Holy Shit

I don’t know if it’s because I walk around in a bubble of blissful unawareness or I’m just plain stupid, but holy shit, I honestly didn’t see what happened today coming. Its now 2am and I’m packing my bags. In just under 2 hours I’ll be doing a moonlit flit. I really don’t want to leave Mysore. But frankly, I don’t think I have any other choice.

Let me explain…

Since meeting Sammy 5 days ago, I’ve been catapulted into a jet stream of activity. I’ve seen every sight this vibrant city has to offer, including a Sandelwood factory where I discovered how essential oils and inscence sticks are made; a “Bidi” cigarette factory – where I got to hand-roll a few smokes of my own; and countless palaces, temples, museums and lakes. Mysore has made a huge impression on me. And thanks to the rickshaw driver that Sammy fixed me up with, I’ve managed to make a pretty big impact on Mysore…as it turned out Master Blaster was so-called for very good reason. With a ridiculously oversized sound system wired into his rickshaw, he’d blare the Spice Girls’ “Wannabe” at full pelt, while delighting in all the distress this caused the locals. It was his clarion call and I have to say, I did come to enjoy the layer of absurdity this bubble gum pop song added to our adventures.

I had really struck gold with Master Blaster and Sammy. These two crazy blokes not only brought a sense of fun and mischief to all my exploits, they also gave me a fantastic entree into Mysore’s throbbing social scene and before long I found myself ensconced in a great circle of new friends. Among them was a guy called Sayed. He was swarthy and subdued, but also really smart. We had loads in common – not least a passion for yoga, so we started going to classes together twice a day. They were sheer torture and we quickly bonded over a mutual dislike for Jai, our masochistic Ashtanga instructor. We spent loads of time together – taking long rides out into the countryside on his bike to watch the sunset; or wiling our afternoons away sprawled out on hammocks, chatting conspiratorially as we sipped coconut juice out of the husk. I liked Sayed…but what I didn’t realise was he really liked me…a lot…and this would soon become a bit of a problem.

I’d established a great routine for myself. Mind, body and soul were being equally spoilt rotten, thanks to all the sightseeing, socialising and sun salutations I was doing. I felt happy and relaxed for the first time since arriving in India. In fact, I was planning to extend my stay in Mysore and enrol on an intensive programme to improve my yoga. I’d even found a great house share near the school and was looking forward to moving into a proper home where I could cook and chill-out amongst a small community of like-minded students. But it was around this point that I began to notice a curious shift in Sayed’s behaviour.

It was a subtle change at first and it only became apparent when we were around other people, when a dark veil of sullenness would descend on him and he’d become unusually aloof. It was almost as if he resented anyone else interacting with me. I found it a little intense but assumed that if I didn’t pay it much attention his mood would just evaporate. But it didn’t. In fact, as the days rolled by Sayed underwent a full-blown personality transplant. The meek, mellow man whose company I’d initially wallowed in had morphed into a passive aggressive control freak and it was all getting just a little bit claustrophobic for my liking.

So today, I decided I needed some time out. Waking just before sunrise, I headed 13km out of Mysore to nose around Chamundi, one of India’s most sacred Hindu temples. Situated on a steep hill, some 3,500 feet above sea level, this magnificent 16^th century shrine presides serenely over the city and offers some seriously stunning views. So rather than drive up in a rickshaw, I opted to climb the 2000 near vertical steps to the top instead…a decision I came to regret when about halfway up I found myself coated in a thick film of sweat and on the verge of a cardiac arrest. Nevertheless, the panoramic vista really was to die for, as too was the self-congratulatory cigarette I smoked when I finally reached the summit.

I don’t know if it was the high altitude, the breath-taking scenery or some kind of spontaneous outbreak of religiosity, but within minutes of arriving, I managed to transform myself into a total temple tourist twat. Shrouded in a wreath of saffron flowers, with a blotch of red dye planted on the centre of my forehead and wrists covered in symbolic woven bracelets, it was like a Hindu bomb had been detonated and I was ground zero. And the amount of money I shelled out for all this holy shit was astonishing. Still, it made me feel tons better and I returned to the city with a renewed spring in my step.

