The Koh San Road epiphany

When thinking about my ideal woman I'd always thought being able to drink a lot and being good at pool were pretty good attributes. Imagine my excitement then when I found a bar full of Thai prostitutes drinking gin by the bottle and playing pool in such short skirts, it was a pleasure to lose to them.

Imagine then, as I rounded the corner to say to Carrie "hey, meet my new friends!" finding her sitting surrounded by yet more working girls, gossiping away like old friends. They even shared the text messages they were getting from sad punters. It was good to see Ye Oldest Profession keeping uptodate. They must have been eProstitutes. I Love You Long Time is now the less catchy I Love You for One hour a month, plus 10 free text messages (presumably available only on Ohhhhh2).

Culture Shock
On previous visits to Bangkok I had not made it to the Koh San Rd, the Bangkok mecca for backpackers. I was not ready for it. It was a tidal wave of sunburnt bingo wings, crap tattoos and fake dreadlock extensions. What on earth was happening? I walked further. Bar after bar of beer bellies, mouths full of burgers and worst of all, soft rock. Soft rock?! In 3 months in India we had hardly seen any white people, and those we did were pretending to be monks. This was horrific.

We did the only think we could: we took refuge in Gullivers Bar and got smashed. And with the help of our new gin soaked whore friends, it was as easy as they were.


Transformation
We left Gullivers holding onto each other. I waved goodbye to our new friends, turned to the Koh San Road once more and my jaw dropped. I was like an African who has never seen snow before. Koh San Road was now a magical playground of bars and people and other cool stuff I couldn't really focus on. As I ran down the street like I'd just won the FA cup, each bingo wing seemed to say to me "Hey John, you're back!". The ketchup stains on fat men's T-shirts said "Where you been!!? We missed you!". Each beer belly wobbled "This beer costs fuck all. Fill your boots son!".

These were my people. Fat burger chomping fuckwits. I was back! I missed you guys, I shouted as I ran.

It just goes to prove that old saying: there's nothing like spending 4 hours with a few prostitutes to make you feel differently about things.

Carrie meanwhile fell asleep while having a foot massage.

We were back!

Leaving India is like leaving an orgy.

It leaves you thrilled, exhausted and in need of a good wash. I feel a wistful summary coming on….

Things I loved about India
It’s a cliché, but India is where the past and the present live side-by-side. I agree.

In India, wisdom gained from the past endures. The 70’s porn playing card moustache survives. In fact it’s thriving. Jane Fonda aerobics videos are still shown on TV, in all their leotard, braces and big hair glory. These are traditions sadly dieing out in the West.

But it is also where you can enjoy the fruits of modernity. Big bottles of Kingfisher are 50p each in some states. Bacardi Breezers are 70p. And they’ve got Lychee flavour, which I hadn’t seen before.

Thank heavens for Progress.



Things I loathed
Westerners dressed like Indians. You ain’t Ghandi, get it off. You are a student from Surrey. The Indians are laughing at you. I am laughing at you.

Westerners not dressed like Indians. Just because you went to Hampi and I didn’t, doesn’t mean you can start acting all like superior. Look, I'm not showing any interest in what you are saying and yet you are still talking. You went to the Himalayas did you? So did I. But you went higher? Right. Please stop talking. I cannot bare it.

And while I'm at it, can everybody please stop taking photos of fruit stalls and people cooking?



So yes, leaving India is just like leaving an orgy. The memories, photos and the infections will stay with us for a long long time....



Some day, all banks will have a coffin shaped entrance.

Taj Mahal Trains-vestites

They say nothing prepares you for the Taj Mahal. Well, they got that wrong as I read all about it in the guidebook. Four towers and a Super Mario hat roof. Simple.

It was being harassed by men in saris that I was not prepared for.

Hassle from blokes
I'd travelled on the Udaipur-Agra night train in the lowest class available. Zoo class - caged enclosures with all the realistic sounds and smells. I spent the night lying with my nose inches from the ceiling, drinking green Rajasthan Tequila, listening to country music and dreaming of life as a hobo. Meanwhile, Carrie and Becky (hello Becky), lauded it up in their AC compartment.

