beer. There will be a lot of cigarette smoking and the air will be thick with smoke. Snacks like bombay mix and nuts will be distributed amongst the tables free of charge, and if your hand can grope its way blindly to the plate these will be a tasty treat.

You do not really order drinks at the bar. You sit at a table and waiters serve you. There will be about five waiters, even in small bars, and the place will have the feeling of being overstaffed. If you are British, like me, they will probably all want to talk to you about David Beckham or possibly cricket.

The Lonely Planet sums Indian bars up by saying: 'the typical drinking hole is a seedy affair and not the kind of place thirsty female travellers should venture into alone.' Yes this is true, and seedy they may be, but I must confess that I've grown rather attached to them somewhere along the line, due I think to familiarity, and I look forward to drinking a few more dimly lit Kingfisher Light beers before I return to the UK and the brash glare of 'Edwards' or 'Bar 38.'

For the record, probably my favourite bar in India has been The Tavern in Mussoorie.

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NB: you can also drink alcohol in posh five star hotel bars of course, and sometimes also restaurants have alcohol licences. I have generally avoided both as drinking venues in favour of the local bars described above.

ooty and onwards to kerala

I meant to update the blog yesterday but I was drunk on coconut beer so judged it best to leave it. More of that in a moment.

On Monday I left Mysore by bus and made the five hour journey south to Udghagamandalam, more commonly known as 'Ooty,' a hill station in the Nilgiri Hills which sits at an elevation of 2240 metres above sea level. Ooty turned out to be rather a disappointment and I stayed only one full day. It lacks the beauty and magnificent views of the Himalayan hill stations in the north, and the pretty old Raj-era buildings which made the place famous have given way to a rather dirty and unplanned modern urban sprawl. It also rained most of the time I was there, which contributed to the atmosphere being rather glum and gloomy. Whilst in town I visited the Botanical Gardens, St Stephen's Church, the Centenary Rose Park, the Thread Garden, and the Boathouse and Lake. I also met a local farmer in the Sanjay Hotel Bar during the evening (I never caught his name) and he invited me to the cinema with him. I agreed and we went to see the newly released 'Sivaji' starring Tamil superstar Rajini. The film has been all over the news during the last couple of weeks, because it has the honour of being the most expensive Indian movie ever made. It has taken Rajini almost two years to produce it. It took me almost as long to watch it, and it was brilliant. Rajini is quite a piece of work, and deserves a separate blog entry (which I will write at a later date).

On Wednesday I moved, again by bus, into Kerala arriving at my destination, Fort Cochin, after an eleven hour journey involving two buses, an autorickshaw, and a cross harbour ferry. The journey down through the hills and then into the wonderful lush green overgrowth and waterways of Kerala was stunning. Kerala is packed solid with tall palm trees which make way only for clean looking rivers of all sizes or odd clearings for rice fields. It's a very beautiful part of the country, and I am already pondering whether this might be one of the most beautiful areas I've ever been to. It's also a very progressive area of India: Kerala had the first democratically elected communist government in the world, the land is distributed with some equality, infant mortality rates are low, and there is a healthy arts and painting tradition here combined with a 91% literacy rate (the highest in India). It's an eclectic place very unlike the rest of India: one of India's only synagogues is to be found here, as are Chinese fishing nets, mosques, Dutch palaces, and Hindu temples. Fort Cochin itself is a small island just a few hundred metres off the Keralan coastline, an unlikely blend of medieval Portugal (Portugese traders have played a big part in Keralan history), Holland, and an English country village. Most people traverse the narrow streets either on foot or by bicycle, and the atmosphere is peaceful and quiet (more so because it is off season) and rich with history. I am staying at the Elite Hotel. The hotel is nice but the staff have marred this by treating me with obvious indifference (perhaps because it is off season?). Since my arrival I've visited the Pardesi Synagogue, Jew Town, Mattancherry Palace, St Francis Church, Santa Cruz Basilica, and the Chinese fishing nets. Fort Cochin is one of the only places in India to have a Jewish community. Alan Whicker came here 30 years ago and filmed a documentary about them which I watched just before I left the UK for India. He remarked at the time that they were dying out and few in number. Well, they're still here 30 years later, still holding on in India, although today in 2007 the community numbers only seven people and the Pardesi Synagogue does not have an attached Rabbi.