Had I known that a few hours later I was to find myself in one major shit sandwich situation, I might very well have remained at that temple on the hill permanently. Instead, like a grief- seeking missile on a trajectory bound for trouble, I headed off to meet Sammy and the gang for dinner.   

We were dining at Sammy’s favourite bolthole, a multi-cuisine rooftop restaurant just a short walk away from my hotel. I’d been there a few times, it was always really buzzy and I liked the food - they served the best dosas I’d ever tasted. I was really looking forward to basking in the company of my colourful friends after a day of self-imposed exile and I felt a warm rush of excitement when I arrived to find that a large group of them were already there. I spotted a spare seat next to Sayed, so I took up my position and joined in with the banter. They were in jovial spirits and I was tickled to see that Sammy had really pushed the boat out with his wardrobe - teaming a shiny, white satin shirt with a pair of purple harem pants, which he’d offset with a yellow bandana across his head. He looked like the illegitimate love child of Omar Sharif and Captain Pugwash, and his mood was equally as flamboyant. He held fort for most of the night, keeping us entertained with highly improbable stories of excess and iniquity as a guest at some Maharaja or another’s palace in Bombay.

Unfortunately, Sayed’s mood wasn’t quite as ebullient. While the rest of the table was chatting and snacking hungrily, Sayed refused to eat and barely uttered a word. In fact, he just sat there staring at me. I found the whole thing very disconcerting. Even when I asked if anything was wrong, I didn’t get much more than a grunt out of him. So I decided to enlist Sammy’s help and excused myself from the table so the two men could talk. When I returned, I sensed something very strange had gone down – now everyone at the table was staring at me and talking gingerly among themselves in Hindi. I had no idea what was going on. And that’s when the weird-o-meter cranked up yet another notch…suddenly and completely out of the blue Sayed sprang to life and started firing a volley of truly peculiar questions at me. “What’s my favourite pizza topping?” “What music do I like to dance to?” “Do I like poetry?” I was completely baffled!

And then the penny dropped…Sayed was trying to hit on me…albeit in a rather clumsy way. Worse still, I realised that everyone else at the table knew and had been egging him on. I was mortified. I spent the rest of the night trying to remain serene and unfazed by Sayed’s romantic overtures, but then Sammy stepped in and made things super-uncomfortable, not just for me, but for everyone at the table. On Sayed’s behalf, he declared love and then proceeded to discuss wedding plans for us both. I’m not sure who was more embarrassed, me or Sayed, but I knew I had to get out of there…get out of Mysore…

So now I’m getting ready to skulk out of town. Call me a coward, but I just don’t have the heart to tell Sayed I don’t fancy him. I know I’m going to miss my new friends, but I’ve learned one important lesson from all of this – sometimes it’s easier just going it alone.

Mum's the Word

When I first passed my driving test, my Mother told me to “always keep up with the car in front”. A week later, I wrote my car off by ploughing it straight through a car showroom window. Mum tends to be pretty lousy when it comes to life advice, but yesterday, in a dark and lonely moment, I threw caution to the wind and called her.  For once, she made total sense.

She said, “Darling, if you don’t change direction, you may end up where you’re heading”.

I’d travelled to India to find a small town called happy. But so far, no matter where I went, I kept ending up in a cul-de-sac of discontent. So I decided to do as Mum said and change track. It was time to turn the frown upside down.

Mysore is famed for its magnificent palaces, its sacred temples and for being the home of Ashtanga Yoga. It’s a place where “mind, body and soul can come to their senses” and it seemed like the perfect spot for me to knock all three of mine back in line. I decided to fuel my brain first. I was hungry for a bit of Indian history and culture, so I headed for the imposing 3-storied, marbled domed edifice that sat on the opposite side of the road to my hotel. Mysore Palace.

Given the proximity, I assumed getting there would be a synch. But yet again I’d forgotten…nothing in India is ever straightforward.  It turned out that the Palace – the third largest in the country – spanned no less than 8 blocks and you needed a PHD in Orienteering just to find the way in. Mercifully, a man called Sammy saved my day.

