Polysyllabic unpronouncablity

The south of the country prefers long words. Far from the urban centres of Mumbai, Delhi and Jaipur, the further you head south, the higher the possibility you can not pronounce the name of the town you are visiting. Mamallapuram, Chidabaram, Thiruvanathapuram. Today I am in Thiruchirapalli. But I can't say that.

Next there are the languages of the south. Tamil dominates, and it is beyond my understanding how anyone could master this tongue as a second language. Vanakkan (Hello) seems easy enough, but 'When does the next bus arrive' demands 'Eppozhutu atutta perunta varum.' I cannot memorise this. Who can?

To make things more interesting for the traveller, few signs are in English and few people speak the language of the colonisers well enough for more than very basic communication. However, Southerners are a particularly friendly bunch, and to make youself understood, you need but master one thing: the Indian head wobble.

While Australians - and the British are to blame for this - are as animated as a lump of plasticene, Indians have somehow inherited distinctly Mediterranean characteristics. They cannot whisper. They prefer to shout. They point profusely, wildly gesticulating like lunatics. When speaking, you must do the side-to-side head wobble and intermittently utter the nasal 'aah'. Try it for yourself.

With your neighbour, in your best Indian persona, ask for directions to a hotel. See, easy. I bet you even said something along the lines of 'Can you please be telling me ..' And it works. I've mastered it.

Long ago I dispensed with such verbal caresses as 'Excuse me' or 'Please'. They are as pointless and unproductive in India as waiting in a queue. Just as you need to push your way to the Information and Ticket-cum-Full Time Refund Counter [sic] at the train station to be served before late next year, a bullish approach to linguistic intercourse is mandatory.

Study the two examples below (between myself and shopkeeper at bus stand), noting subtle differences.

Case 1

'Where is the Hotel Diamond?'

'Ah'

'Hotel Diamond?'

'Ah' [Produces packet of Marlboro Lights]

'No. Hotel Diamond.'

'Ah'

Case 2

'Where is the Hotel Diamond?' [Head wobbling and left-handed palm-flipping action]

'Ah' [Enthusiastic wobbling of head]

'Hotel Diamond?'[Exaggerated head wobble]

'Ah' [Emphatic head wobble, displaying packet of Marlboro Lights]

'No. Hotel Diamond' [Involuntary jerking of entire cranium]

'Ah' [Single head wobble combined with outstretched arm pointing to mass of seething traffic]

The system is eons old and highly effective. It opens doors.

On my (forever hopeful) way to the (possibly imaginary) Hotel Diamond, I was lucky enough to step ankle-deep into an open sewer-cum-repulsive-collection of muck. Why I was wearing socks with my sandals that day was beyond me, but I kicked off whatever sludge clung to my right foot, and checked the rising bile in my throat.

After a few more moments of congratulating myself on another successful communication barrier broken by a former language student, I slumped into my room at the Hotel Anand.

Unfortunately, I've still no idea where the Hotel Diamond is located.

Touched

Pondy, as the locals call it, it a two hour bus journey from Mamallapuram, and a former French colony. Unlike other locales across Asia claiming Gallic ancestry, Pondicherry certainly looks the part. It boasts a Hôtel de Ville, a few Jesuit-inspired cathedrals, and tree-lined avenues with architecture that transports you to 'le Midi'. As a native of Adelaide, a carefully planned city of right angles and parks, I felt an immediate connection to the colonial planners of Pondy who saw fit to design their city that I might navigate it sans map. I was able to find my way around easily enough, acquiring a room for the night proved a little more irksome.

The Surya Swastika Guesthouse and a few others in the neighbourhood were booked out. The marriage of a prominent person was scheduled that evening, and with the Indian practice of inviting every man, and cow to partake of the festivities, lodging was going to be scarce.
Recognising my plight, I smoked a couple of ciggies and realised that only one creature could help me. The rickshaw driver. Omnipresent on the subcontinent, the rickshaw-wallah is perceived by me as a necessary evil used as seldom as possible. They sum up the least tolerable aspects of travelling. I long ago resigned myself to their cheating, lying and fraudulent business practices. They are good for only two things. The first is that as a lone male traveller, they can supply you with any manner and quantity of illicit substances. Secondly, some speak passable English - all know the phrase, 'You want hashish?' - and to be fair, they are the only people around who know exactly where to find you a vacant hotel room. My driver whisked me off through the streets to the Park Guest House for a hefty sum. I threw in a generous tip for not offering me drugs.

The Hotel is part of the Sri Aurobindo ashram. No smoking, no drinking of alcohol. No eating of meat. The gates close at 10:30 pm. The room was vast, clean, and from the balcony I could see small waves crashing onto the shore lined with coconut palms. A quick shower and I went out for a look around. A promenade along the foreshore, I turned inland and marvelled at the number of bookshops. Temptation was too great.

I purchased four new books, and wondered how I was going to pack them into my luggage along with the thirteen currently in my possession. I obviously have issues with books, and can rarely bring myself to discard them. The usual practice is to swap tomes with other travellers. But there are no other travellers in the south of India, or at least, it's been some time since I crossed one. The only Westerner I've spoken with of late was a fellow Australian who boasted that he hadn't read a book in ten years. I think it was more likely ten years since his last trip to a dentist, but I kept my mouth shut.

Excited with my new purchases, I put the groaning backpack out of my mind and strolled into the building next door. Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception. Mass was about to commence. I took my place in the pew and hoped that I didn't stand out as a Protestant heretic.
Mass was off to a riveting start. Some taped music wafted through loudspeakers, fans hummed above my head. The church was a huge affair. Built in the medieval French style, the Indians have added a dash of colour. From the cupola hang enormous swathes of gold and white ribbon. A multi-coloured heraldic banner lined the nave and transept, and to the right of the altar sits a massive Byzantine icon of Virgin Mary with Jesus, in vivid poster paint.

A splash of gold. A lot of emerald green. A lot of chartreuse. Mountains of pink and blue tulle adorned statues of the saints. Perhaps not subtle, but considerably more inviting than the stark beige brick edifice I worshipped in as a child. Catholicism has a touch of frivolous glamour, at least to us puritans. I also like that fact that Mass includes vigorous exercise. As a youngster in church, I used to fall asleep either pondering the possibilities of Lego or novel ways to taunt my sisters, but here my time was more profitably used. Sitting, standing, sitting, kneeling, standing, sitting. No time for idle thoughts, and quite a good cardio-vascular workout. The service was conducted entirely in Tamil (except for the words 'empower me' uttered sporadically by the Father). I hummed along merrily to hymns, and hoped that, should the organist break in to 'When the Saints Go Marching In', I would outdo them all. It wasn't to be, but after Mass finished and the crowd filtered out the church, the priest came over for a chat.

'Are you Christian?'

'Yes, Father.'

'You had your hat on during Mass.'

Bugger.

'Sorry, I forgot. You see, it's always ...'

'Who is your patron saint?'

Thinking caps on ...

'Christopher. Patron saint of travellers.'

'Do you want to go to confession?'

The crunch. Confession is not something I've ever done. It didn't exist at the suburban Church of Christ I knew as a child, and my only understanding I have of it comes from observing tele-movies about the impoverished bog Irish.

'Yes.'

At least I knew how to start.

'Forgive me father for I have sinned.'

'Yes'

The floodgates opened. I don't by any measure consider myself a bad person, but what a relief to unload a whole bunch of stuff onto a complete stranger. Of course, I'm not going to detail them all here, but Father Peter took them all in his stride, and seemed to agree with me that rickshaw drivers, on the whole, are heretics doomed to the eternal fires of Hell.

Given enough time, it's amazing what you can dig up. I told him how badly I used to treat my sisters, charging them money to borrow my tape-recorder. I'm fairly sure I didn't share my Lego with them either. And I used to cheat at Monopoly when playing with my then six year old younger sister. I'm not sure he realized that these sins were twenty-five years in the past, but he seemed to think also that Lego was a marvellous invention.

We slid from confession to therapy. I recounted a few appalling things I did in my twenties, exorcised some long held thoughts about my own father (small 'f'), and rattled on about my inexplicable enmity toward junk food and indolence. I finished with a small tirade about my inability to express emotion - he disagreed and thought I had plenty of interesting emotions.
He doled out some homework and sent me back to the altar, where, for the first time in living memory, I kneeled down and prayed. Not sure I how got myself in this position (not the kneeling, that was easy enough), but it actually felt very good. I prayed for half an hour and in some way felt a lot lighter when I stood up.

I wandered back to the ashram and sat on the balcony. On the lawn below, a twenty-something neophyte of Sri Aurobindo dressed in flowing white cottons entertained me with an eclectic mix of jazz ballet, chanting, and violent aerobic movements. As a lapsed Protestant sitting in an ashram after attending Catholic mass, I smile beatifically.

India is a marvellous place. They might stare at you for wearing shorts, but you can believe in whatever you want. As long as you possess faith in something, you'll fit in quite nicely.

De profundis

India, combined with my abundant stupidity, can make for an interesting day.