I was bleary eyed as we pulled into Agra at 6AM. When a member of a group of large hairy men tapped me on the shoulder and gesticulated I should add to his wad of cash, I was surprised. Surprised at the fact he was wearing a sari.

My surprise quickly turned to elation. This was like seeing a rare animal on safari; something I hadn't dared dream would come true. These were Hijras; eunuchs traditionally considered bad luck by Indians (how exactly can having your genitals chopped off be seen as anything but bad luck I don't know. Except of course if you are Max Mowsley, then perhaps castration would have been a good thing all round).

Hijras use their bad luck image to extort money from everyday Indians; pay me or I'll stay. And I'll stay singing, dancing and caterwauling like only a man in a sari can. So I sat back, folded my arms and waited to be harassed. This was going to be good. Sadly, he/she saw me for a whitey who wouldn't understand and moved on. Gutted, I trudged off to the Taj Mahal.

Then came the Americans
On the way back, compensation for not being harassed by men in saris came in the form of a train full of Americans. The aisles were choked by 15 college students, 30 large bags and innumerable classics like "That was intense. Thank you for being amazing" (help with bags) and "I'm totally sitting here" (the seat she reserved).

I knew this was about to provide great entertainment, as Indians don't board trains until they're moving. It's an unwritten law I have not been able to penetrate, but they stand around showing no interest in the train, until it departs. Then they all run alongside and fight each other to get on. This late surge would hit the procrastinating Americans. I sat back to watch. What happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object? We were about to find out.

An hour worth of tangle later I had the answer. A strange phenomenon became evident. I noticed the emerging Indians all had branded US style T-shirts and jeans, while the Americans had red dots on their foreheads, henna hands and two were even carrying sitars.

So that's the riddle solved. What happens when the irresistible farce meets the objectionable objects? Everyone comes out looking a bit sad.

Except of course for the English. We all sat there looking smug. Indian platforms tell you exactly where to stand, so you can board in good time with minimal fuss and to sit looking holier than thou at all other passengers. Smug and loving it.

Oh, and the Taj Mahal was all right too.

The Camel and my two humps.

Thor Desert, Jaisalmer, India

The Desert
An English explorer in the 1930s crossed the uninhabitable Rub Al Khali desert in Saudi Arabia. He concluded nothing prepared you for one thing: loneliness. Well let me tell you, nothing prepared me for the testicle crushing agony of camel riding. 30 minutes on board and I thought I'd lost them. Our camel train had set off from the desert's edge at 6AM and would not return until dusk the next day. It was going to be a long long 36 hours for me and my nads.

I thought I would be ok with a long time in the saddle, being right up there with Kylie in terms of pertness. Sadly, this doesn't seem to be the best quality for long distance camel travel.

If I was unprepared for nad-crushing, I was equally unprepared for my first desert toilet stop. This small detail was not mentioned in any preamble. The complexities were not drawn to my attention at any stage and basic training not provided. When Captain Oats left saying "I may be some time", this was a brave, noble gesture. When I said it, I referred to what a complicated manoeuvre this was going to be. Where do you go for a start off? Which dune is the right one? How far away is far away? Then there is hole digging, positioning, the roasting desert heat, sweating, possible nether sun burning, sand blowing everywhere. And the ignominy of everyone in my party knowing exactly where I was and what I was doing, having watched me trudging off silhouetted against the horizon, bog roll flapping by my side.

The highlight of the trip was sleeping in the desert that evening. What can beat sleeping on the dunes, under the stars, listening to the camel herders repeatedly changing their mobile ring tones late into the night?

I did enjoy the camel's company and by day two, we had bonded. OK, they urinate down their own legs - we've all been there. So they shit while they eat, I'd love that. More room for dessert. Camels are dirty, smelly, graceless animals but they do posses a certain charm. I began to understand what Kate Moss saw in Pete Doherty.