I was wrestling with an origami of map, trying to solve the “where the hell is the entrance” conundrum when Sammy bounced over and chivalrously offered to show me the way. I quickly discovered that like Nihal, my go-to guy from Mumbai, Sammy was an orifice of local knowledge and in the 10 minutes that we were together, he gave me the entire potted history of Mysore, along with a long list of sights for me to see. Sammy was an ebullient bundle of energy who talked without pause. But his warmth and generosity floored me.

As too did his sense of personal style. On the one hand he characterised all that was typically Indian – he sported a Bindu  (the dot of dye you see many Hindus wearing between their eyebrows) along with the obligatory bushy moustache, and he did that funny head wiggle thing that most people over here do; but he also wore a Nike baseball cap – back-to-front, low slung jeans and slogan t-shirt that read “I Do All My Own Stunts”. He was a kooky confusion of East and West. But I thought he was magic. In fact, I was really quite sad when we arrived at the gates and I had to say goodbye to him. His parting shot was to fix me up with Mustafa, Mysore’s “most legendary tour guide”.

Mustafa had been showing visitors around the Palace for eons and knew the place like the back of his hand. The only drawback was that, saving 2 upper incisors, he was totally toothless. So while I was completely bewitched by the grandeur of the Palace’s 19^th century architecture and its treasure trove of art, jewellery and costumes, I might have enjoyed it a little more had I been able to make sense of Mustafa’s running commentary…and spared the jet spray of saliva that accompanied it. Still, what he lacked in verbal dexterity, he certainly made up for in the way he manoeuvred his eyebrows. They operated almost independently of him and every twitch, flick and spasm conveyed a world of meaning. They alone built a bridge of understanding between us. In fact, these two animated tufts of unruly hair had me absolutely transfixed!

And I had to hand it to him - Mustafa was fastidiously thorough in his work. He wouldn’t rest until I had investigated every inch of the Palace and its surrounding 36 acres. He held me captive for the entire afternoon. But I relished every second. By the time I limped out of the gates, I was completely frazzled and desperate to zonk out in the air-conditioned splendour of my hotel room.

Sammy, however, had other ideas.

I can’t imagine how long he must have waited for me, but as I exited the Palace gates, there he was. He’d apparently spent the day phone bashing every contact in his address book and was now itching to reveal the various plans he’d made for me. I was gobsmacked. The man had gone into overdrive – he’d scored me a week’s worth of free Ashtanga yoga classes, secured private visits to both a silk and sandalwood factory, booked me a complimentary Ayurvedic consultation and now wanted to usher me over to meet a rickshaw driver who went by the name of “Master Blaster”.

So much for my quiet night in. My time in Mysore was about to get seriously mental. But it felt like it was a step in the right direction.

What Goes Up Must Come Down

I’d been pestered in Bombay and pissed on in Pondicherry. So I needed my next move to be a good one. I’d read about this botanical paradise that was discretely tucked away in a small corner of the Nilgiris mountains, some 2,240 metres above sea level. It was said to feature some of the most jaw-dropping scenery imaginable, earning it the accolade of “Queen of Hill Stations”. It was called Oooty and it sounded Ootylicious!

  

I’d bravely decided to throw myself at the mercy of India’s idiosyncratic public transport system. So getting there was going to a major mission. I would be crossing country from East to West, covering around 500 km of ground and this 15-hour sortie involved a complex choreography of connecting timetables that left little room for error. I would be catching 2 different buses, and then grabbing a “toy train” (which sounded irresistible), that offered breath-taking views of the mountainous climb towards my destination.

Kumar, my trusty taxi driver dispatched me at Pondicherry bus station and wisely took further measures to ensure I boarded the right bus. I was travelling through the night to Coimbatore – a 10-hour trip, which with help of an eye mask, earplugs and a few tabs of Tamazipam, I managed to comfortably wile away in a sensory deprived coma.

Unfortunately, my blissed out state also rendered me completely ignorant to the huge kerfuffle that had unfolded during the journey. Yet again, the monsoon had been up to no good and unbeknownst to me had blighted our course with a series of detours and delays. It was only when I awoke as the bus was pulling into Coimbatore that I discovered we were running 5 hours behind schedule. And this spelt huge trouble for me.

I had not only missed my next bus, but every other available mode of public transport travelling anywhere near to my next destination that day. I was stuck in Bumblefuck in the pouring rain. I was on a sleeping pill comedown. And I had the world’s heaviest rucksack strapped to my back. Needless to say, I totally lost it.