After a couple of hours scrawling postcards and aerogrammes for family and friends, I headed out into the scorching heat of Mamallapuram in search of shade, sea breeze, a quiet spot to finish my novel. My path took me through seventh century carvings of the Pallava dynasty to a tranquil, deserted temple cut into a towering monolith of granite. Hanuman monkeys were my only companions, going about their business in the branches of enormous neem trees. Few people passed my way, and I was left to enjoy the final chapters of my book, now and then pausing to look up and exchange a few words with various characters - sellers of cucumbers, mangoes, beads and trinkets.

Novel finished, I walked slowly down the sloping rockface and headed towards the bus stand, stopping at a drink stall-cum-stationery shop to purchase new pens. Here I made the error of placing my notebook and digital camera on a pile of books to my right while browsing among journals and text pads. Transaction completed, and of course, camera no-where to be seen.
Disappointed? Yes. Four hundred irreplaceable shots from the previous 1200 kilometres of towns and cities: the beaches of Goa, the teeming crowds of Bangalore, markets in Chennai and the numerous temples, carvings and people of Mamallapuram. Gone.

I sighed. It was 40 degrees. Under my synthetic shirt a sweat-soaked singlet clung to my skin. Flying insects were at their most manic and dust clogged my mouth, nose, nostrils. Judging the looks of those around me, I believe I entered a type of trance - foaming at the mouth, incoherent babbling, eyes rolled back until only whites showed in the sockets. Possessed by neither demon nor deity, indeed, possessing only the maximum amount of idiocy ever doled out to an individual, I couldn't accept that I had allowed Robbery No. 2 on this journey to take place.

I have travelled enough to avoid this kind of thing. My ineptitude today was suddenly making the contestants of Big Brother appear as interesting, sentient beings.

I expelled the demons and tried to make it clear to the concerned onlookers I blamed no-one for the incident. This is a very small neighbourhood and many of the town's inhabitants know me either by sight or name, in particular those with businesses around the vicinity of the bus stand. My thrice daily glass of rose milk and cigarette purchases are with Krishna on the southern end of the square, I drink chai with Praveen and his avuncular mates next door, eat my daily fill from the inappropriately named Hotel Deluxe. Rickshaw drivers have established a love-hate relationship with me, and from between their parked vehicles I buy luscious diesel-infused mangoes from a toothless sari-clad crone each morning.

Until now, I was certain the only thing they knew about me was my age and my unmarried status. It wouldn't take long until they knew the story of the disappearing camera. I didn't want them to think me mid-thirties, unmarried ... and stupid. And I have no intention of reversing my hereto successful integration programme. I was relieved when the shop owner himself suggested I take my grievance to the police.

Law enforcement officers of the third world are reputed to be corrupt and ineffectual, brutally wielding their batons over the impoverished mass. I wasn't quite ready to face Indian bureaucracy at this hour and so sat under the rattling ceiling fans of the Hotel Deluxe and ate my biryani silently. A masochist at heart, I spent twenty minutes ruminating over the sad collection of chapters that constitute the book of my life. Eventually aroused from this unproductive self-indulgence by a goat, I paused to wonder if he would be on the tomorrow's menu, paid for lunch, and headed 500 metres north.

A large man with a respectfully sized paunch interrupted his text message to inquire. I briefly recounted a few facts; he wobbled his head from side to side in the Indian manner, and after a pregnant pause, instructed me to enter the building.

The station was dark and cavernous. It took a few moments to adjust my eyes. A blackboard attached to the wall of the entrance hall enumerated the yearly failures and successes of the Mamallapuram District Police Force. Murder on the wane since 1996, traffic infringements increasing. Armed robbery seems frightfully common in such a small, peaceful district. It was only as I scanned the 'Percentage of Stolen Goods Recovered' column that I came to the notice of a man laying on a wooden bench, his enormous bushy moustache meeting his thick black glass frames - think Mr Pickwick cross-dressing with Buddy Holly.

'Yes?'

'I need to report a stolen camera.'

'Why?'

I explained what I could without breaking into broken English. During the story he lay there, silent and immobile. Like a parent recounting a Grimm Brothers' tale, I wondered whether the layabout had actually gone to sleep. Still now I remain unsure, as it was another voice from behind the desk who commanded, 'Sit.'

Where? There were no other chairs around except that in the lock-up cell, presumably locked. I didn't fancy sharing the bench with Slumbering Walrus Man. I did, however, think about sitting on his head. Resigned to standing, I gave full attention to a man who seemed rather too occupied for my liking with carbon paper and small red rubber bands. I watched forlornly as trickles of sweat raced down Mr Perumal's temples, seeping into the dampness of his grimy shirt collar.
Grime was the theme of the station's inner sanctum. Walls were lined with rusty metal and shabbily-fabricated wooden shelves, brackets and joints straining under the weight of bulky, tattered ledgers. Spines and covers frayed and darkened by the handling of countless grubby hands. The concrete floor was home to burgeoning flotsam and jetsam left behind by ten thousand footsteps. Skirting boards black, and dirt working its way up, lighter now, until meeting the chipped and flaking whitewash of the walls. A collection of ham radios, amplifiers and tuners nestled beneath a bird's nest of wiring and slurry of dust.

'I need to report a stolen camera.'

'Come back 5:30. You see Inspector.'

And at 5:30,

'Come back 6:30. Inspector not here. Too much troubles today.'

At 6:45 the Inspector of Police was barking down his mobile. He was a tall imposing man with dyed hair, a toothbrush moustache and too many gold rings on sausage fingers. He didn't look like the south Indian type - his skin was too light and he seemed too arrogant. He tapped his enormous paunch while looking over his frameless spectacles and down his nose at me. I decided to hate him straight away; I thought it would save time.

He barked, 'Inside.'

He followed and directed me to his office, brightly over-lit by fluorescence that turned the space into a sea of pastel. In the luminosity his skin took on the hue of damp mushroom. His face was slightly marked from the pox and a line of sweat beads danced on his moustache which now looked pencilled on. He was the archetype Indian police officer, and I'd already encountered him in a hundred Bollywood movies while being shunted around the country on night buses.
'If you lose your camera, you should not leave it around.' His wisdom had me enthralled. I decided not to comment on his abuses of conditional phrases in the English language, and waited for him to continue. He didn't seem to be awaiting a response from me.

And I got Hamlet's Polonius.

On and on he went, a great rambling monologue. In a life absent of positive male role models, this was not one of the species I would be looking up to either. From the obvious 'You should not be leaving your items alone', to the more surreal 'If not coming from the thief, then where?', to the ridiculous 'I am thinking you not having the camera here', my mouth was agape.
He had received the story of my woes second-hand from a flunkey, but I hadn't been allowed to speak.

I wanted to yell,' Listen here you trumped-up, pig-eyed sack of shit. You might think yourself important among this band of illiterate ill-kempt subordinates who undoubtedly grovel at your feet each time you bellow some preposterously ludicrous turn of phrase, but personally, I couldn't give a flying turd.'

But managed to utter that I needed a report.

He shouted something in Tamil and a young, smartly dressed officer appeared.

'Go.' Our conversation had come to a close.

Out in the street, I discovered that Detective Rajuman spoke little English. With my complete lack of Tamil, we headed in silence to the scene of the crime. Towards the end of Raja St, I pointed out the shop where my camera had disappeared.

I felt bad. I didn't want the Detective to interrogate innocent people. I just wanted a report to make a valid insurance claim. He interviewed every one at the scene, even those absent at three thirty that afternoon. The shopkeeper, salesman, neighbouring shopkeeper and a suspicious, malodorous herd of goats were all questioned in turn. Voices rose and fell. I floundered. Not once was I asked to speak, and in true Indian fashion, a crowd formed, faces turning sporadically to impress upon me the disturbance I had created.

I had given my contact details to the shop owner as soon as I learnt of the camera's disappearance. This was now produced for examination. The crowd regrouped, more tightly this time, and I imagined amongst the throng a graphologist had metamorphosed and my poor handwriting was betraying me as a lying upstart. Nope. After roughing up the sales boy, the Detective had had enough. We returned to the station.

I sat in the Inspector's office waiting for more illuminating tripe to spew forth.

'The shopkeeper is telling me that you didn't have a camera.' [Quelle goddamn surprise]

'Yes I am having one.'

'You will petition me...' [wait for it] '... You are writing all facts, camera, name, details. You write that you leave shop. When you coming back, camera is gone.'

'Petition me.' Who do you think you are? The Mughal Emperor?

Truth. Justice. The Indian Way.

Sadly, this is not a joke. As the possibility of a valid insurance claim leapt to its untimely death, I adopted my role in the farce and fled to an Internet cafe, set upon writing the truth imbued with a massive fat lie. At least the Inspector could now downgrade the incident from one of 'stolen property' to 'valuables left unattended in a public place'. I wondered briefly if the shop owner was in cahoots with the pigs, but know now through our learned friends of 'The monk who sold his Ferrari' that I cannot allow myself even just one negative thought. It would take napalm to eradicate these ones ...

Presently I returned, and at some unforeseen moment passed from the natural, ordered world into the nebulous ether of illogical malevolence and mystical nonsense. I played the role avec brillo.