On the ferry over to Fort Cochin I met a man called Pai who struck up a conversation by asking me about the Beatles. He walked me to my hotel from the ferry and I visited him at his family home yesterday afternoon. We both got drunk on toddy (the famous Keralan alcoholic drink made from sap tapped from coconut palm trees). Pai gave me my first glass of the stuff saying, 'yours is the freshest, you've got the fly.' I looked down to see a dead fly in my drink. Pai smiled. I braced myself, and drank. It's potent stuff with a bit of a burning after taste. I had a lovely afternoon chatting with him amongst other things about his love of Mr Bean. His mother and grandmother were also at home but they spoke no English so Pai either translated for me or we communicated more simply through gurning facial gestures. They seemed delighted that I had visited them in their two room, blue, tin roofed, village home. I scored points with Pai's Mum by asking whether or not she liked Rajini - she turned out to be a massive fan. I retired back to my hotel around 5pm before I drank too much and couldn't find my way back, and pleased that I had finally visited a 'real' Indian home.

The monsoon has hit Kerala hard and I have been quite amazed at the amount of rain that has fallen since my arrival here. It's rained and rained and rained. I've had to make my visits and investigations during the breaks and recesses. It can go two or three hours before it buckets down which is sufficient time for me to get about, and so far it has all worked fine. While it is raining I watch from a cafe or read in my hotel. Just watching and witnessing this level of rainfall is in itself an interesting experience.
Tomorrow I will move an hour south to Allappuzha, which is better known as Alleppey, and then after a day or two there south to one of the Keralan beaches - most probably Kovalam.

mysore

Before leaving for Mysore I saw another film at the cinema called, 'The Train.' It's set in Bangkok and is about a man called Vishal (played by Emraan Hashmi). He is married with a child (who needs a kidney transplant) and works in advertising. His life has become intolerably dull and mundane, and he's bored and listless. He meets a woman called Roma Kapoor on the Bangkok Skytrain (she's played by Geeta Basra) and they embark on an affair. He is then blackmailed by a third party psychopath (played by Aseem Merchant) who has caught on to their adultery. The end has a twist which I didn't see coming - it turns out that Roma and the psychopath are in cahoots and have conned Vishal. I thought it was a very good film although the reviews I've read online unanimously disagree with me. The film is a re-working of the Clive Owen film 'Derailed.' I sat on the edge of the aisle in the cinema. About half way through the movie a black cat casually wandered by me, continuing to the screen where it sat down and went to sleep.

So, anyway, I'm in Mysore now. It's much smaller than Bangalore or Hyderabad, with a population of around 750 000, but it has a big history to delve into. The big attraction is the Maharajah's Palace which must be one of the most beautiful in India. The city streets are well planned tree lined boulevards and there's plenty of feeling of space. The climate is easy but the sky is rather grey today. Rain has been forecast but has not come.

Curiously people keep coming up to me on the street here to ask if I have been to, or heard of, Glastonbury. I must have been asked about the Somerset village by at least ten different individuals. Why!? I suppose there has to be some connection, but I can't fathom what it might be. Perhaps Michael Eavis, the event organiser, has a second home in Mysore? Or maybe the Glastonbury Festival donates to charitable works in the area and has a high profile amongst the local community? Maybe there's no connection and it's all a coincidence? Who knows?

I've visited the Maharajah's Palace, the Jaganmohan Palace (which is an art gallery) and the Devaraja Market since I arrived yesterday morning. The Maharajah's Palace, which was built between 1897 and 1912 (the previous palace burnt down), was designed by an Englishman, Henry Irwin, in Indo-Saracenic style. The design is a blend of Hindu, Islamic, and European styles, and the building is vast. It is without doubt my favourite palace so far and one of the most spectacular buildings I think I've ever seen.