And then I grabbed a cab.

Call me a moron magnet, but given that I had an entire rank of taxi drivers to choose from, I’m not sure how I managed to end up with the one idiot who couldn’t direct his way out of a paper bag. But somehow, I did. Cue 8 excruciating hours of watching Dhikshit (honest, that really was my driver’s name) gormlessly attempt to handle steep, narrow ghat roads, with nothing more than a small statue of Shiva dangling from his rear view mirror to guide him.

It was clear from his zigzag method of steering that he was woefully out of his depth and I wasn’t sure whether it would be a fall from the sheer cliff edge to the left of us, or a full-frontal collision with the traffic hurtling towards us on our right that would spell our untimely end. Either way I was convinced we’d never make it to Ooty alive. It was at this point that I began to hurl a volley of abuse at Dhikshit, but he remained remarkably unperturbed and continued to drive like a dick wizard.

As day turned to night, the heavens predictably opened up, unleashing not only a torrent of rain but an impenetrable cloud of thick fog too. The extraordinary views I’d read so much about were rendered indistinguishable. All I could see were amorphous, wet, fuzzy shadows. And the higher we climbed the colder it became. This definitely wasn’t the right climate for cropped leggings, a t-shirt and flip-flops.

This was a torture tour from hell.

It was around 1am when we finally passed a road sign welcoming us to Ooty. By now relations between Dhikshit and I had become about as frosty as the weather, so to lighten the mood I offered him a cigarette and we breathed a collective smoky sigh of relief. The end was now in sight. All we had to do was find “The Lotus Hotel” and then we could go our separate ways.

Bearing in mind that Ooty was a one-horse town comprising just 2 main streets, I assumed this wouldn’t take us long. However, I’d completely overlooked a tiny, yet significant detail. Dhikshit was a dunderhead…

We spent the best part of an hour driving around in circles before I managed to persuade the hotel manager to leave his post on reception and wave us in from the side of the road. But what I found when we finally arrived was enough to make me want to jump right back in the car and have Dhikshit take me back to where we started. The Lotus Hotel was a squalid, smelly scuzzhole. Even Dhikshit looked palpably alarmed. But I was too cold and tired to give a shit, so I checked in anyway.

Despite going to bed wearing every single item of clothing I possessed, the arctic temperature of my room combined with a constant sound of random clanking and the odious smell of wee kept me from my sleep that night. I arose the next day firmly decided - I was getting the hell out of Ooty.

I had marked Mysore as the next destination on my hit list for 2 key reasons: Google had indicated that it was significantly warmer there and mercifully, it was just a 2-hour cab ride away. However, if my journey up the mountain was painful, it was nowhere near as horrendous as the one I was about to suffer on the way back down.

In spite of my fatigue, I was filled with trepidation for my onward voyage, as the route was to take me right through Bandipur – one of India’s largest and most celebrated wildlife reserves. Home to around 70 tigers, 3000 Asian elephants, as well as leopards, dholes and bears (oh my) – I was promised a rare treat. Unfortunately, I managed to saddle myself with a cab driver so unpleasant; he made Dhikshit seem like a dream.

From the get-go I sensed that my presence in this man’s car was hugely offensive as he drove with the kind of determination that indicated he wanted me out of his car in the fastest time possible. With scant regard for my safety he approached his mission as if he were a player in some kind of twisted Super Mario Brothers video game, scoring points for every car he overtook and a special bonus for completing this feat while honking his horn as he negotiated one of the 36 hairpin bends that punctuated our descent. Needless to say all I saw as we careered through Bandipur at an average of 120 km per hour was an ambiguous blur of what might have been a monkey’s arse.

Not even the major pile-up we witnessed en route would slow my demented lunatic driver down. And calling him a twat only served to provoke him further. Nevertheless, we managed to shave a good 40 minutes off the journey, pulling into Mysore in a record 1 hour and 20 minutes. Our mutual pleasure of parting company was the only positive thing we shared from the whole buttock clenching experience. And as I limped away, I prayed to every Hindu God going that Mysore would be worth the atrocious 48 hours I’d just endured.