The Inspector was done with me. I shunted Sleeping Walrus from the bench. He awoke with a start, saw the wild look in the crazy foreigner's eye, and slunk away, deprived of his government-sanctioned sleep. In his place came another menial, toothless and in homespun cotton. He took my statement, and for fifteen minutes was a captive audience to my six lines of skillfully composed English, no doubt admiring gravity of tone and clarity of thought. At least someone appreciates my writing.

I looked about. All this paper. IT files, GC.K.CD files. Arms and Records Register, the Duty Register. The Village Roster and Government Property Register. Group Office and Visiting and Inspection Book. Gun License and Registration Books, Arms Deposit Ledger. Arms Distribution Ledger. The paperless office in the subcontinent is still some years away. As is a society without guns.

Then solemnly, 'Your good name?'

'What?'

'Your good name?'

My good name is twice written on the paper you hold now, the very one which I am about to snatch from your good hands and cram into your goddamn throat until you meet your next reincarnation, buddy.

'James Heywood.'

'Your country?'

And on it went. The following minutes were tinged with violent thoughts, primarily because I had long ago met Blind Rage and was now glancing flirtatiously at her cousin, Psychotic Behaviour. I lost myself in this hot, stinking, filthy place, let it engulf me. I immersed in the subcontinental concoction of the absurd, the illogical, the meaninglessness of it all.
Question and answer time over, Mr No Teeth & White Pants handed me form number 23 stamped by the Sub Inspector of Police, E1 Mamallapuram P.S. I have to return tomorrow to collect the official certificate.

As I walked back to the entrance I took a parting glance at the blackboard brimming with statistics. The percentage of 'Recovered Stolen Property' was low in any given year. And the chance of leaving this country with my sanity appeared slimmer yet.
I exited the building and passed Inspector and Detective Rajuman smoking in the dusty courtyard.

'Thanks for your help, guys' I uttered without a second thought.

I moved slowly back to my hotel room, shuffling in my ill-fitting sandals, hoping to regain my sanity.

Unfortunately, along with my camera, it appears to have absconded permanently.

Assertive action

The hotter is gets, the more inclined I am spend to spend greater amounts on transport. With the promise of air-conditioning, a reclining cushioned seat and ample legroom, I purchased a ticket with Messieurs Sri Balaji Travels and promised to return at eight o'clock the following morning to take seat number 11a on the Bangalore-Chennai express-deluxe coach.

I arrived at the appointed place just twenty minutes late, after a couple of cups of sweet milky tea. There is no point arriving on time for anything in this country. Except trains, which have the habit of departing on time but arriving late. After forty-five minutes more and a few more teas, I was fidgeting. Mr Balaji sensed my concern.

'Bus one hour late.'

'Umm, yep, I figured as much.'

'You want breakfast?'

After the hour had passed, I stood up, took my nose out of my new novel and went over for question time.

'When is bus coming?' [I possess the ludicrous habit of speaking in broken English to Indians].

'Soon.'

'What time?'

'You want breakfast?'

At some point a young urchin brushed past me and handed a crumpled ticket to Mr Balaji. The latter inspected it, returned it, and promptly asked to see my own. This he did not return. He told me to follow the grubby kid who would escort me to my bus.

'You told me to come here. Bus pick up from here, no?'

'You follow him now.'

'I don't have a ticket. You have it.'

'Possible. You follow him.'

Something was wrong. I didn't like this.

As we crossed the street and into the bowels of the bus station, I worked out what was going on. I took the ticket out of the urchin's hands, and asked him where my bus was.

'Ten o'clock.'

'This is my ticket? I had bus for eight o'clock. Where is bus?'

He pointed, as all Indians do in response to such a question, in a general direction away from both of us. Briefly, I imagined what would happened if I pummelled his head into the nearby concrete pylon until he was but a bleeding pulp. Then I imagined life inside an Indian prison. I'm sure the food's not that good.

Examining the ticket, I noticed that it was issued by the State Transit Authority, was for a different bus number and seat number. At least it appeared to be bound for Chennai.

The price marked on this ticket was one third what I had passed over to Mr Balaji. Too tired to argue with the kid, I sent him off with a disparaging look and peered around for the bus that would take me to my destination. When I evenutally discovered it, and its delapidated state, I immediately found the resolve to pay a quick return visit to Balaji and Co.

I wanted a cushioned luxury-express experience and I was getting rust and battered metal.
I stayed calm. Very Zen.

'What the ...?'

'Bus cancelled.'

'Why didn't you tell me that? I was sitting here for almost two hours.'

'Bus will leave at ten.'

'Ummm, look at price.'He glanced, though he was about to learn something new, and smiled, like this was acceptable and ordinary behaviour when dealing with people.

'No problem, bus at ten.' My patience expired.

I requested that he return the difference of the cost of the two tickets, since the vehicle I was to travel on did not resemble the one on the poster on the office wall, the one I had expected.
Mr Balaji gave me a big white smile. I gave him a dark withering scowl with a vague hint of menace.

Along came the 'others'. Indians involved in the tourism industry speak bad English until there's a discussion over cash. Suddenly they become fluent. They operate in groups.

Laughing at the pettiness of it all, and with a slight mania in my tone, I peppered my insults with good humour and told them that they would all burn in Hell if they didn't return my cash now. It was comic. I shouted 'You criminals, you bad people' a few times at the top of my voice from the front of the store, until they were throwing banknotes at me to move on.

Can you believe it? I made a profit. In India.

I cross the street, gave the excess cash to a beggar who must have thought I was the nicest young man in town, and hopped on the next bus to Madras.

Natalie Portman is crap.

There's money in Bangalore. A thriving metropolis in the south of the country, this place is home to India's IT industry and feels like a boomtown. With a population of about six million, all out on the street at any given time, the difference to other major cities is striking.

I stayed in the area near the bus stands, railway station, and city market - you're always bound to see a lot more in these parts of any town.

The Volga restaurant was across the road from my hotel, though I searched in vain on the menu and walls for a hint of Russia. No cabbage and no pictures of Catherine the Great. With the piped tunes of Enya swimming through the place, I settled on a briyani and for the first time in a while I got to eat with my fingers. Love that.

A pure delight. Coming from a culture that actively discourages eating with your hands and feet and instead invented three stupid implements that require you to put metal in your mouth, I admit to loving nothing more than feeding my face with my hands. Of course, it does take some getting used to; rice is the hardest of any foodstuff to get in your gob, whether you use knife and fork, spoon or chopsticks. Once you've tried eating with your hands, you get addicted, it's a liberating experience. Remember trying to balance potato and peas on the back of your fork? Stupid. Or maybe that was just me.

Anyway, being left-handed, I'm sensitive to guidebooks that warble on during opening chapters about local customs. Indians, like Bangladeshis and possibly Pakistanis, use the right hand for eating and the left for ablutions. Since I can accomplish very little with my right hand, I searched around, worried that I might be attracting attention of other diners who noticed my eating with my pooing hand. The only diner who caught my eye let out a belch so loud and spat a small chicken bone onto his plate: he obviously had other things to concern himself with than my failure to observe riutal.

I washed down dinner with a coffee, only my second since I left Australia almost three months ago. The buzz was fantastic. I was transported immediately back to my daily ritual to the cafe across from where I worked, chatting away with my mate as we grabbed a fat sugar-laden latte and dodged traffic to cross the madness of the Pacific Highway and up the lift to my workplace. I felt an iota of homesickness. But then I got over that.

I left Enya to carry on nonsensically in Gaelic and stepped out into the heat of the city. With my propensity to hanker on about the weather, I'll try to keep it short.

WHERE IS THE MONSOON?

Resisting the desire to strip completely and hope the Times of India would skillfully act as both reading material and underpants to my nether parts, I remained stoic and, after two months of this, I really should be a little more used to temperatures that are more at home with Miele kitchen appliances than with supple human flesh.

Bangalore had footpaths. One of them allowed me to walk fifty-three consecutive steps without once having to adjust my sandals, increase or decrease the width of my gait, or even look down to check that I was not going to step on animal, vegetable or mineral. Traffic lights are operational, and more surprisingly, there appears to be some sort of order to the traffic. Streets are lined with shady trees ... it all helped me to withstand the heat a bit more.

But of course, perhaps in the process of modernisation, other things had fallen by the wayside. MG Road, the middle class shopping strip, could be any bland mall in the world. Thousands of people busily consuming more useless crap to fill their wardrobes, closets and garages. Western brands are prominent here, though why buy the real thing when fake is available (in a larger number of colours) around the corner, and at a fraction of the cost?

I found a couple of very well stocked bookstores. Brilliant. After the trial of a second reading of 'The monk who sold his Ferrari' (yep, I'm still working on it), it was very exciting to lose myself among the shelves. Picked up a couple of travel novels and selection of books by a south Indian writer, R.K. Narayan. He wrote in the 1930s and a couple of Indians I've met have recommended his novels. Looking forward to a couple of days sitting in a hammock somewhere ...

Bu the highlight of the day was yet to arrive ...

Star Wars has just been released! I was very, very excited and couldn't believe my luck; the next session was commencing in twenty minutes. I purchased my ticket, a couple of spicy samosas and something claiming to be a cocktail fruit juice, and worked my way up five flights of stairs to the auditorium.