This morning I also finished reading Mahatma Gandhi's autobiography. It gives you a good outline of his philosophy of life and an interesting account of his early life. There's a lot to admire and I can't fault most of his rigorous logic. I think he was a sincere and fair minded man who contributed greatly to India and the world through his public work. I'd like to read a critical biography of him now though as I suspect there was more to the Mahatma than met the eye. I've noticed he's been referred to as 'cunning as a fox,' 'politically shrewd,' and 'ruthless' by various commentators and I'd like to research into this further. But for now I'll move on to my next book The Nehrus and the Gandhis by Tariq Ali.

inventory of my backpack/possessions

1. MAIN BACKPACK

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Clothing: 1 pair of running shoes, 1 pair of sandals, 1 towel, 3 shirts, 4 t-shirts, 2 pairs of cargo shorts, 5 pairs of boxer shorts, 2 pairs of cotton 'trunk' underpants (for extra comfort), 7 handkerchiefs, 1 pair of jeans, 1 jumper, 1 pair of swimming trunks, 1 pair of running shorts, 3 pairs of socks, 1 sarong, and 1 rain coat.

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Misc. articles: 1 medical pack, 1 sewing kit, 2 spare batteries, 1 battery charger, 1 plug adapter, 1 torch, 1 bottle of travel wash, 1 eye mask, 2 bottles of suntan lotion, 2 pens (1 black and 1 blue), 1 packet of dioralyte tablets, 1 packet of Imodium tablets, 1 wash bag, 1 bottle of shower gel, 1 bottle of shampoo, 1 roll on deodorant, 1 bottle of shaving gel, 1 Gillette Mach 3 razor (the best a man can get), 4 spare razor blades, 1 toothbrush, 1 tube of toothpaste (ayurvedic), 1 container of dental floss, 1 tube of mosquito lotion, and 1 mosquito net.

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2. AUXILIARY 'HOLLYOAKS' SMALL BAG

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1 camera (Fujifilm Finepix 5.1 mega pixel), 1 USB cable, 1 notebook for recording day to day tasks, 1 bottle of anti-malarial tablets, 1 Lonely Planet, 4 more books: An Autobiography by Mahatma Gandhi, The Nehrus and the Gandhis by Tariq Ali, Milosevic by Adam LeBor, and Improve Your Grammar by John Seely, 1 calculator, and 1 purple plastic folder containing the following: 1 vaccinations book, 1 photocopy of my passport, 10 spare passport photos, 1 set of Barclays Bank cardholder protection documents, 1 set of personal insurance details, 1 copy of my flights details, and there is also 1 smaller transparent pouch in which I have been collecting my ticket stubs and the like.

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3. MONEY BELT

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1 passport, my current withdrawn rupees, all ATM receipts, some pounds sterling, some US dollars, some travellers cheques, and my most recent bus or train ticket (at the moment a train ticket to Mysore).

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4. WALLET

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Money for the day, 1 Barclays debit card, 1 UK driving licence, 1 Citizencard ID, and a 1 bit of paper with emergency contact details for Barclays Bank.

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5. MISC OBJECTS

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1 wristwatch (a Casio F-91W made in Malaysia) and a partridge in a pear tree.

bangalore

Bangalore is the capital of Karnataka. It's populated by almost six million people, sits at an elevation of 920 metres above sea level, and according to the Lonely Planet, 'is regarded as one of India's most progressive cities - fast food joints, yuppie bars, sophisticated lounges and high end malls are the ever-changing flavours of the day. Things that are taboo elsewhere are increasingly seen here.' Bangalore's wealth stems from the 1960s when telecommunications industries were established here. In the intervening 50 years it has built a reputation as a science and technology centre and is now known as India's 'Silicon Valley.' I arrived yesterday following a 12 hour night train down from Hyderabad. I'm staying at the Royal Lodge on Subedar Chatram Road, not far from the train station. It's more modest than it sounds but still perfectly acceptable. I like Bangalore a lot. It has similarities to Hyderabad but more greenery: more parks and more tree lined avenues. The weather here is good too. While Delhi sizzles, Bangalore feels pleasantly warm and for the moment the sky is clear.