Welcome to Auroville

Ok, so I was stuck in some kind of Bohemian bad dream, in weather that made Hurricane Katrina seem like a light shower. I was confined to a room with a fan that made a horrible thrumming sound every time it rotated and thanks to this unthinkable eco-toilet contraption in my bathroom, I had spent the past 48 hours being forced to endure the stench of my own excreta. Yes my friends, I really was knee-deep in shit. But I was not going to let this defeat me.

Convinced there was more to this place than the pseudo-spiritual bullshit I’d encountered so far, I made plans to escape. I want to discover the real Auroville and meet a cooler group of people than the woolly sock and sandal set that I was currently being held captive with.

I headed over to reception to see if I could get someone to shed a little light on the situation but all I got were a few hostile grunts about the monsoon buggering everything up. No shit, Sherlock.

I was about to give up and succumb to another day of staring at the four walls of my insect-ridden room, when I spotted a small poster on a nearby noticeboard advertising the services of a local guide called Ganesh. Perfect. I called the number listed and got through to a very chirpy sounding fellow. He spoke perfect English, which was a first and I was delighted when he agreed to come and pick me up later that day. Halle-frickin-lujah!

We’d arranged to meet at 1pm outside the front gate of my hotel. So at 1pm sharp I waded over and took up my position. The rain was lashing down, but I didn’t care. A few minutes later, I spotted a man trudging up the path. I promptly launched myself at him, repeatedly shrieking “Ganesh?” but neither his confused reaction nor his complete inability to comprehend me would convince me he was anyone other my man. He was carrying a hose, which I thought was a bit odd. It was only when he stomped off indignantly, muttering something in Hindi under his breath that the penny dropped. He was the hotel gardener and I’d scared seven shades of shit out of him.

Undeterred, I returned to my waiting post and proceeded to scream “Ganesh?” at pretty much everything that moved, including a toothless old woman, a small child and two stray dogs. Half an hour later, feeling hoarse and wetter than an otter’s pocket, I was about to throw in the towel, when I heard the roar of an approaching motorbike. Ganesh had finally arrived. Togged up to the teeth in Gortex, looking like some kind of hermetically sealed swashbuckler, he beckoned me on to the back of his bike.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I sort of expected my guide to turn up in something with a few more wheels…and a roof. I’ve never been on a bike before, nor have I ever had the inclination to give the experience a go. But I hopped on anyway. And so, clinging to Ganesh’s waist like a fossilised limpet, my white-knuckle tour of Auroville began.

We travelled the length and breadth of the city for nearly 2 hours, passing through thriving villages with affected names like “Tranquility”, “Serenity” and “Acceptance”, taking in the mixed landscape which stretched through forest and woods, across rivers and lakes, right the way down to the beach overlooking the Bay of Bengal. Unfortunately, a combination of g-force, the forbidding wall of rain, along with the thwacking sound my wet hair made every time it hit my face, rendered Ganesh pretty inaudible, so I had no idea what he was trying to tell me about these places. Still, I found the whole thing exhilarating.

The key site on Ganesh’s itinerary was a whacking great golden sphere, which looked as though it was literally rising out of the earth. It was called “Matramandir” and it was located in a suburb called “Peace”. Covered in 2 million discs of 24-carat gold leaf it was one of the most jaw-dropping structures I had ever seen. It was the vision of Auroville’s founder, a woman they referred to as the “Mother” and I was told it represents the soul of the city, where Aurovillans could come and “find their consciousness”. It was magnificent and I wanted to go in. But the blasted monsoon had put paid to that too. It was closed.

I was a sopping, filthy mess. Clumps of matted, wet hair had congealed into a kind of soggy wet helmet, which delivered a rather endearing frame for my mud-spattered face. And I was particularly delighted that my sodden form was now a huge source of amusement for Ganesh. But taking pity on me, he suggested we stop at the Visitor’s Centre so that I could freshen up and relax over a cup of hot chai. The impact of my grand entrance into the crowded café was instant – I literally turned heads as I squished my way through the place. A few weeks ago this would have paralysed me with embarrassment, but amazingly, I was perfectly comfortable with all the strange looks I was getting. In fact I didn’t give a tinker’s cuss!  