As a child, I was the first and only in my neighborhood to have Star Wars wallpaper, though my mother refused to allow it on all four walls of the room. Now I was going to be one of the first (but not only) in India to see Anakin head over to the Dark side.

George, you did another great job (Lucas, not Bush). Thank God Senator Palapatine turned out to be the Lord of the Siths. Quite frankly that ridiculous affected speech impediment was more than I could handle. Yoda provided me with a number of laughs; watching a two foot green critter battle using his light-sabre against Sen Palp/Lord Sith in the Imperial Senate was a huge giggle. Special effects, as always, astounding.

And at least we know why Anakin eventually moved to the Dark Side. Not sure if it was the script or simply the poorest, most unconvincing acting performance the world's witnessed in some time. I'd definitely choose a life of swanning about the Death Star, Imperial Storm Troopers and a double-ended light sabre over the rest of my time spent with that wet blanket of a woman.

Never, ever give Natalie Portman another acting role. She is rubbish.

Physical activity

After a gruelling train ride through the hazy heat of the plains, I returned to Mumbai with both the expectation of finding my new credit card and with the hope of gaining a ticket to catch up with Nick and Leah in Goa before they left the country.

I was exhausted. When the attendant at the Mumbai Central Station Ticket Reservation Centre delivered the sad news that the foreign tourist quota was full for the next four days, I gave up immediately on feeling sand between my toes. I returned to the Salvation Army Hostel and slept almost soundly while taxis drove by as though as the foot of my bed.

When I awoke I met Kurt, a Dutch traveller who shared valuable information about travelling to Pakistan and Iran. He laughed at my prospects of entering Iran; according to him Australians are not currently welcome. But he couldn't answer my next obvious question. Why? All he knew was that the Australian with whom he travelled through Yemen had been unable to obtain an Iranian visa.

Acknowledging an Australian is probably persona non grata in the eyes of various Muslim bureaucrats across the planet, I fail to see what Iran in particular would have against our government. I'm hoping that the refusal of the visa was just an isolated incident that is common in this part of the world where the same question to the same person twice within thirty seconds yields a different response.

Bureaucracy in the Third World can crush a man and leave him weeping. Sure, it's also irritating in the Western World, but without the mind-achingly number of ludicrously ill-printed forms that hinder your every move. Entering a hotel in India on a tourist visa is akin to writing a novella.

When you arrive at any hotel in the world, all you want is to be taken to your room. Here you must twice complete a recent autobiography. And the question that annoys me the most? 'What is your next destination?' Leading not to temptation and thus the response 'None of your goddamn business', I usually opt for a planet in the solar system. 'Mars' or 'Saturn' draw as scant attention as if I wrote 'Calcutta'. So I remain optimistic about the visa. I will simply take a pen, photos and some extra cash for bribes.

Anyway, Kurt had a map of Mumbai. North of the city was marked in large letters 'Go Karting'. Well, sure, I felt like a bit of go-karting. I've already complained of my inability to stay fit while travelling. And if go-karting can't offer the cardiovascular improvements of a run through Sydney's Eastern suburbs, it might provide the adrenalin rush I wanted.

We took a bus from the hostel to Churchgate station and then a train for an hour. Suburban train rides in Mumbai provide their own heart-racing palpitations, and when we arrived I wasn't sure that go-karting was going to be able to compete with the feeling that you have when you alight a suburban train wagon. Happy to be alive. And let's face it, if Mumbai's sixteen million residents can cope with travelling in an amount of space normally reserved for a small rodent, then so can I.

We took the obligatory auto-rickshaw ride to the Go-Karting stadium, a short tour through affluent suburbs of the worst taste. India now has money, but with it has come tasteless and crass materialism, the distinct impression that they're spending their cash only on what glitters. Colossal apartment buildings erupt from the foothills - some over forty stories in height and topped with the most ridiculous expressions of neo-classicism. Imagine the Governor Phillip Tower in Sydney with large pseudo-Corinthian columns and perhaps a Byzantine dome topping the structure. Maybe a stylised Acropolis atop the new World Tower in George St? Think Las Vegas casino architects recreating Elizabeth Bay high-density housing, and you have some idea of what is being constructed here.

The waiver we needed to sign before donning our helmet had some interesting clauses. To note: any part of a Sikh's hair, which may become entangled with either the motor or any other part of the go-kart, may be permanently cut in the instance where damage either to the person or the vehicle or both is to be avoided. Permanently cut? It also required any Sikh to remove his turban before being allowed to drive a go-kart (I imagine the helmet is otherwise impossible to wear), and this would lead to arguments in a country that loves to bicker as much as India.
On the circuit and loving every second of it, Kust overtook me twice. Those of you who have played passenger to my driver will fully appreciate that this was of no concern to me. I'm happy just to remember where to find the ignition switch and to discover that I don't accelerate when I mean to depress the clutch. Kurt thought my dubious driving skills hilarious, and when we received the print-out of our individual performances after completing the laps, I admit to feeling a little pathetic.

I've always been a crap driver. I don't enjoy it and don't see why I should have to do it when someone else always has a car. You can't read when you drive - eating, talking and sleeping are generally discouraged. It's just another activity designed to complicate our life and keep us from doing something constructive. You hear people complain all the time about being stuck in traffic jams. Use public transport and read a book. It's not like anyone has ever said to you 'I had a really interesting drive to work yesterday morning, the brakes worked like a charm'.
Still, it was quite humiliating to find that I was the slowest driver on the course all day ...

Sex. Not that I'm getting any of it.

The temples of Khajuraho were constructed some time during the tenth to twelth centuries, and of the orignal eighty-odd structures, twenty two survive today. Scholars claim that the excellent condition of the temples is the result of being built far from anywhere (yep, I got that feeling from the bus ride). As such, when the Islamic marauders came, they didn't spot the temples and thus couldn't destroy the sculptures. So now I get to see them too.

The sculptured details in stone cover every conceivable surface of the temples. People going about their everyday business - bathing, talking, caressing, reading a letter, fornicating with a horse. That kind of thing.

Sure, sex isn't the only sculptural theme on the temples. But it is certainly the one that attracts the most attention (well, most of my attention). There appear to be two theories regarding the erotica. One is that this was part of daily life, and that in a less repressed time the temples would been a life's mode d'emploi for pilgrims and visitors. The second theory is that the temples were consecrated for a deity whose name now escapes me, but who was a sleazy type and would never allow the temples to be destroyed and so remove his source of pleasure.

I cannot imagine a time when Indians weren't sexually repressed, so theory one is out the door. But all Indian men are sleazy and obsessed with sex - like a thirteen year old who has just discovered the Internet. My vote's for theory number two.

Khajuraho is astounding, and beyond my crassness I really wish I had the kind of faith that could make me believe that God exists. The dedication that goes into Indian temples (like European cathedrals) takes a understanding or acceptance of the unknown that I cannot possess. But I've had my dose of temples and forts.

Time for a return journey. Really looking forward to that ...

'Fraid so... another fort town.

Can't seem to get enough of massive stone architecture. Not sure if it says anything about me. I love the sheer size of forts, the energy and the labour that went into these structures. And then of course there's the history; of battles lost and won, of riding out on a horse with a seriously illegal weapon and slaughtering the foe. Decapitation. Amputation. Laceration. We may have healthcare, refrigeration and aluminium foil, but something tells me that life as a Mughal warrior would have provided an existence more thrilling than life in the 21 century.

I love the thought of being able to kill someone who pissed you off, all under the protection of the emperor. Armed with a massive steel sword replete with gold hilt, I could make mincemeat of most Sydney shop assistants in the time it takes to print a receipt. The Queen Victoria Building could be depopulated within an hour, and I would ride triumphant on my white steed through George St, wearing a necklace hung with the severed heads of dour sales staff. Still, I digress ...
but if anyone wants to get me a Christmas present this year, I know what I want. I spotted a massive silver mace-cum-axe in the amoury of Bikaner palace, and think it's just what I'm after.
Anyway, Leah and Nick have less than two weeks remaining until they head to the land of the rising sun. They wanted to chill and head to the beach, so I alighted from the train after only two hours and bid them courage as they faced the next two twenty hour journeys to Goa. Yep, forty hours until they get to have a shower. And a swim.

I arrived in Gwalior by midday. Hot enough to melt the soles of my sandals, but only a short walk across the bridge to find a hotel. Showered and feeling slightly cleaner, I made a mental note to do some laundry at some point in the foreseeable future, and headed out on foot to the fort.