Massage
I arranged an Ayurvedic massage the day after our return, to soothe what I rightly thought would be aching limbs. Ayurveda being an Indian massage and healing system, peddled everywhere tourists go and Jaisalmer is no exception.

Sadly, it was not the relaxing antidote to camel rides I had hoped for. Carrie and I were separated by a curtain, but I quickly felt very alone with my masseur. Firstly, I was butt naked. My man - a large rough handed gentlemen - then started with full length body strokes. A few testicle brushes, but nothing I couldn't handle. One willy slap that sent the old man spinning like an airplane propeller, but an accident I was sure.

Onto the front, please sir. I began to drift off. This was better. Down my right leg his hands went. Up my right leg his hands went. Hello! That went a bit far up the old bum crack! Oh well. Down my right leg. Up my right leg. Again! That is a bit famili - again!

What is going on? His hand is going right up where it shouldn't be. I had to do something, shut up shop. But how? How do you clench your bum cheeks, slowly, so as not to cause offence? This is something more than going to a friend's house you don't want to, just for an hour, so as not to cause offence. I mean, what if I trapped his hand? Get the timing wrong and suddenly we're in a very strange place. Me and a fat Indian man, in a dark room, down a small alley, inside the walls of Jaisalmer fort.

That explorer was right. I began to feel very lonely. Nothing had prepared me for this.

First time in Jodpurs

Jodphur, Rajasthan.
Rajasthan is full of forts because until the British came, everybody couldn't stop arguing with each other. The best fort we have seen is in Jodphur. I liked it for three reasons:


Sati
At the gates there are hand prints made by royal wives, princesses and concubines before they threw themselves on their husband's funeral pyres. This last happened in 1843 in Jodphur, but still goes on in India illegally today.

This is obviously terrible. I mean, if your wife throws herself on the funeral pyre, who cleans up the mess? No wonder there are still hand prints on the walls.

Not so much 'out of the frying pan into the fire' as 'put down the frying pan, into the fire'. Fortunately, it's not a concept I can see British women signing up to as they get married. "I pronounce you man and kindling" - just isn't going to work. "I'd like to propose some toast, I mean a toast". It just isn't going to catch on.

The curse
When the fort was built, a hermit had to be removed. He cursed the fort, saying it would always be short of water. Personally, as it's in the middle of the desert, I would have been relaxed about this, but management decided that for building to proceed, a human sacrifice was needed and a builder was buried alive in the foundations.

This makes today's planning regulations look relatively straightforward. All new developments are to include some affordable homes, low energy light bulbs oh and don't forget to bury one of the builders. I can see that advert in the Situations Vacant now. Sacrifice: No prior experience necessary. Ability to lie still for long periods preferred. Generous benefits, including free accommodation.

Opium
They give soldiers opium before fighting. They use it to celebrate births, deaths and marriages. They used it to celebrate ending feuds. Basically any excuse.

As this old man - complete with a gap in his beard for his opium pipe - told me this, I began to see how those involved in sati and sacrifice burying were persuaded (and have been introducing it to Carrie's chapatis ever since).

CSI Chennai

India v South Africa, Chepauk Cricket Stadium, Chennai.
The start of the match was brilliant. The noise was deafening: the crowd armed with a natural ability to shout, whistles and trumpets that sound like a duck if you kick it. Their stamina for making unintelligible noise is impressive - no wonder they took to call centres so well.

In the capacity crowd, there were no South African's at all. A reason to go again.

We were having a great time. Sehwag scored a record 319, Dravid passed 10,000 career runs and they were selling spicy stuff under the stand. Then: shit, where's my wallet? I had been pick pocketed.

I remember when it happened. A well organised trap at the gates, involving a spotter, 2 blockers and a pick pocket at least. Armed with this information, but more interested in an Insurance number, we left for the police station at lunch, eager to see how Indian crime solving would interpret my information and keep crime off Chennai's streets.