This morning I went out sightseeing. The first place I went to was the Tipu Sultan Palace. This was the summer home of Tipu Sultan (also known as 'the Tiger of Mysore') who, if ITV is to be believed, was killed by none other than Private Richard Sharpe (also known as Sean Bean) in 1799. I'm not sure things really happened that way but it is true that Tipu Sultan was subject to constant aggravation from the British in real life. In fact it is a matter of public record that he developed quite a hatred of us: he even had a life size wooden toy made of a tiger eating a British soldier. When you wind it up it the arms of the soldier flail up and down as if in pain while the tiger bites down on his neck and makes growling noises.

After the Palace I went on to see the Fort, Central Market, the Bull Temple, and Lalbagh Botanical Gardens. I got some interesting photos at the Central Market. Aside from the colourful tikka powder which is on display in large conical piles, it seems every stall holder in the market is an aspiring photographic model and I had people begging me take photos of them at every turn. I got some interesting shots which I will upload as soon as I get a chance.

Tomorrow I will visit Cubbon Park which has on site several museums, and MG (Mahatma Gandhi) Road which is where all the upmarket coffee shops, bars, and malls are. This will conclude my 'work' in Bangalore. The following morning (Friday) I catch the 6.30am train to Mysore.

A note on housekeeping: I've had to use the sewing kit my Auntie Margaret bought me for the fourth time in as many weeks today. My shorts are showing considerable signs of fatigue and holes keep emerging in various areas, most annoyingly in the pockets. But my handiwork seems to have done the trick for the time being, so let's hope they can make it to the end. I do hope they are able to make it to the end.

hyderabad

If the rest of India was more like Hyderabad it would be doing very well for itself indeed. From the moment my train pulled into Secunderabad Station I've liked it here. Hyderabad is somehow cleaner and better organised than any other town or city I've visited so far in India, and there's a more laid back and relaxed feeling despite the fact that it's a city of over five million people. After I arrived I checked in to Hotel Suhail near Abids Circle which has proved an excellent deal and is also ideally placed.

On Saturday I spent the day at Ramoji Film City, the largest film studio in India, which is located about an hour outside of Hyderabad. It was a fascinating experience. The complex occupies 800 hectares and has all kinds of film sets ranging from a London street (which looks nothing like a London street) to a fake Taj Mahal. All the big Indian film stars have made movies here and many of the big blockbuster movies feature scenes shot on Ramoji film sets. I went on a bus tour of the lots which included stopping off at the fake airport, the hospital just behind it, and a mock up train station complete with train. I also watched a stunt show, and an interactive show about how movies are made. As the only non-Indian in the 500 strong audience I was singled out for special attention by the compere during the show: 'I'd also like to point out on behalf of our international friend over there that many movies are also made in Hollywood of course and have been since the 1960s.'

The following day I went on a tour of Hyderabad itself with two Catholic Priests. Yes you did read that right. Father Linson and Father Paul got chatting to me on the coach and we ended up spending the day together. They are both from Kerala but Father Paul is doing some training in Hyderabad and Father Linson has been posted in Italy for the past three years (he's met both recent Popes). On our trip we visited Charminar, Mecca Masjid, Salar Jung Museum, Golconda Fort, Birla Mandir Temple, Nehru Zoological Park and Chowmahalla Palace. The tour was pretty rapid - you had to be back at the bus exactly when the tour guide told you or it went without you. Several people got left behind over the course of the day and by the end quite a few previously occupied bus seats were left empty. It was especially interesting talking with Father Linson because, having spent so much time in Europe, he could discuss with me the differences he's seen between the European and Indian ways of life and how our collective behaviours differ.

Aside from all these sights I also went along by myself a few days ago to see the large Buddha Statue in the middle of Hussain Sagar, the big lake in the centre of the city. The Buddha Statue was completed in 1990 and is 17.5 metres high. When they were dragging it out to the plinth in the middle of Hussain Sagar the barge carrying it sank (dragging down and killing eight people) and it remained under water for two years until it was finally re-raised. When it was finally in place it was opened and blessed by the Dalai Lama, and has since become a mutual/neutral place of enjoyment and reflection for the Hindu and Muslim communities which predominate here.