Like those in Jodhpur and Chittor, the fortifications of Gwalior literally rise up out of the rock. Towering above the town, it was a three kilometre traipse though the filth and rubbish and ruminating animals. Too many poo-munching pigs for my liking. I'm completely off pork again. Personally, I have nothing against any critter that likes to eat faeces. There must be some nutritional value, or they wouldn't indulge so frequently. In any case, most animals are a little strange on the subcontinent. Cows appear to swallow only newspaper and discarded plastic bags, dogs eat nothing at all, and the pigs find nourishment in shit. Sorry, off on another tangent again.
The fort, as per my expectations, rocked. Through the main gates lies Man Singh palace, which to my excitement was used as a state prison during the Mughal period. You don't see enough dungeons in India. Then again, as per my notes above, I'm not sure they take many prisoners. Down a couple of stone spiral staircases, I began to feel a little spooked as the poor lighting became even poorer. And began to flicker. It was cool and hard to see, but I arrived in some kind of chamber, in the middle of which was a large colonnade with tether rings suspended from columns and the ceiling. My imagination ran wild. It's easy to picture the unfortunate beings tortured while strung up, spied on through numerous peepholes positioned in the ceiling. Brilliant stuff.

Of course, fifteen minutes later, when I was lost and still somewhere in the entrails of the building, the wonderment wore off and I felt the need to resurface. At every turn I took a wrong turn. The light at the end of the tunnel was usually a cavity that looked straight down the sheer cliff onto the city below. No joy there. I finally heard a few mumbling voices and scampered off towards them, arriving upon some attendants laying down on the job. Not sure what it is about Indians, but it appears to me that if you're lucky enough to secure a job as ticket collector at a museum, bank clerk or a position at the train reservation counter, sloth is the most important qualification for the job. These guys have it in abundance.

Adjusting my vision to the glaring light of the early afternoon, I literally walked into a couple of young chaps, Ashok and Sanjay. They had made the journey to Gwalior from Bhopal ealier in the day, and were to attend wedding festivities for a Jain friend that evening. We strolled among the other ruins and chatted for over an hour. They recommended that I try marriage and children. I said I preferred the idea of eternal torture in the just-visited Man Singh palace dungeon.

After a very long and enjoyable afternoon in Gwalior, I headed wearliy to my hotel, stopping for a Pepsi and staring at the tireless poo-munching porcines. Filthy buggers. Although I stayed in a dormitory, there was no-one else in the room. I positioned the air cooler right next to my feet, and slept soundly until five fifteen in the morning, when India awoke and cleared it collective throat, and gobbed onto the street. Filthy buggers.

Will someone make one of these for me when I die? I doubt it.

If you had to select one image that conjures up the beauty of this country, what would it be?
It's huge, it's fat, it's made of an immense quantity of white marble, and it's mindblowing, as much for its size as for the sheer work required to create it. And of course, for those of you who have feelings, it must mean something too that it is a memorial built for a dead woman by his grieving husband.

The Taj Mahal is astounding, and amid the filth and degredation of India it is a majestic reminder of what this country achieved in earlier times. Twenty years in the making requiring the labour of some twenty thousand men, the scale and beauty of this monument is probably without comparison. Entering the gate is akin to walking into an oasis. Gardens. Birds singing.

Cleanliness.

It's fabulous.

The sight is serene, it gives you goosebumps and your heart almost melts. You wish you were sitting here with that special someone and enjoying the moment, instead of it being just you, your water bottle and your foul smelling sandals. Still, Lady Di came here by herself, and ... right, I'll move on from that analogy.

I'll let the photos speak for themselves, though of course no image can truly capture the intense majesty of this building. From afar it so ... white. Up close you marvel at the intricate work of coloured stones inlaid in marble, the arabic calligraphy that lines the recesses, the statuesque minarets that elegantly frame the entire scene. It's like nothing else on the planet.

Walking around it makes you feel somehow more relaxed, you indulge in a little self-reflection and you think that maybe it is possible that you could love someone so much that you too would build such a monument if you had the cash. Personally, I think I'd use Lego. Infinitely cheaper, and you can smash it to bits if you change your mind.

I love it. More so the second time around.

The back of Bourke on the back of a camel.

My camel, Victoria, had issues. And I had a fairly upset stomach as we met Tiger, our guide over the next couple of days. Without so much as an Introductory Certificate in Dromedary Husbandry, we were astride our beasts and heading out to no-where in particular. It looked barren and dusty, and I couldn't see a 711 in sight.

I felt a treat in my new outfit. Inspired by my cousin's shopping adventures in Pushkar, I had worn out the plastic on a new pair of orange pyjama draw-string trousers, wooden bracelet and long-sleeve blue hippy shirt. Completing the ensemble was a matching blue and orange headscarf to keep out the sand and flies, and which made me look unassumingly handsome and vaguely menacing at the same time.

I felt the image suffered a little when, an hour after setting off, I vomited. That kind of behaviour is best reserved for when you have a recipient into which you can spew, and secondly, it's preferable to engage in this activity at ground level. Although Tiger appeared non-plussed and my other travel companions actually giggled, I find that vomiting over oneself from atop an ambulating eight-foot camel is overrated. With a few flecks in hair and headscarf, the majority of the torrent had flowed down my trousers and the camel's rump. Yeah, laugh it up ...

But it all got better after that. It also got hotter too, until a few hours later we nestled under the shade of a tree, unharnessed the camels and allowed them to roam free and play chasy while Tiger cooked us our first gourmet meal of the safari, aloo gobi and chapati. Needless to say, I ate little, though I was very, very hungry.

On the afternoon of the second day we came to a thatched mud hut, and took much needed respite from the searing rays of the sun. A small sinewy and slightly mental man appeared, a true Rajasthani. With deep wrinkles and a half toothless grin, he was dressed in the white dhoti and koortah with a pretty glam orange turban (which would have looked quite cool with my trousers: I thought quietly about fixing a deal).

As always in India, every thing is possible - except for kindness to animals and adhering to best parctice of OH&S principles - and from the filthiest hessian sack in the history of the world, he withdrew bottles of Pepsi. With tears in my eyes I handed over whatever rupees I could grab, and gulped the manna from heaven. His name is Mr Chapati; I am going to build a shrine to him. And perhaps introduce him to both soap and toothpaste.

The next couple of days involved a lot of riding and eating, and sleeping under the stars. Tiger was quite the desert tenor, and kept us upbeat and semi-conscious with a continuous melody of Rajasthan's latest hits. We passed a handful of Marwari villages, and I profess a deep respect for those who live here under the harshest of conditions. There ain't no way I'll be getting the first homeowner's grant in this neighbourhood.

Tiger also pointed out a number of abandoned villages, their Muslim inhabitants having fled to Pakistan at the time of Partition. The buildings are beginning to crumble, and will not be lived in again since they were abandoned under ominous circumstances. The sand has begun to swallow the dwelling and the temples ... only a few peacocks and goats walk among the ruins.

It was a wonderful trip, great to get off the beaten track, to sleep on the sand dunes and see the entire universe of stars, to have someone else do all the cooking and cleaning.

I $#^@% love India!

I do the Lawrence of Arabia thing

Jaisalmer sits in the Thar desert close to the Pakistan border. It is a small town of about fifty thousand inhabitants, all of whom arrive to greet you as you fall in a dishevelled but glamorous manner out of the bus, and on to boiling tarmac heavily encrusted with cow shit. Welcome.
Indian auto-rickshaw drivers have perfected their trade. They can spot a tired Westerner when they see one, and have only to keep up their incessant and incoherent Hindish babble for a matter of minutes before a) you accede to the hotel of their choice, b) cry, or c) yell gross obscenities and curse their mothers.

Today I chose the latter, and needed a couple of Navy Cuts (my chosen cigarette brand in the subcontinent) and a bottle of Thums Up (a sickeningly sickly and orthographically challenged version of Coke) before I could entertain the idea of communicating with any of these wretched little bastards. [By the way, if anyone is looking for a niche marketing idea, India is crying out for a good tourism and hospitality school. Currently they sit in bottom place in the entire goddamn galaxy for customer service].

One of the kids could see my obvious distress and offered me some opium. In my book, anyone that ridiculous gets my vote, so his autorickshaw was my autorickshaw and we sped to the fort and to his very inappropriately titled guesthouse, 'The Himalayan'. What? I mean, we're in middle of the frickin' desert here. It's flat, it's sandy and it's not going to snow for another 300 million years.

The staff of the guesthouse were, well, puerile. We got along instantly, although my paternal instincts were aroused when the actual amount of opium consumed by them in a twenty-four hour period became known to me. Still, why not? If you're going to live in a place where the mercury hits 50 degrees regulary, it's either gotta be drugs or insanity.

My room was dirt cheap and about the size of a Rubik's cube. Interiors and lighting by someone blind, and a cooling system that made me think seriously about hiring a street kid and a large fan for a couple of days. But that would be wrong and politically incorrect. And have to say, I did like the look of my bathroom, because the idea of showering while I undertook daily ablutions (is there a verb - to ablute?) has forever appealed to my senses of hygiene and humour. And now I was able to indulge.

Jaislamer is constructed entirely from golden sandstone. It is beautiful, and if I were that way inclined, it would bring a tear to my eye. It's a veritable setting for Ali Baba and his 40 thieves. I can really picture myelf hear wearing a silver and red turban and runnning about the place with a big fat sword and dagger, but instead I settled on a banana lassi (curd), and wished I been born into a band of Arab wrong-doers.

Apart from the Maharaja's palace and some more very impressive havelis, a good reason to sojourn in this region of the planet is to take a camel safari. Nick, Leah and I opted for a three day, two night expedition that promised to be a bit of a hoot.