At the station
They sat me down, gave me a pen & paper and...dictated me a letter! I was to write to the District Superintendent and ask him to help look at my case. Awesome. It's not like we expected the sarge to thump the table, shout 'not on my manor!' and run down the road with his gun out, but write a letter? Brilliant. No need for a quick get away here then. Have you planned the get away? Yeah, I thought we'd watch a bit of the match, then go for a nice lunch somewhere...they've got some nice stuff in Top Shop I thought we could look at...

When I had finished copying the letter, the sarge drew himself up, looked me in the eye and I thought, ok here we go. The letter was just a starter.

"In your country", he asked, now leaning forward "how much is 1kg of cooking oil?" Where the fuck is this going? I dunno. 100 Rupees. He nodded sagely.

"In your country, do you eat tomato's?"
Yes.

"In your country, how much is 1kg of tomatoes?" You'll be wanting to know what Nectar points you get next,will you? 200 Rupees.

"Right" replied the Sergeant. Stamp stamp stamp with his rubber stamp on the letter and that was it, case closed. We were free to go!

It was like being in CSI Miami. Amazing. Sherlock Holmes eat your heart out. Mrs Marple, stand down. You're not needed for this one.

India, a country of contrasts.

That’s what our chocolate guide books says: a country of contrasts. Page one, second paragraph. Rich - poor, urban chic - desert shack. That kind of stuff. There are however several key contrasts it declines to mention. One: what the guidebook actually says and the Arctic sub zero reality I am suffering.

We are still in Ooty. We are still cold and damp. I went out wearing 2 T-shirts, a jumper, coat (hood up) and a Pashmina as a scarf (don’t worry I pulled it off) and was still cold. In our room – which has a lot of coal shed in its ancestry – we've been filling mineral water bottles with water from the shower and taking them to bed with us. For survival. Ray Mears wouldn’t stand for this.

Complaining about the weather to Reception does nothing. An unseasonable blip, they assure us, Global Warming. Well, Global Warming needs a new frickin’ name as far as I am concerned. Global Bollock Freezing would do it (I'd like to see Al Gore make a film about that). I have been reduced to drying matches with a hairdryer in order to get the little fuckers to spark, so I can light a candle to try and get warming of my own.

It’s like being in the Blitz, it really is (although there everyone seemed happy and sang songs).

The Locals
The natives - in contrast - have taken everything in their stride. Gone are the men's knee length shirts, saris and sarongs. All replaced – don’t ask me from where – with knocked off Adidas and Nike gear. It's fabulous. It's like a TK Max wet dream. Overnight, the streets have turned into rivers of Polyester. And everything is gloriously the wrong size. It’s like a Primark exploded over the town.

Even the oldies are in on it, in their jumpers and cardies. Boom! There goes a Marks & Spencers.

Then it was sunny.
After 4 days of being sexually harassed by Jack Frost, we awoke to an extraordinary English summer’s day (as opposed to an ordinary one: tube strikes, traffic jams, work). With gay abandon (or as will become evident, brain abandon) we set off on a trek round a tea plantation.

The trek comprised a guide, us and 4 girls. Now I know what you’re thinking: 4 single girls and one stud? A lot of quality DVDs start like that (form an orderly queue ladies. In fact don’t. Dive in and grab what you can!). Sadly, from us to the horizon were rolling hills of tea bushes and someone asked what kind of tea it was. Black tea our guide informed us. ”Black Tea?” I said incredulously. “Who the fuck drinks black tea?” Only as I found myself saying “They want to grow white tea, that’s what everyone drinks" did I decide to spend some time examining my shoes.

Sadly, to make matters worse, as an Australian might put it: I had slipped and slopped, but I had not slapped and it was now blazing sunshine. I happily spent the day making perspicacious comments to atone for my tea question, then unhappily spent the next day bedridden, asking Carrie to go to the internet and look up the the symptoms of heat stroke.

This exposed one final contrast the guidebook neglected to mention: that between what a normal head looks like and my flaming orb. I was redder than Ronaldo at a motel check-out.

Every Cloud Has A Silver Lining

They say every cloud has a silver lining. Well, I was in this one for 5 hours and I didn't see it.