Today I'm really waiting to carry on to Bangalore but my train doesn't leave until 7pm this evening so I've been trying to fill my time constructively. I've been to the Rama Krishna Cinema to see a Telugu film (Telugu is the language of Andra Pradesh) called 'Dubai Seenu' about a guy called Seenu who is obsessed with going to Dubai to make money (but never gets there). It was quite good but more of a struggle to understand than some of the other recent films I've seen because the plot jumped around a bit. I asked the man sitting next to me what was going on during the intermission and he said, 'I don't know either,' so it wasn't just down to language. I think I recognised some of the back drops from Ramoji Film City on screen.

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Check out Ramoji Film City at:

http://www.ramojifilmcity.com/

puri and bhubaneswar

On my last day in Puri I hired a moped (for a pound) and rode 20 kilometres north to the village of Konark where the famous Hindu Sun Temple, another of India's signature buildings, is located. The small red two wheeler was clearly a few years in service but it seemed to be in good working order and I had no qualms about riding off on it. It was a lovely journey up to Konark: the sun was shining, the sea was lapping the shore to my right, and tall green palm trees were waving in the breeze to my left. The road was quiet save for a few other mopeds and the odd bus.

I spent a few hours at the Sun Temple and found it not quite so pretty in person as in the photographs in my Lonely Planet. Once you see it up close you realise how much damage (mainly from cyclones) and unavoidable rebuilding of the original structure there has been. No-one has been able to do much about this, and it has gone some way to spoiling the integrity of the building. It's still very beautiful though considering, and I'd highly recommend a visit to anyone who finds themselves in the area.

On the way back things went not so well. The moped broke down half way back in the middle of nowhere and in the mid-afternoon heat. Luckily for me just before I set off I had agreed to give a lift to a local guy called Kalu, who I had met in a cafe in Konark, and he was with me to help me try to get it going again. I was useless (I know nothing about engines despite my Dad having been a mechanic for over forty years), and I let Kalu get on with his wire tugging, spark plug blowing, and intermittent frowning. I assumed my usual role as an assistant. It took about 30 minutes of fiddling before he managed to get the bike to a spluttering start. We set off again, relieved, but it broke down again about a hundred metres down the road. An autorickshaw driver then stopped and attempted to come to our rescue. But all we achieved was proof that you cannot fit a moped in the back of an autorickshaw, and if you try you will likely smash one of the front indicators. The two of them fiddled away some more and the bike eventually started up again. We slowly limped back to Puri with about three more break downs on the way, giving up about 500 metres from the rental shop and just pushing it from there. Frustratingly, when I got back to the shop and told the rental guy what had happened he jumped on the moped and it kick started first time, and it looked like there was nothing wrong. This made me feel temporarily furious. I was so annoyed that I insisted he ride it down the road to test it further and to my satisfaction it did duly break down after he got about 200 metres and my story was proved true. He agreed that it should go to the workshop before it was rented to anyone else, and I left it at that. I didn't have a go at him because these things just happen sometimes and he could of made a fuss that we had smashed his indicator light which he didn't. Also I had rather enjoyed the whole thing in a way because Kalu and the autorickshaw driver had helped me out so graciously and wanted nothing in return for their labours other than to try to work out my name and which country I came from. The incident reminded me that people can be kind and helpful when the chips are down and won't necessarily leave you in the lurch.

Anyway, moving on, I've relocated to Bhubaneswar now and am waiting to catch the train from here south to Hyderabad. My train leaves tomorrow morning (7 June) at 8.30am and the journey down is approximately 23 hours. There's not much of interest to see and do here for the non-Hindu and the place is really only notable for its rather hard to pronounce name. There are some interesting Hindu temples but only Hindus are allowed to visit them so they've passed me by completely. I have been to the Khandagiri and Udayagiri Jain caves just outside the town though (I wasn't impressed) and this morning to the State Museum which has some nice Orissan painting on display. Whilst in the entrance lobby I noticed that the museum was opened by, then Prime Minister, Indira Gandhi on 30 October 1984. Something seemed funny about that date, and I decided I would check it out later. I have, and it is a funny date, because Indira Gandhi was murdered by her Sikh bodyguards the following day on 31 October 1984 in retaliation for her ill-judged 'Operation Blue Star' (she sent tanks into the Golden Temple to flush out Sikh militants and in doing so defiled one of the most sacred places of worship in India and outraged the Sikh community). So her last day was in Bhubaneswar, Orissa, cutting the ribbon at the door of the State Museum.

