Monkey in Wonderland

There is something universal and fascinating about airports and boredom, as

we all so desperately try to distract ourselves from the incomprehensibly

painful process of travel. We all have varying habits but the cause is the

same, the aversion to constant queuing just so we can perpetually wait. My

defaults are reading, sleeping and people watching, others choose social

media, videos, texting or complaining which is disturbingly popular.

I landed in Adelaide for my transfer to Singapore. While waiting in the hand

baggage scanner queue a well dressed man becomes quite vocal. He has a

bottle of wine which they advise he cannot take on board, no fluids over 50ml,

“for security”. He argued that he’d purchased the wine in the duty free shop at

this airport and had a receipt, the bottle was sealed and in a duty free bag.

“I’m sorry sir but you can’t take it on board, that’s the rules”. Back and forth it

went, it became clear that the wine was very expensive, a gift for a friend.

With ever increasing tension and raised voices the man finally snapped.

Yelling uncontrollably “This is all BULLSHIT!”, he snatched the bottle from the

security guard walked over to a large bin and leaning in, he smashed the

bottle inside yelling “ If I can’t have it then none of you c*nts are getting it

either”. Silence fell as we shuffled forward through the painful inane

procedure. I must say I understood his anger and frustration at what is clearly

absurd.

Airports introduced the ‘rule’ in 2006 after a guy in the UK tried to smuggle

powdered soft drink and a lot batteries on a flight. Rather than put in scanners

that can detect rare dangerous liquids (which are available) they decided that

a water bottle is now a deadly threat along with deodorant and sun block.

Changi International is always busy especially so for a 1.5 hour layover. We

all got out, found the new gate and lined up again.

As I queued again for baggage screening once again, it was clear that I was

the only westerner going to Chennai, also there were no women on the flight.

Two scanners and two long lines of quiet, dark skinned men….all going

home. Finally the action started. First two candidates, bags already on the

conveyor, stepped into the scanner and set off the alarm, they moved back

out and removed their belts (with metal buckles) and stepped in again. Set off

the alarm again and stepped out removing their shoes, third time emptying

their pockets. We all watched as there was fuck all else to do.

The next two chaps moved forward and to my utter amazement repeated the

process, three times through the scanner sometimes four, removing their

shoes, belts, pocket contents, watches etc.... in varying order.

As the third pair stepped up to the plate I watched in bewilderment as they

repeated everything again just in a different order. I looked around for the

hidden camera, surely this must be a TV prank? How can you watch two

pairs of guys fail the scanner test and then repeat their mistakes? Then three

pairs and then four, eight, ten, thirteen. It was totally bizarre.

Humans learn from mistakes, not only their own but others. It seemed

incomprehensible to me that not one person out of the fourty in front of me

thought to take anything metal off before stepping in. I’d never been to India

before, I was pretty excited but also had some trepidation lurking in the back

of my mostly conscious mind.

I’d watched a doco some years before called The Great Temples of Southern

India.

Massive soaring structures, ornate and boldly coloured, they were

breathtaking. Built by the Dravidians in the ?? century (I can’t remember).

They were unlike anything I’d seen before.

And these men who stood in front of me, painfully repeating each other’s

blunder, are the descendants of the people who built these magnificent

temples. Descendants of the people who invented Yoga, Buddhism, the

decimal system, samosa, astronomy, cartography, chess, world’s first

university, Ayurveda, snakes and ladders, wireless communication, the USB

and buttons. These people in front of me! And still no hidden cameras.

I stand on my tip toes to place my bag in the overhead compartment, faded

plastic another reminder of the shear age of the plane, a throwback to the

1980’s. Lacking all the creature comforts we’ve come to expect from modern

air travel. Reclining seats? who needs them, in flight entertainment? no

thanks, leg room? Nope! Everything’s as functional as it comes, the pretence

of luxury totally absent much like my sleep.

Six hours to Chennai and a five hour time difference made it 5am back home

in Melbourne when I arrived at midnight. I was really tired now. Customs was

relatively easy so I stood at the check luggage carousel for an hour watching

the uninterrupted stream of cardboard boxes slide effortlessly past, waiting for

my very small bag. Why buy one when cardboard boxes are so cheap!