A 100 year old steam train clings to the mountainside 2500m above sea level, affording dramatic panoramic views? Sounds good. A track laid by the British for exactly this time of year to escape the searing heat of the plains? Sounds better. Think I'll have a bit of that. Breath taking, the guide book concluded.

Piss taking more like. We ascended in a rain cloud and we stayed in that cloud for 5 long hours. And all we could see from the carriage/cell for the entire journey was the inside of that rain cloud. I may as well have spent the time in my hotel room with a white sheet over my head, for all I saw.

Cloud Tourism Plus Points
It was supposed to be the exact time of year to do this journey. Nowhere in the guide book's opening pages could I find a caveat stating the book was written in a London office, by some chancers who had never so much as troubled Indian immigration. I began to conclude it was about as much use as a chocolate teapot - I say began to conclude as if one fancied some chocolate, such a teapot would doubtless be very useful.

However, being cocooned in a small space surrounded by white in every direction dulls the senses and does allow the mind to wander. Sadly, mine kept wandering to the American woman sat nearby who kept asking me questions.

The constant rain also meant the entire journey was accompanied by hundreds of spontaneous waterfalls down the mountainside. Close enough to put your hand in from the carriage window. Swollen rivers of orange mud swept down under us, bloated by the amount of hillside they took with them. Death would soon be upon us, I concluded. Great. We'd reserved a hotel and everything.

The engine pushed us from the back of the train and at the front a little man sat outside with some flags. What was his response? Wave the red flag? Stop the train? He just put up his umbrella. Awesome. This is what I love about India. We chugged straight on through regardless. The situation was so ridiculous, it became fantastic.

Fantastic right up until reaching a plateau, we stopped to refresh the engine. Stretching my legs I happened upon a plaque. It commemorated those who had lost their lives in the avalanche of mud and train caused by - you guessed it - torrential rain. Great news.

The plaque was perched on the ledge of an ominously sheer cliff. Given the weather, I couldn't see anything of how far it dropped. Every cloud, as they say.

Show me the growler

Kumily, Kerala.
We wanted to be in unchartered territory. Getting up at 6AM certainly provided that.

Kumily is home to the 780 sq km Periyar Tiger reserve. Entering the jungle before dawn, we gave ourselves every chance to glimpse a tiger. Sadly, our guide was rather less enthused. He may as well've said: "See that path? Follow it for an hour and a half, then come back", for the value he added. Worse, we merged with the other group setting off at the same time. This isn't the David Attenborough meets Ben Fogle meets Tarzan experience I had set my alarm for.

And so it continued. We stopped to watch some wild boar. Big deal. Vagrant pigs. We stopped for some bison. Apart from a joke about sinks, what have they ever done? I took a photo without looking and walked right passed, in silent protest. This proved a master stroke. I stopped down the track at a clearing with the other guide. The next thing I knew, he started shouting: "Tiger! Tiger!"

Well, I couldn't see it. I got crazy eyes looking all over the damn place. "Look in the pond! Look in the pond!". I was panicking: what fucking pond?!

The reason I couldn't see Terry (the tiger) was because he was so close. I was actually looking over him.

Fame won't change me.
To put this sighting in context, as we returned another trekker responded to our triumph by declaring: well, I saw a pig. The woman at the Tourist Centre told us no-one she knew of had seen a tiger in 4 years. Amazingly, we became a little bit famous around town. 'T-list' celebrities, you might say (sorry). Rickshaw drivers knew us, shop owners knew us, hoteliers even asked us to write about it in their guest books, as a selling point.

This left us with no option. For the rest of our stay, we really really lorded it up. Really badly. We talked loudly in restaurants. We bought tiger postcards and just had to drop in why. We cleared spaces to allow for actions in the retelling. If there had been a disco in town, we'd have been in there dancing to Tiger Feet - that's neat, that's neat, that's neat, that's neat I really love your tiger feet, all right! - waving boxes of Frosties in our hands.

I think the right thing to do now is to go in Rehab and then release my own perfume range.