Provided my grumbling stomach settles down ...

A bigger, fatter fort.

The journey north from Pushkar invited a change in scenery. The temperate areas of southern Rajasthan gave way to desert, not dissimilar to the landscapes between Adelaide and Alice Springs, but with a golden colour rather than the red sands of the Australian desert.

I arrived in Jodhpur around lunchtime, and as always was approached by various touts and rickshaw drivers promising me the best hotel and free rides in their clapped-out vehicles. But a couple of groovers stood out; Darpan and Arpan. Looking ulta cool in their tight denim flares, even tighter T-shirts and Dior-inspired sunnies, their perfect but hesitant English persuaded me to head to the Singvi Haveli, the family home for the last five hundred years.

A pleasant place to be for a few days, and from the terrace rose a fort so massive that I knew I was going to like this place. The old city was not much to speak of; the usual mix of twisted and contorted lanes and alleys, defecating cows and bulls, moribund dogs, and people who all look like they could do with a few year's worth of non-Indian homecooking. [I noticed too that I have started to shed the pounds ... my once huge muscular frame has been reduced to the body of a pre-pubescent twelve year old ... Still, as a wise woman once said, you can never be too thin or too rich].

Meherengarh is the reason to visit this town - an appoximate translation, Citadel of the Sun. The fortified walls stand at least a hundred metres above the city, towering over the squalor and grime below and looking every bit like the imposing home of a very important dude.

Construction commenced in 1459 and continued right up until recent times, with each Maharaja adding to a formidably whimsical mass of havelis, towers, temples and the like.

The original site had been the abode of a hermit, who cursed the Maharaja who decided to take the plot for his own, and predicted a continuous lack of water that would stall the growth of the town and its people. The Maharaja, like all good religious persons, consulted a sage who came up with the very sensible idea to bury a volunteer live into the foundations of the fort. Seems to have worked a treat, and as I passed the plaque to the unfortunate victim, I couldn't help but be in awe at such stupidity. It surpasses even the dumbest of things that I have done to date.

Both exterior and interior take the breath away. Intricate lattice work carved in red sandstone, fabulously carved doors and archways, balconies and turrets. And the armoury is spectaular. So much fine workmanship in each piece, for an instrument designed to maim and kill. These guys must've been seriously bloodthirsty. I would love to have been able to go out and play with them on the sportsfield, mashing a few heads with my solid silver jousting sticks. Not sure what you'd pay for 'em though.

The entry price of the ticket included a set of headphones and a funky little contraption that contained recorded information on the fort's highlights. It describes the Maharaja's private rooms as 'the epitomy of European opulence' Nope, only Napoleon's apartment in the Louvre or the very worst of Italian rococco comes anyway near the amount of gaudiness that the designers achieved here. I mean, where in Europe did you ever encounter an enitre ceiling with eave to eave multicoloured Christmas baubles, a ton of gold and Guy Mitchell blue paint? And stained glass windows? And in a bedroom.

A very satisfactory visit. I was now mentally armed with a cornucopia of interior design tips for my next abode in Coogee, and wandered contentedly back to the guesthouse to shove my gob full of spicy Indian fare.

Very excited about the next destination - Jaisalmer. We're talking big fort and big desert here.

The little lake that was.

Pushkar. In Indian terms, a tiny town. A settlement of just over fifteen thousand inhabitants nestled in the hills not far from the bustling city of Ajmer. Pushkar is a holy town - no alcohol, no meat, no eggs. But dope is legal and sanctioned by the government. Funny place, the subcontinent.

The town is centred around a lake, encircled by numerous ghats, the wide concrete steps that take the pilgrim down to the holy waters. Temples are numerous but similar in style, and behind these are the guesthouses and hostels where many travellers come to while away the time.

To be honest, there's not much for the non-Hindu to do in this place. It's a place to chill out, relax, read books and get spiritual, if that's your thing. It's certainly not mine. Missing the daily activity of my Australian lifestyle, I often feel the need to take exercise of some sort - any sort - but India is one of the hardest places to stay fit. Luckily for me, there was a temple at the top of the hill visible from my guesthouse roof top. To be fair, there's always a temple atop any hill in India, but I decided this was exactly the exercise my legs were crying out for.

Armed with water and my new reading material 'India: A wounded civilisation', by V. S. Naipaul, I headed off into the heat and dust and out of town, stopping along the way to chat with the locals and play a spot of cricket with the kids. Everyone here knows Ricky Ponting. I think he must be one of our famous sportmen.

The monsoon is still at least two months away, and the parched countryside is nearing a critical stage of dehydration. Flora and fauna are limp and languid, distressed dogs lay beneath withered trees devoid of foilage. Nothing much is green, except a small patch of irrigated crops to the west of town. But the climb to the top is the exercise I needed; the temple itself is a bit of a disappointment, but after Chittorgarh it's going to take another massive impregnable fort to really impress me.

Aside from that, Pushkar was an ideal place to be on vacation. The locals are very friendly, the town has a laid-back quality, and if it takes your fancy, there is plenty of shopping to be be done. But I got over that in a few days, and was eager to be on my way again to see the sights of this country. Rajasthan is crammed with magnificent forts and citadels, and I'm still yet to visit half of them.

So we're heading north, to Jodhpur.

A fabulous fort.

Le mot du jour: 'Garh' means fort in Hindi. And today we're off to see Chittorgarh, definitely worth a visit. Unlike Chittor, the town that lays in its shadow, certainly worth a miss.

We hopped on an early train from Udaipur and arrived in Chittor around midday. I seized the opportunity to do some physical exercise, and after dumping our gear in the Railway Retiring Rooms, we went in search of bicycles. With an annoyingly overbearing and bellicose auto-rickshaw driver in tow - 'no bicycle, not possible, shop closed' - I strengthened my resolve to rent three bikes and we were soon on our way through the old town and up the steep incline that led to the entrance gate of the fort.

Young people are disappointingly unfit these days. That's all I have to say on the matter.
Arriving at the top first (there is no second place, only fisrt loser), I waited impatiently until the others arrived and then it was off to explore the ruined city that lay within 28 kms of impregnable stone walls - buildings and fanstastic constuctions that make you wonder exactly why it is that a country producing such magnificent architecture then constructs among the world's worst now. Heady stuff. Maybe funding from the Department of Planning had dwindled over the last several hundred years. Just like Health and Education under the Liberals, I guess.

In any case, the crenellated walls of the fort enclose the numerous palaces, temples and towers that were once the pride of this city. Especially enchanting is Padmini's palace, where the gardens have been restored and it's tragic story is worth recounting. It goes like this:
Maharaja is married to beautiful woman. Other man glimpses reflection of Maharaja's wife in lake. Wife now becomes obsession of the Peeping Tom. He's just got to have her. War is declared, victory evident, since the man who wants Padmini has a much stronger armed force that the man who currently owns her. But, just to piss everyone off, the Maharaja has nobly resigned to ride out to certain death before the enemy, and his chick and her mates throw themselves into the flames. Death before dishonour and all that. I like it, it's a tale with class and style and an iota of voyeurism.

We stayed until the fading rays of the sun cast a spookly glow over the orange sandstone, ponds and gardens, got speed wobble on the way down the hill and battled the congested night traffic.

Can't write any more since the hotel employee wants his computer back. Now.

Does anyone stop at a red light in India? The answer is no.

The magical lake that wasn't.

The guidebooks are in agreeance: Udaipur is the most charming and enchanting city in this heavily visited region of the country. But part of that charm is currently missing. Lake Pichola has almost dried up after several years of poor monsoon rains, and the Floating Palace looks more like wedding cake embattled in a contiuous dust storm. However, with a little imagination you can pretend the lake's there, or simply wait for the sun to go down; no-one's any the wiser.
Furthermore the guidebooks will inform you that the opening scences of Octopussy, the fabulously trashy James Bond movie circa 1978, was filmed in this fair town. How's that for kudos?

The real charm of this locale, and the reason people come to visit, is that the area breathes a kind of magic. It's the India you read about as a kid - mythical and seething with intricately decorated palaces, magnificent harems and elaborate havelis. And I delude myself for a while more, close my eyes, and pretend to the emperor, bejewelled and adored by the masses, riding my elephant across the mountains ...

... You can pretend to be the Maharaja leading a force of fearless Rajput warriors out to face the Mughal infidels, riding to a certain death but maintaining your honour. All the while knowing your wife (or wives) will commit self-immolation as the enemy knocks at the gates, throwing herself (or themselves) onto the burning pyre rather than face dishonour and pillage and all that comes with warfare in the late 15th century.

And when you wake up, you can just sit on the roof top of the guesthouse, drink sickeningly sweet tea, and chill.

I did a bit of both.

The place is chokka with palaces. Behind our little family-run hotel sits the foreboding City Palace, a construction undertaken initally by Udai Singh when he was ousted for the last time from Chittorgarh. Successive Rajput maharajas have added to the glamour of the palace, and a walk though it provides insight into the huge amounts of cash, power and labour that these guys had access to. The armoury: a collection of the meanest, deadliest killing utensils ever seen; sword, scimitars, daggers and guns a go-go, though there was one piece that looked suspiciously like an large egg whisk.