I walked out of the airport doors into the oppressive humid night as a sea of

over enthusiastic men lurched at me in unison to offer a ride. I waved them

away, not that it made any difference, found an ATM and bought a pre-paid

Taxi ticket at the booth. Again the horde of ‘would be’ drivers rushed at me to

‘help’. I found an actual taxi driver and gave him the address.

The once stylish old Hindustan Landmaster trudged forward through the

grimy streets, I fight to stay awake, I’m really looking forward to a pillow and

closing my weary eyes.

We pull up at the very modest hotel, I thank him, adjusting my luggage as the

motor fades into the distance to a background of barking dogs. It’s almost

2am when I present myself to the counter, I ring the bell softly as I can and

the clerk appears from behind it where he was most likely sleeping on the

floor.

I hand him the piece of paper with my booking. He reads it with the dim light

of a single desk lamp and checks his archaic computer screen, then with

softly rolling ‘R’s’ says “I’m very sorry sir but all our rooms are full”, finishing

with what I’ll come to recognise as the quintessential side to side head

wobble. It’s not a yes or a no; it’s more of an exclamation mark.

I blink repeatedly. “No, no I have a booking” I point to the paper not fully

gasping my predicament, he smiles politely and repeats “I’m very sorry sir but

all our rooms are full”. I blink more and stammer “ But….but I made a

booking…...it’s there” I fruitlessly point to the paper. There is no frustration in

his voice as he repeats it again. And now the penny drops, I’d booked but not

paid (there was no option to), the desperation pours through me. So what am

I gunna do now?” he motions to the street “ Auto rickshaw Sir”. I sign heavily

but nothing can quell the knot in my stomach as I pick up my bag and wander

out into the street.

I have no idea where I am or apparently what the fuck I’m doing. It’s a

beginner’s mistake, how did I not pay more attention when I arranged this.

I walk in the direction of the main road for about 10 minutes. It’s not so busy

at this hour of the morning, while waiting in the gutter I’d found the name of a

hotel that I assumed was nearby. Eventually I flag down a ride, throw my bag

in the back and clamber aboard.

He knew where the hotel is, popping and crackling, the little 2 stroke rattled

along for only five minutes before coughing itself into silence. “No fuel” he

exclaimed. He got out went to the back, opened a small compartment and

produced and medium size coke bottle. “I come back” he motions for me to

wait and disappears into the night.

It wasn't particularly dark but it was a bit unnerving alone in a big hot city like

a magnet for trouble but that was just my tired brain running away with me.

Time warped along with my thoughts, he sauntered into view and poured and

vile smelling liquid into the tank. Slammed down on the kick starter four or five

times before the fuel made its way through to the carbie and into the cylinder.

Clack, clack, clack we were back under way.

We pulled into a car park and dismounted. Inside was way too bright and

futile for rooms. I asked about a few other hotels I’d found in the lonely planet

book. I had no internet on my phone, not even a local sim. It was 2008, Wi-Fi

was not everywhere but it certainly wasn't here. The clerk rang two more

hotels, they were full. On to the next one. My head slumped against the cold

metal frame of the rickshaw begging for sleep.

Inside was the same, no rooms, rang two more, also no rooms. Back out into

the steamy streets, I can’t do this anymore, I can’t go on but I can’t sleep

here. It’s more than 28 hours since I woke; my brain is turning to mush.

We stop at a set of lights, he talks to another Auto driver, after much

enthusiastic questions which I assume were about where they can take this

pitiable white fool, the second driver jumps in next to me.

The next hotel is the same as the last, no rooms, no recommendations; I’m

running out of names and options. There must be a big event on in this city.

Dejected and exhausted I stagger back out into the stickybmetropolis, I’m

sliding around in the back unable to hold my head up. I nod off a couple of

times only to be jolted back to by my head banging against the metal rails,

everything gets blurry. “Do you want to try a hostel Sir?” his thick accent

would be pleasing any other time but now I can’t even think. “Yeah sure,

anything”

Not long later we coast into a dark driveway, they nudge me into

consciousness.

There are people sleeping under the stairs and on the balcony as we climb up

to the entry. Inside the clerk says something impossible. “We have one room

Sir”. The relief is overwhelming. Before I can say I’ll take it, he asks if I’d like

to take a look. Sure I’ll play your game, it’s not like I’m gunna say no.