India's nether regions

Kanniyakumari, Tamil Nadu.

is the very southern most tip of India: if India had genitals, I'd be standing on them! And keeping with being at the arse end of India: it's full of crap. Like Blackpool but without the class.

This is where the waters of the Arabian Sea, Bay of Bengal and Indian Ocean meet. Unfortunately, all they have done is thrown up wave upon wave of plastic tat. Where exactly do they think I am going to put a 6 foot long macrame conche shell bedcover? (the more they pestered me, the more the answer to this question became obvious).

We were harangued by a lot of tat peddlers. The conjoining of the three seas makes this a major sight of Hindu pilgrimage. They come here to pray. Most of the people we encountered came to prey...on tourists. On a rock just off the coast there is a memorial to Sri Vivekananda, a swami who swam there and spent three day's quiet contemplation. I can see why he went now.

I came wanting to have a spiritual moment. I left only having managed a moment with several spirits (vodka, rum, Jack Daniels). Call it a draw.



Pepsi. Exactly who I would call in an emergency.

Philospher. Film Maker. Tosser

Kovalam, Kerala.

Today we met Tampan: a local poet, philosopher, documentary maker and purveyor of fine tourist bungalows at half price to you just don't tell anyone else. We talked for an hour or two over cinnamon chai about Keralan poets (which we had never heard of), English poets (which we had never heard of), until finally settling on a subject myself and the missus are more familiar with: ourselves.

Carrie - should she accept - is to appear in Tampan's next documentary, as a ethnic Syrian Jewish girl, born in Cochin as one of the last of the fading Jewish community. This will be a Malayalam language production. It's an obvious casting. I it seems do not have the look for this particular blockbuster and was offered a background role. Second goat to the left, or similar.

Apparently, like all his Indian peers Tampan does not like western women. They show too much flesh. He prefers women completely covered up and to spend his time lusting over their bare ankles; the only flesh on show. 'Less is more' I suggested, referring to his sharing his opinions.

Then he declared his love for us. This is not in itself unusual for me and the missus, but it usually takes people longer than half an hour of knowing us to admit to it. He said he would meet us at our bus the next morning for a tearful farewell.

He never came. Carrie's dream of stardom within the small Keralan Malayalam speaking community as an Indo-Syrain Jew was shattered.

Two pancakes later and she was back to her normal self.

Carrie's Fenney

Give a man a fish and he can feed himself for a day. Give a man the means to fish, and he can feed himself and his family for a lifetime. Give him a basket on his head full of sarongs and sun-glasses, and he can harass you for hours.

Fruit, fags, weed, drums, coconut carvings, jewellery, sunglasses, sandals, sarongs. One decent Claire's Accessories would get rid of the lot of them. Load of old tat. I thought my name was postcard, so many people shouted it at me.

One thing we did buy was a bottle of Fenney, the local fermented coconut moonshine. It's great, for two reasons.

1) There's quite a ring to it when Carrie says, "do you fancy a bit of fenney tonight?"

2) It gets you wasted. It says 42.8% on the bottle, but I think that's the number of people who go blind after drinking it.

It left us stumbling down the street, arms tight round each other, trying to protect ourselves from these shapes we couldn't bring into focus (shopkeepers, cars, tourists).

Finally: Keralan Baywatch....or is that Gaywatch?

Madgoan - a town, not an Indian police cover up - to Kerala

The journey was an epic. Overnight for 18 hours and 550 miles to the sweaty hub town of Thiruvananthapuram (order a ticket there I dare you). Travel across town. Take a bus to the small coastal village of Kovalam. Walk to the far side of the village and follow a path through the palm tree grove-swamp into the darkness. Keep walking in direction the path was heading before it ended for 10 minutes more. Arrive at lodgings. 10PM.

10 minutes later we're in a local eatery, overlooking a large pond and under the stars, listening to the waves on the beach, 50 metres away. Coconut curry and Kingfisher beer on the menu. This is the life I thought.

Then it hit me.

Didgeridoo music. Didgeri-fucking-doo music.