We also visited a Bakar-li-Haveli ... it must've been good to be the king. Have to say though, I wouldn't have liked to be a woman in India prior to the Raj. The idea of being stuck in the same building for most of my married life wasn't probably that much fun. Even if the building in question has 138 rooms on two levels set around a leafy courtyard.

Th rest of the town is that typical Indian labyrinth of narrow alleys filled with motorcyles, woman in saris, groups of immature and sexually repressed teenage men taunting you because there's safety in numbers, underfed and never-fed dogs, the ever-sacred cows, and excrement belonging to all of the above. But it is calmer that the India you see on Discovery channel, and certainly more serene that Bombay - we spent loads of time on the roof top balcony of the hotel, philosophising about total crap and for Leah and Nick, a chance to settle into their new world for the next few weeks.

Getting reacquainted, and getting lost.

Today I actually had something I needed to do.

I had to pick Leah and Nick up from the airport at 16h30, but realised this permitted plenty of time to do what the bank required of me; supply an address in Bombay before it would forward a shiny new Mastercard replete with PIN. I decided that the Australian Consulate might be able to help in this instance, and with a scrawled address in my hand, I headed for the public buses.
Numbering on the transport in Mumbai is a little confusing. The front of the vehicle displays the bus number in Marathi, the local lingo, but the numerals are deceptively like those we use. So after one bus took me no-where, I was kindly escorted to a second bus that took me somewhere. Specifically, a depressingly and hideously banal architectural monstrosity which would have been quicker to reach on foot (but where would the fun be in that, I ask you?). Only a building this devoid of personality could house public servants, so I assumed more or less rightly that I was at the correct place.

As the elevator spewed me onto the sixteenth floor, the faded and very shut wooden doors sporting a faded Australian coat of arms and an even more faded and yellowing piece of paper hanging off the entire ensemble informed me thus: the Consulate had moved. Bugger. I descended the staircase on foot with the newer address in hand, back out into the street and boarded another public vehicle. An hour later I was lost again but soon a very kind bunch of men in uniform, holding rifles, was laughing at me - so I thought I'd ask for some assistance. They were of no use whatsoever, but the chai-wallah next to him listened in, and gestured for me to try the next street on the right.

Got there, and after being limpidly searched and laughed at again by the four guards in the Consulate, I was admitted and finally face to face with a full time permanent employee of the Australian government. She was nice and sensible and offered lots of advice about not trusting anyone and keeping my personal belongings safe. You've just gotta love the maternal instinct, or perhaps she privodes this information gratis to every sad, pathetic traveller who can't manage to keep hold of his gear.

Joyce was happy to collect my mail for me. I liked her. And she looked great in a green and gold sari.

Next on the agenda (already four hours had elapsed: meeting my cousin et al from the International airport. Now that I held a vague impression of getting somewhere, it had to be public transport all the way. Caught the 123 to Churchgate station - think depressingly and hideously banal architectural monstrosity, this time without government offices but perhaps a hundred thousand Indians moving in every direction - and to the queue for a ticket to Andheri station.

The concept of a queueing in the subcontinent deserves an entry all of it's own, so I'll skip over the enjoyment of pushing and shoving, and in brief, throwing my rupees at a man who needed to re-dye his hair. Ticket in hand, I slotted in with several hundred passengers in a wagon that, according to the painted sign at one end, was custom built to hold 98 of us. There were a lot more, and many were staring at me. At least no-one was laughing.

Andheri platform was the end of my train journey. The next bus ride would have taken me directly to the airport, but since I boarded a bus on the opposite side of the street, I went in the wrong direction for some time. Spewin'. I managed to board the 308 in the other direction, and chanted a little mantra to Ganesh, Hanuman, Krishna, and the other one wearing the skull necklace with the blackened face - I had but thirty minutes to arrive. The Hindu deities looked down favourably ... and I greeted a couple of rather shellshocked passengers from the Qantas flight a few moments later.

I love the look on the face of a person who arrives in India for the very first time.

This time I was the one laughing. Well, chuckling really.

This is planet Eart (da, da, da, dah, da, da, dah, dah)

Time to say goodbye to Bangkok and head to the intergalactic airport.

I've enjoyed my time in SE Asia but I'm really excited to be heading to another planet. Cathy Pacific flight CX 751 was brief and bearable, aside from the two pashing passengers to my right (very happy to have scored the aisle seat). Actually, I tell a lie, since the woman across the aisle was watching an episode of 'Friends' on her personal TV screen - I hate the series with inexplicable passion. I guess I shouldn't have ogled her TV screen, so I turned the other cheek, forgot about those skeletal actresses who I fantasise torturing, and stared instead at the two next to me, still pashing.

We landed in Mumbai on time. I was very, very excited indeed, but a touch diappointed that the customs official stamping my passport didn't share my enthusiasm for the luggage carousel ten metres ahead.

Excitedly, I zoomed out of the Arrivals terminal, and with a habitual reflex action, scanned the multitudes of names of people and hotels on hastily prepared paper sheets held tightly in a sea of grubby hands. Never sure why I do that, since I've never yet spent time in a hotel posh enough to have an airport pick-up service. Not to worry, I headed to the Pre-paid taxi service, got myself a receipt and a giant Sikh into the bargain, and we ambled off into the night toward downtown Mumbai - in a Hindustani Ambassador at ten miles an hour.

I was grinning, the wide grin of the wildly-stupid-and-never-sure-what's-around-the-corner, but again, like the customs officia, the Sikh failed to pick up on my lust for India. Nevertheless, he did have a lust for the horn, and kept his hand on it the entire way to Coloba, which is about as south as you can drive in this town without ending up in the Arabian sea. He dropped me at the Salvation Army Hostel on a murky street full of people offering me hashisch or 'something special' - oh, wonder what that might be - and I ran excitedly upstairs to grab a dormitory bed.
Threw my gear onto a spare bed in the room, and stayed long enough to meet Kevin, Martin, Gerry, Matt, Vinod and Claude, and then excused myself to race downstairs and out into the street for my first dose of real Indian food in a year.

I breathed in the filth of this fair city's atmosphere (think Bangkok with a larger concentration of bovine excrement), and headed to a Veg-only diner. An hour later I had demolished a tray of aloo mutter, palak paneer, three roti and a sweet lassi, and certainly didn't have room for the 'something special' that was kindly offered innumerable times over the hundred or so metres back to the dorm.

I am unbelievably overjoyed to be back here again, and if my former employer can find me a job in the Mumbai or Bangalore office, I would be very satisfied indeed.

Anyway, gotta get to bed since I'm collecting my baby cousin and her friend fom the airport tomorrow afternoon.

Take one beach, fifty thousand revellers, a bucket, and stir

The Full Moon Party occurs at that time of the month on Koh Pha Ngan and is in all likelihood the largest outdoor event anywhere within a thousand kilometres of here.

Great fun indeed. As the sun goes down and the lunar light brightens the sky, the place fills with foreigners and locals of all shapes and sizes (but mostly wearing ridiculous hippy clothing and sporting cheap wooden jewellery). There is no space left for the beach-dwelling crabs as every spot on the sand is accounted for. More alcohol is consumed over the course of this evening than in one entire hour at any bar in Ireland. More drugs are taken during the course of the night than by Californian Prozac-munchers in a whole month. The music pumps. People behave, because no-one's practising the Friday evening gotta-get-off-my-chops-as-fast-as-I-can methodology and instead all seem relaxed and enjoying the fact they they won't be donning a shirt, tie and hangover the following day. And instead will opt for the ridiculous hippy clothing and cheap wooden jewellery again.

Being a slightly classy event, the aptly-named bucket is the star of the evening.

The Koh Pha Ngan Bucket may not be the most original invention on the planet and one unlikely to have a patent pending, but it is however very clever marketing indeed.

Take one sandpit-sized bucket that you owned as a kid (unless you're from England where there is no sand. Read: pebbles). Add a litre of soft drink, 200 ml of Red Bull concentrate and a bottle of Samsong, Asia's not-so-finest tipple. Or you can spend the extra baht and get JD or other quaffable libation. Stir. Add six straws and sip slowly, savouring the gentle bouquet and hint of strawberries, chocalate and cinnamon [by the way, if you get the chance to see Sideways, you must. Funniest thing to come out of America since Drew Carey].

Anyway, after you and your temporary mates have shared the odd bucket or two, you feel the need to dance. The musical choice is as wide and varied as the new McDonald's menu, but without the Health Choice options. It's Jungle, Drum 'n Bass, Progessive House (the stupidest term in the Queen's tongue) and assorted nefarious tunes to wipe your inhibitions and make you shake ya thang. It's a true belief of mine that people who don't dance are as dull as dishwater. Repressed too. So I dance, 'cos suddenly I'm gorgeous and carefree and loving life more than ever. My hair looks fantastic.