Bhubaneswar is in the national news today. This morning the five year old child marathon runner Buddhia Singh was due to begin a 500 kilometre run to Kolkata from here, but the Indian Child Welfare Committee (CWC) has ordered the run be stopped and he and his supporters have been restrained. There's been talk of human rights and whether or not a child should be permitted to do such a thing in the summer heat. The CWC feel it will be potential harmful to his well being, and I am inclined to agree with them. Buddhia Singh has previously been on the international news, including in the UK, for his apparently remarkable and unexplainable ability to run massive distances.

relaxing in puri

The train from Kolkata to Puri was very hot and rather uncomfortable. It was a night train due to leave at 10.35pm and my second class sleeper ticket entitled me to a place on a lower bunk. The train left Howrah Station, one of Kolkata's delightful colonial buildings, around 11pm arriving in Puri nine and a half hours later at 8.30am the following morning. It was too hot to sleep through the night but all in all the journey could have been worse. As the sun rose I noticed the landscape outside had changed. As we had reached into Orissa the corn fields of North India had given way to healthy green rice fields and a higher occurrence of palm trees.

When we reached Puri I got a cycle rickshaw straight to the Gandhara Hotel which sits just back from the beach itself. I knew I was going there because I'd researched it on the Internet in Kolkata having decided it time to take a break from all the cheap hotels and cockroaches in favour of a few nights somewhere 'mid-range' as my Lonely Planet would put it. It's a lovely hotel, five floors high, with pretty gardens and a roof top restaurant. Because it's out of season I've turned out to be the only guest, and the efficient staff are waiting on me almost hand and foot. My room on the third floor has views out from three sides, there's cable television and even hot water in the bathroom (not that I need it in this heat). It's a sanitised world away from most of the recent hotels I've stayed in.

The beach at Puri is quite pretty, more so than I'd expected, and looks out over the Bay of Bengal. As I stood on the beach this morning I remembered that the last time I saw this water was from the other side over in Thailand last July. I needed to keep my eyes on the sea because, it being early morning, the beach was strewn with locals defecating on the sand (one side of India I still find hard to cope with). The part of town I'm staying in is sleepy and quiet at the moment and bereft of foreign tourists. There's just me. There's little traffic and little hassle, just the calm sea breeze. There aren't any sights to see either and so I don't need to feel any guilt over spending a few days relaxing and doing next to nothing. The only thing to do here is chill out.

I spent most of yesterday just pottering about: checking my emails, sorting my laundry, enjoying the local seafood, and I plan to have a similar type of day today. I feel good being here and that my batteries are being re-charged ready for an assault on South India.

communications

About a month ago I found myself in the Delhi branch of TGI Friday's. It was early evening and I was sitting at the busy bar drinking a Kingfisher Light beer. I was there because it was the first place I could find with air conditioning, comfortable seating, and alcohol, and I needed respite from the heat.

'You must really love cricket,' said the man sat next to me.

'Sorry?' I replied.

'You must really love cricket,' he repeated, 'I've been watching you. The way you've been looking so hard at the television screen. So... so concentrated.' He pointed at the television behind the bar which was showing one of the latter matches of the cricket world cup. I hadn't noticed it until that point. I'd actually been looking blankly at the drinks cabinet just to the left. My mind had been empty.

'Errr... yes,' I said back waiting to be rumbled, but thankfully he moved on to 'which country?' before my true lack of knowledge was revealed. We got chatting. Rather stocky, and wearing a suit and discreet glasses, his name was Swarup and he came from Kolkata. He said he was a deputy manager in a multi-national company selling mainly beer and cigarettes, and in Delhi for business. I'd only planned on staying for one beer before retiring to my hotel, but I liked him a lot and he seemed very genuine so I ended up staying out late and we both became a little drunk. When the bill came he absolutely insisted on paying, and asked me if I was going to venture towards Kolkata on my trip? If so, he said, it would be his pleasure if I would stay with him and his family. I said that I would be in Kolkata in about a month and that I would love to. I took his email address and said good night.