I was really starting to warm to Ganesh too. He was smart, funny and seemed a lot older and wiser than his 26 years. He was really striking – and pretty tall for an Indian, with a perfect set of flawless white teeth. He cut quite a dash. I found out that he had been born and raised here and over the years had seen countless, Western enlightenment chasers come and go. He kept his opinion of them fairly neutral and said he liked his life here. But I could tell he was starting to find it all a bit claustrophobic. He wanted to experience the world beyond and was hungry for the details of my life in the UK. We spent hours chatting and drinking chai - Ganesh was wonderful company.

We set off for my guesthouse as the sun was setting. The rain had stopped, so we rode at a leisurely pace, taking in the colourful landscape. Auroville really was a beautiful place. I wanted to pay Ganesh for his time, but he was having none of it. We were friends now, he told me.

And Thanks to my new friend, I had had the best day in India so far. I still found Auroville a bit peculiar, but I was beginning to quite like it here. Nevertheless, the monsoon was driving me crazy. I decided it was time to move on. With plans to escape the rain, I went to bed. Tomorrow I would head for the hills. 

Don't Worry, Be Hippy

Desperate to indulge in something a bit more soulful after the brashness of Bombay, I decided to seek out a place called Auroville, an eco-community-cum-social experiment, situated 160km south of Chennai. Way more ambitious than some happy-clappy ashram, this was a universal city in the making, a place where people from all over the world could come and live, “in peace and progressive harmony”. And it sounded right up my strasse.

I was in no mood to faff around with trains and buses. So I opted for indulgence and booked a flight to Chennai and arranged to have a private car scoop me up at the other end so that I could be dispatched to my destination in style. Not exactly slumming it, but I could feel my inner diva stirring and I needed to do something to placate her.

I was on the road again. And I was full of anticipation.

I found Kumar my driver waiting for me as I entered the airport arrivals hall. In fact, he was pretty hard to miss. Armed with a ginormous sign emblazoned with “ Miss Kelly” in large bubble letters, he’d clearly given the task of identifying himself to me much thought and I have to say I was really quite dazzled by his efforts. Kumar literally had me at “hello”. With equal aplomb he maneuvered me into the air-conditioned splendor of his Fiat Padmini and within moments we were on our way.  Seconds after that, I was fast asleep.

My peaceful slumber was rudely interrupted some two hours later by a deafening rumble of thunder as a jagged bolt of lightening transformed my bleary eyes into dilated saucers of shock. Raindrops the size of golf balls were hurling down with such force, I thought Kumar’s already somewhat precarious Padmini might split in half. An insouciant “this is monsoon season, Miss Kelly” was Kumar’s only mollification as he continued to career through the deluge at full tilt. Brilliant.

I’d chosen to stay in a gorgeous looking guesthouse comprised of a series of wooden cabins spread out across a verdant landscape. It was located in a district of Auroville called “Certitude”. But the only thing I was certain of when I finally arrived to find my shack submerged in water and the local mosquito population taking shelter in my room, was that my decision to come here had been one giant mistake.

The mozzies had a feeding frenzy that night and I felt like a piece of human sushi. I barely slept a wink. When I arose the next day I was itchier than a whore’s va-j-j and covered in angry red welts. My prayers for better weather, had remained unanswered too – it was still bucketing down and it didn’t seem like it would be stopping any time soon.

I was hungry for food and some human company. Intrigued by what I would find on both counts, I decided to brave the rain and set off in search of the dining hall. This proved to be an epic expedition that not even Sherpa Tenzing would have taken lightly and along the way I encountered a snake the size of a house, several rat like critters (which I later discovered were mongoose) and a couple of crabs (although we were inland, miles away from the coast). By the time I finally located the dining hall, I was a jangle of nerves and sweatier than a fat bird in a sauna. I’d lost my appetite – and frankly, my will to live – but I headed inside, hoping to find some comfort and companionship from my fellow guests.

What I found however was a bunch of tree-hugging eco-wankers, swaddled in robes or some other wafty, hemp-based ensemble. I was in hippy hell. Auroville had been hi-jacked by the white, middle class new age brigade and thanks to the monsoon, I had no way of escaping these hippy, hippy fakes.