Up a flight of stairs, a very old fashion key and lock that reminds me of my

grandma’s house. The room smells stale and is dark and dingy. I opened the

bathroom door and turned on the light. My mouth pops open in shock at the

sight but quickly closes as the smell attacks me, I close it and try very hard

not to think about it, deciding it didn’t exist was much more bearable.....denial

isn’t always a bad thing!

I looked at the bed with deep suspicion.

Down a flight of stairs to the clerk, I exclaimed with exhausted confidence “I’ll

take it”. Back in to room I picked up the mattress with all its linen and leaned it

against the wall. I layed out as many of my clothes I could find on the hard

wood slats, made a pillow shaped thing out of my windcheater, slumped onto

my bed and closed my eyes. What the fuck was I doing here?

Three and a half hours later the steadily increasing traffic mixed with the

piercing heat of the sun tear me away from slumber to face my unpleasant

reality. I lay for a while my mind attempting to ramp up into problem solving

mode on far too little sleep. As I get up my body aches from the shitty makeshift

mattress and a stabbing pain in my neck suggests my pillow was as ill

conceived as my hotel planning.

I gather my things; make my way out into the already hot street and hail

anther Auto rickshaw. In the not so cold light of day I’d found what looked like

a reasonable hotel. We lurch into the rowdy chaotic traffic weaving our way

through the streets with our horn regularly bleating. Everyone does the same

the result is deafening. It literally hundreds of horns sounding off constantly in

a effort to avoid being run over.

We pull up at the New Woodlands Hotel. I pay the rickshaw an exorbitant fee

knowing he was ripping me off but what can you do? It’s a modest place,

impeccably clean and the rooms are only marginally more expensive than the

‘fabulous’ guest house from this morning. I walk the three flights to inspect the

room. I open the bathroom door I’m unable to suppress my releif.

I check-in and ask how much an Auto is to the convention centre for trade

show I’m here to attend. The clerk laughs, she says I can take a taxi but I

quite like the shaky little rickshaws. For the half hour ride it’s less than half the

price I paid for the ten minute trip here.

A much needed shower and a quick dash across town for registration, get my

pass on a lanyard and I’m back by midday. I ask for a lunch recommendation

and she suggests some fancy restaurants but I want something nearby, spicy

and where the locals go. Her smile is huge, there’s a veg place down the

street which makes tasty food and I’m there in five minutes.

The place is unsurprisingly packed; you don’t get your own table at almost

places as all tables are shared, which I prefer anyway. I will learn within a day

or two to jam my left hand between the seat and my thigh so as never to eat

with it, as the local custom is to shake hands and eat with the right, the left is

for the bathroom. Seams reasonable. I get a plate with a large banana leaf,

rice and various veg dishes, you scoop up the rice and curry using your

fingers and then use thumb to push it into your mouth, I love it.

The food is wonderful, spicy and absurdly cheap. While eating the guy across

from me starts a conversation, eager to practice his emerging English on a

native speaker. I indulge him and am rewarded with a great conversation.

Before I leave the doctor asks if I’ve been to the beach. “No I just arrived”,

“Oh you simply must go my friend, it’s the longest beach in the world 400km”.

Wow that’s impressive! He gives me directions; I duck back to the hotel for

my camera, some sun block and leave my wallet in the room. I small amount

of cash should suffice.

Back out on to Triplicane High Road sauntering along like I’ve been here for

years, someone behind me yells loudly but I ignore them like a local, a car

backfires like a gunshot startling me but I resist the urge to spin around ‘Just

act natural’ is what I tell myself. People give me strange looks like I just

landed from another galaxy but nothing can faze me or so I thought....India is

full of surprises and you don’t get to choose if they’re ‘good’ or ‘bad’, only how

you react.

I miss the second street I was supposed to turn at, so lost in the cacophony,

colour, smells and vibrant faces, shop signs and oddities. There is a cow

sitting in the middle of the extremely busy road but everyone just drives

around it.

A slow realisation percolates into my hazy perception, I‘ve missed my turn so

I take the next one which is a long time coming. The street narrows, there are

less people and the noise has diminished, I stroll along as the perspiration

forms on my brow, ripples of vapour rise from the blistering road! The street

narrows again and after an archway is only wide enough to fit a wheelbarrow,

I realise I’m probably going the wrong way, unsure why I persevere. A tee

intersection with right as my only option I walk out under the freeway

overpass next to a putrid river and straight into a slum.