I lose Tayler and my other Spanish temporary mates, the English girls who bummed smokes from me for hours and the Israelis who thought I was one of them. I made several successful escapes from those sirens of Siam, the ladyboys. These creatures are predatory. I saw many a seventeen year-old European dancing far too close to one than he would certainly like to remember the following day, but hey, alcohol is the best tool the freaks and the ugly have for getting into relationships. I've been using it for years ... Couldn't find the interesting lassie from Ipswich who was talked with me about the frescoes in Siena and della Francesco for quite some time, nor the guy from Nice who shared my view that the International Phonetic Alphabet appears biased towards English speakers. I'd talked a lot of crap but had the best night in ages. And I was still standing and able to get home OK this time around.

It's been a great night as I grab a falafel roll (well, how dumb would red curry and rice be at this hour) and tuck myself into bed. Tayler showed up about three hours later when the sun was also making its appearance ... and his innocent face had a slightly more diabolical look to it at this hour. There was a Swedish looking girl standing coyly in the background.

Being a amenable chap, I spent the next couple of hours sitting on the beach again, talking to the revellers who kept me laughing for quite some time until I desperately needed some sleep. I returned to the room and all was silent. The necessity to slumber was overbearing and more important than maintaining good manners. I crept into the room and was really happy that they had left me enough space to curl up on the tiled floor at the foot of the bed ... I slept surprisingly well.

Koh Pha Ngan is a lot of fun if you take it as it is. Look any deeper, and it's a glaring example of Westerners acting in a completely unacceptable manner with no deference to local culture or habits. But these old arguments are as tiresome as a Dannie Minogue recording, and certainly as facile.

I had a great time over the following days, recovered my senses but not my wallet, bid my single-serve friends adieu and realised that after almost three weeks travelling I was starting to adopt the slower pace necessary for my next destination; the subcontinent.

Easily excitable at the best of times, India has me by the short and curlies. There's no place like it and I cannot wait to return. SE Asia is always good, but you only have to head a few more hours west on a plane and you actually disembark onto another planet.

Time for bus-bus-ferry-tuk-tuk-ute ride to return to the capital. Excellent.

Will upload some more photos very soon.

Not the best day of my life. Trouble in paradise.

Damn it.

After struggling through a bus-bus-ferry-tuk-tuk-ute journey to Koh Pha Ngan, an island off the east coast in the south of the country, and hooking up with my new Canadian travel buddy in a bungalow not too far from the shore, it all turned to pear-shaped custard.

Drugged and robbed.

Not good and not even vaguely amusing.

Previously ... Me and Tayler (my new temporary travel mate) arranged the accommodation and then headed off the the main party beach of Haad Rin. Within a few minutes Cookie and Pickle, two very gorgeous English girls (and previous temproary travel mates of Tayler's in Krabi) had joined us and we chatted as you do when you don't have to talk about work because you don't actually have a job any more.

After a while I apparently began to act a little strangely (and you can keep your simplistic sarcastic remarks to yourself thanks), walked off to find the toilet, and returned thirty-six hours later, more than a little disturbed.

I have no desire to postulate the why and wherefore of it all, but I have to say that I remained non compus mentus all that time later. Of course, no wallet, no credit cards, no anything-that-had-been-in-my-wallet at the time was on my person, but I still had all limbs and a operating nervous system, so not too bad really.

I can't really describe fully how I felt emotionally, I think I was a bit frightened. Actually, I was quite paranoid. I don't remember where I woke up, I don't remember how I returned to the bungalow, but I was hugely thankful to the Canadian lad who had held the room in absentia and now looked after me, accompanying me to a make a phone call to the lovely people at Lost and Stolen Cards desk the ANZ bank.

Those of you who know me well will know of my attitude toward the ANZ bank, and perhaps recollect the death threat I offered one staff member some years back in the York St branch. Well, let's put all that in the past. These guys were great and stayed on the phone while I tried to remember my name, address, security codes and colour of my undies. That done, we needed to organise a new card, but today my barely operating neurological thingies had had a full work out and I decided to leave that for another call another time. Perhaps when I got to India where everything would be easier to organise ... The bitch at the phone call centre took full advantage of my catatonic state and charged me an outrageous amount of cash. At that point I no longer cared but silently wished her a very unfulfilled and uneventful life, and then I suddenly needed to sleep.

When my senses returned I became incredibly angry with myself - I brooded and mooched for a whole day (former housemates and family members need no further explanation, and at this point I would still like to say I am much more mature these days). After that I attempted to soothe my battered ego - I mean, just how goddamn stupid am I - and decided that the best thing to do would be to return to the beach and begin Betrand Russell's 'Introduction to Western Philosophy'. But after realising that the Pre-Socratics were in no position to help me, I left Thales, Aximander, Heraticlus and decided that I just need to accept that I am a total wanker, but happy that my parents had not entertained Greek names when I was born.

After so many travels to places around the planet, this was the first time such a thing had happened (apart from that mildy funny botched mugging in Dhaka last year). Only money and credit cards were gone and my colossal ego slightly mutilated, so time to get over it and move on. I hesitated briefly between Chapter 6 'the Atomists' or the dog-eared copy of 'The Da Vinci Code', and settled back in the sun to read the book that everyone else on the planet had already read too, possibly more than once.

Big problem now was, with South East Asia's largest gathering about to happen in less than forty-eight hours' time (the infamous Full Moon Party), how was I going to cope now that I had decided the clue was not to drink anymore?

Problem solved. My temporary travel mates told me I had no choice. I was going to drink.
Full Moon Party, here we come.

Might leave my remaining valuables in a safer place though ...

We are the Chi Chi girls...

Almost the last night in the capital before heading south to catch some much needed rest and relaxation on the islands. I've become quite friendly with the kids working at the guesthouse reception desk, so it was with pleasure that I accepted their proposal to 'make party' later in the evening when they all finished work. Nui, Wo, Bi and assorted others went in search of fun, Thai style, at about mid-night, ending up in a place in the capital far removed from the backpackers and all that comes with us ...

Welcome to the Bangkok Bar, a nightclub containing all requisite elements for (clean) nocturnal fun in South East Asia.

Firstly, use a large space, cram in as much furniture as possible and then do all but turn out the lights. A single candle of 10 lux is sufficent to work your way around all three levels and the free advanced-level obstacle course of chairs, tables and other assorted shapes hiding in near obscurity.

Next, add air conditioning. It must be either completely non-functional (the type prefered by the Thais' Cambodian neighbours) or so functional that the air has the same effect on your genitals as does the water at Coogee Bay in August. Just chill, man.

Introduce at least one tenth of the city's pouplation into the said space. Dress them in clothing that makes you feel like the filthy, sweating backpacker that you are ... your two-year old Rip Curl t-shirt, crusty shorts and cheap sandals are no match for their designer gear, all in black.
Most important of all, the music. All songs will be sung by in semi-literate English by Thai girls and boys, very much in the early style of Bananarama. Remove any bass line. Absent verses will be made up for amply by a repetitive chorus that can induce deep vein thrombosis. Volume will be at a level that removes the need and possibility to talk at all, your ears will leach varying quantities of sanguine fluids and brain material. But for all of this the very friendly Thai kids will attempt converstation. These guys are really nice.

Everyone will dance, everywhere. No stairwell, table, chair, toilet cubicle or telephone box will remain safe from avid, pumping and highly enthusiastic salsa and rhumba machinations (and may I ask, what the Hell was a phone cubicle doing in the that club, and who was the person attempting to make the call).

Everyone smiles here, especially our little troupe after we polish off the second bottle of Samsong (and like the Angkor temples, a full and just description of its effect on your psyche is beyond the writer's powers). Being locals, my companions for the evening know only too well that we Westerners are willing and stupid enough to argue over the smallest amounts of money with a rickshaw driver but then not raise an eyebrow once drunk and paying an exorbitant amount of local currency for a JD & coke. My new mates were so good as to take me to the local Bottle-O and get the stuff at a fraction of the price.

See, it's all about the love.

One of the girls sneaked the grog through the club door and we continued our disco moves. Not sure how she got it in though. Thai girls are so petite and wear very small amounts of black designer clothing. Also, handbags are generally large enough to contain a lipstick, but just as with women in the Western world, they somehow manage to hold the equivalent of a week's grocery for the average Australian share-house. So maybe it wasn't that hard to get the JD back in at all.
No matter, the important thing was that we drank it and I did very bad dance moves until the early hours of the morning. Of course, morning in Bangkok is not the same at home. In this part of the world the big star rises without warning, the rays hit with a compaparable force to a well guided laser from the Millenium Falcon; your bones and muscles melt. And you suddenly feel a little comatose. But as I had already consumed some pork, fish and other kinds of meat balls and drank my own body weight in water before retiring to the prison cell, I felt ready bright and early for a day at the National Gallery and a jog in the park.

Now that I have befreinded a few Thai locals they are quickly re-teaching me the language. My skills had admittedly never progressed further than the obligatory 'How much'? and counting from one to a hundred, but this time around is another story. Each time I sit down in the guesthouse restaurant to continue my travel diary (the one where I write bad words), one of the eager and earnest staff is hot on my tail for a lesson in Thai nasal vowels and tonal consonants. And sometime they teach me obscene words to so that we can all get a cheap giggle.

Five hours later I know how to say my name and express that I need something to drink.
OK ... off south to the islands.