The goddamn hippies had got here before us. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and repeated the mantra: I hate hippies/I hate hippies/Goddamn hippies. The waiter waited to take my order.

But this was no ordinary Indo-hippy fusion mix tape, available behind the bar cheap price, oh no. Then came....the pan pipes. I mean pan pipes? Fuck off. What was I supposed to do now? Throw the tomato and green chilly sauce bottles up the wall and leave? I was half way through a Kingfisher (big bottle) by now and everything.

I had to think fast. The answer would be here somewhere. I was desperate. I scanned the menu. Then I got it. The answer had been staring at me all along. Quickly, I ordered so much coconut based curry and booze that there was enough for it to actually come out of my ears. 10 minutes of gorging later and I was in a coconut based vegetative state. Safe.

We were to stay here for 5 days. It was going to be tough, keeping that much curry overload maintained, but I knew I could make it. I had to.

A right Goa, she's a Goa, Time to Goa

Colva, Goa, March 2008.

We're in Goa and I have to say it's really really impressive. Mile upon mile of sandy beaches, fringed by palm trees, with my pink curry-bloated carcass lying right in the middle.

Yesterday was our first day on the beach, which with sad inevitability I celebrated by getting burnt. When she found out, Carrie's expression started alternating brilliantly: you poor thing/you fucking idiot/you poor think/you fucking idiot. It was a matter of skill to stop her on the right one, like a fruit machine.

Colva seems to be mainly Indian day trippers. This is good for two reasons. Firstly, Indian tourists are hilarious. Groups of men from Andrah Pradesh who on sight of the sea, strip down to their Y-fronts and jump in whooping like they've never seen it before, then spend the afternoon chasing each other around on the beach, in the same wet Y-fronts. Stopping occasionally to molest slapper here.

Secondly, the sight of Sari wearing Indian women flying though the air, as they paraglide off the beach is superb. Two foot of brightly coloured Sari flapping behind, flying low across the beach, diminutive Indian superheros saving the day, for my entertainment.

The age of the train? Or the train that took an age.

Mumbai - Madgoan, March 2008.

India by train. The only way to see the real India. The best way to meet real Indian people. Well, I think I saw all 1 billion of them during our 18 hour train epic today. Any day that starts at 5.45AM is already in the bad books. Any that then ends at 1AM the next day - and has only consisted of 'train' - is taking the piss.

That said, it was actually quite pleasant, mainly due to the hours being punctuated by chicken biryani, samosas, chicken biryani again and bombay mix. All served just the way I like it - by attentive young boys.

This journey has also neatly encapusulated this trip so far: sleeping and curry. Or 'slurry', if you will.

Indian bureaucracy update:

Number of signatures required to use safely deposit box at hotel? Four.

Just how I like my train windows - shit splattered!

They're here.

Mumbai, March 2008.

Observation 1: Arriving in India is like being hit by a tidal wave of colours, smells and sounds. Everything is one hazy blur and none of it makes sense. At least, that's what it feels like with a bitch of a hangover and 6 hours' jet lag. I could barely tie my own shoelaces. Now I am sober, India is all right really. Loads of Indians. Dunno what all the fuss is about.
Observation 2: Indian girls are well fit.
Observation 3: I already hate all westerners. Wandering around with their cameras and their day packs, taking pictures of cliched authentic scenes*.

*I don't really hate them. The ones in bikinis I quite like. I'm just practising hating them for when my transformation into pretentious backpacker is complete.

Odds on when the first bout of Delhi belly (or Mumbai shitty-squits?) occurs:

• Train to Goa (12 hours) 8/11
• Goa 4/7
• Kerala 6/5
• Cochin 2/1
• Mysore 5/1
• Madras 8/1
• Never 100/1

These odds are compiled on the basis that my stomach is already cramping. Eachway bets (diarrhea and vomiting) are available. Tip: the 'Goa' train is favourite but something about the name Mysore that makes it a good outsider.


Carrie's question of the day: apart from waking up all night, how did you sleep?