I was delighted and really looked forward to the idea of this. I liked him and thought meeting up again might help me on my mission to get to know India better. I emailed him the next day to say thank you for his company, and that I would email him again as I approached Kolkata. He replied briefly but affirmatively. A few weeks went by and I emailed him again from Khajuraho, letting him know that I would be in the city in about a week and half and asking, if it was convenient, would he like to meet up again? This time I got no response. I waited a few days - perhaps he was busy? - and still no response. Then I checked my message had been sent. It had. And still no response. I then arrived in Kolkata. No response. Needless to say we didn't end up meeting up and I didn't meet his family. Swarup appears to have bottled out on the idea.

This incident about typifies the extent to which I have been successful in forming relationships with 'real' Indian people over the last ten weeks, and the depth I have got to in my personal relationships. I feel like I have talked to nearly the entire billion person population, every one is so outwardly talkative and friendly, and yet I haven't got anywhere in knowing anyone with any real complexity. I've always been at arms length, and with people for only short periods: an afternoon, an evening, an hour.

Why is this? I've got a few ideas I'm bouncing around...

(1) Part of the trouble is that I move on so quickly. Consequently I'm always with new faces.

(2) Also, nine out of ten of the people who approach me are drawn to me purely because they are con-artists after my money. If you're visiting areas popular with tourists (which I am) con-artists and tourist touts swamp you and your time and this makes it difficult to get to your average Indian. It's a constant pain. Con-artists have to be detected (it gets easy after a while) and weeded out before they can lead you into trouble. They're usually young, overly cocky men, who until you walked along were leaning against a wall watching the street for, well, people like you. You have to use sentences like, 'hello, yes I'm from England actually. Please don't think I'm rude but if you have a shop or want to sell me something I'm not interested and I'm not coming.' This rarely gets rid of them completely and usually leads on to an additional, 'OK, well how about an astrologer then?' or 'I could buy you train tickets?' or 'could I buy you a cup of tea?' An additional, and this time more stern, 'no,' usually finishes it. Basically, my point is, most of the people I meet are people I don't want to meet, and they take up so much of my time they prevent me from meeting more of the people I do want to meet.

(3) On my part, there's also the issue of having to face those same eight bloody questions I get asked again and again (see blog entry 'same old questions' from 24 May) and it becomes inevitable sometimes that I just switch off and can't face it anymore even when nice and well meaning people approach me. I'm always polite but not always fully engaged.

(4) Finally, and, I suppose, quite reasonably, when I do get to meet 'real' Indians they often just want to have a ten minute or hour long chat and prefer to leave it at that. They don't want me snooping into their homes or families or lives etc just because I might find it somehow educational and I can't really blame them. Perhaps this is how Swarup felt ultimately?

Actually, perhaps I'm being a little hard on myself. Even if I haven't formed any lasting friendships I have had some nice extended chats with down to earth, kind, and thoughtful people. And perhaps that is the most I can really expect on a trip of this nature. You might be interested to learn that the most successful interactions I've had have all taken place on either the bus or the train. Never in the actual towns or cities that I've stayed in. This has surprised me and I've thought a lot about why this has been so? I'm still not really sure but I think it is partly because public transport is a zone where the con-artist isn't really present (and so you can't get swamped), there are just 'normal' everyday people going about their business. I also think it's partly because you are also thrown into close quarters with others for hours on end, and there is nothing else to do except eventually strike up a conversation and get to know each other. One or two of these encounters have led on to some light emailing after, mostly notably with Nitesh from Solan and Ida from Pune, both of whom I met in Shimla, but in most cases the contact has started and finished on the bus or train.

I'm going to keep trying, but I must admit that this is one aspect of this journey that hasn't worked out quite as I'd hoped it would, at least so far anyway, and I'm beginning to reassess my idea of myself as some kind of amateur social anthropologist as rather stupidly naive and ill-thought out. Still I'm always learning.