Shanti Shanti

Bombay is a bitch. Every day, she finds new ways to wind me up, piss me off or utterly let me down. Take yesterday for example – I wanted to escape the oppressive heat of the city, so I headed to Juhu, to what the Lonely Planet confidently describes as the “best beach in Bombay”. I figured a day of sunbathing and taking in the fresh sea air would be just the tonic. Unfortunately, the rest of the city had exactly the same idea and I arrived to a scene reminiscent of the D-Day landings.

Nevertheless, I rallied forth and eked out a small postage stamp of unoccupied sand. Within moments I’d managed to make myself a sitting target for every hawker in the vicinity. Normally, I relish the opportunity to haggle and bag myself a nice little bargain, but the traders on this patch came armed with an array of such meaningless tat, I was simply lost for words. I mean, who in their right mind would actually buy a ludicrously oversized balloon or a lurid coloured plastic flute, which when played sounds like a saxophone? But no amount of demurring would stop these opportunists from disturbing me. In the end, I decided to go for a stroll and throw them off that way. Bad move. I became the Pied Piper of Juhu with a stream of these bastards trailing in my wake.

It was clearly time for me to leave. So I began to scramble up the beach, not really looking at where I was going. In my haste I plunged straight into a stream of fetid water. Searching for the source, I discovered a pipe running down the length of the beach from street to sea. It was a sewer. I was standing in a honking pool of Bombay poo. I was mortified.

Soggy, smelly and stressed I flagged down a rickshaw and demanded he return me to my hotel on the double.  But what should have been a simple 10-minute ride turned into the journey from hell. Not only did the driver not have the foggiest idea of how to get around his own flipping city, he couldn’t speak a word of English. It took 2 hours before a semblance of understanding was reached, and even then, we needed to recruit several passers by into giving us directions. By the time I squelched through the lobby of the hotel I was hot-faced and harassed. And I reeked to high heaven. If this was some kind of cosmic joke, then I needed someone to come up with a better punch line.

Even so, I awoke today with renewed resolve. I was desperate to find something in the city that could endow me with a few fond memories. So I decided to indulge in some good old-fashioned tourism. I headed to Colaba, where there’s a surfeit of sights to feast on and I made my way to The Gate of India. This majestic monument overlooking the Arabian Sea commemorates the inaugural visit of King George V in 1911 and according to the Lonely Planet it was well worth a visit. But yet again, my trusty backpackers’ Bible and I did not seem to be singing from the same hymn sheet. I didn’t really understand what was so interesting about this whacking great big arch but I followed the crowd and circumnavigated it anyway. About 60 seconds later, I’d pretty much squeezed all there was to get from this landmark and hot-footed it off to escape the hoards and the sweltering heat. I was pissed off. This had been yet another pointless waste of my time and energy.  

I stomped through streets in search of an appropriate establishment to recover and rehydrate in. But most places were shut. It was the day before Diwali and many of the locals had taken the day off to stock up on the essential arsenal of fireworks expected for this “Festival of Light”.  Only the desperate few remained open for trade – and they were so filthy, you could guarantee that most of the drinks on offer came with a complementary dose of cholera.

I had been walking around in circles for what felt like an eternity and was dangerously close losing it. The expression on my face resembled something akin to a slapped arse. And that’s when I met Raol.

Beaming from ear to ear, he greeted me like we were old friends and when he found out I was from London he proceeded to completely confuse me by asking how Helen, David and Simon were. I curtly responded by saying that London was a big place and as I was in no mood for pleasantries, I attempted to sidestep him, but he was having none of it. He’d already determined to talk to me and no amount of body swerving or blanking was going to deter him. Astute enough to see that I was in distress he offered to buy me chai. Too tired and parched to resist, I shrugged off all caution and blindly followed him into a local Indian canteen.

It was a gamble worth taking as this “Romeo from Rajasthan” as I now like to refer to him, not only provided tea and sympathy, he also imparted the secret to a time honoured tradition for handling the madness of India. It goes by the name of “Shanti Shanti” and it loosely means, “just go with the flow”.

So I’ve decided to pack up my troubles and fly my flow the hell out of Bombay. I’m heading South, to a place called Pondicherry, first thing tomorrow, where I hear the weather is as sunny as the people. And I intend to shanti shanti my ass off, every step of the way.