It’s everything you imagine, people in crumbling shacks of tin and tarps, filthy

dirty, swirling in rubbish, dejected dirty faced children wandering as if lost,

dogs lay motionless not even enough energy to shoo flies away. But by far

the two things that stay with me are the smell and the looks of the faces of the

people, hopeless, despondent, apathetic almost waiting for the relief of death.

I’ve seen poverty before all over Asia and Central America but this was

different. Their eyes haunt me to this day. The unfathomable inequity of the

world no longer an abstract concept, I can touch it, I can feel it, I can smell it

but I can never unsee it.

If standing face to face with abject poverty doesn’t change you as a human

then I would suggest your humanity is missing. I spend more on my lunch at

home than there people spend in weeks attempting to survive. I don’t know

which is harder, facing this harsh reality or the eventual understanding and

resignation that you and I can’t change it.

The world is an unfair place and while I applaud our various attempts to make

it better, inequity will always be with us and people suffering is also sadly

inescapably universal and permanent. It’s a bitter pill probably the hardest

one to swallow but reality doesn’t care about our feelings. The is no

sweetener, no soft comfort, not for these people who are so far beyond pain

that their souls look dead inside.

One raises an eyebrow of quizzical interest as if to say “what are you doing

here white boy” but she can’t sustain it for more than a second, it takes too

much effort, nothing matters anyway.

I don’t feel unsafe here but I do feel like a fish out of water or more likely out

of my depth. I walk for fifteen minutes, the dispirited eyes follow me, now I

really am an alien now from another galaxy.

I reach the end and see an Auto driver. I ask him for Mariana beach, he points

a direction I cross over the green grey slimy river under the rail tracks high

above and a few minutes later find the widest beach I’ve ever seen. It must

be four hundred meters of sand before the water starts. I look back over my

shoulder, how can I just walk away and forget this, how can I go back to my

comparatively luxurious life and forget all this. I shake my head and trudge

on.

The cool salty ocean soothes my burning skin but nothing will soothe my soul.

Three days of dull conference later, of being made grand promises that will

never materialise and I’m ready for my temple adventures. I feel guilty going

but even that is paradoxical. I didn’t cause their poverty or suffering, I could

give away all of my money and it would change nothing but for a handful out

of a billion. It would be years before I will find something worthwhile to help

heal the rift, a book of course.

The Life You Can Save by Peter Singer is by far the most dangerous book

you can read. It’s free as an eBook. I dare you!

The charming woman at the New Woodlands has arranged a car and a driver

to take me to the Deep South. I would drive but I would get lost and after

witnessing the local traffic I’m sure the chance of me returning without an

accident are slim to none. By the end of the trip I will be proven right on both

counts.

The night before I depart I find a Spanish Tapas bar with the promise of good

music. I chat to some locals at the bar about the only topic which inspires

universal enthusiasm, cricket. This conversation with minor variations would

become standard over time.

“Where are you from?”, “Australia, where all the good cricketers come from”

Their eyes would sparkle at my cheeky bravado and with big smiles they

would confess “I like Ricky Ponting!” with a huge roll on the ‘Rs’ and on overly

accentuated ‘o’ followed by the obligatory head wobble. I tell them I think

Satchin Tandukar is probably one of the greatest batsmen in the world and

they are overcome with joy.

If you don’t know much about cricket or don’t like it that’s really ok. I played as

a teenager until about 16 and watched games until my early twenties. Now I

watch almost no sport, my brother in law and nephew are horrified to learn I

can’t name a single current cricket or football player. I tell them if they offered

be a million dollars to name one i would be penniless. Actually if you held a

gun to my head I’d just sigh and wait for the inevitable. I haven’t watched and

Olympic or Commonwealth Games since my mid teens. I’d rather play any

sport than watch it, with the exception of golf which should be banned.

But these guys live for cricket; It’s a religion, a passion, an obsession all in

one so I indulge them.

I meet a Scotsman and his Polish girlfriend and quite a few drinks later we’ve

been best friend for years. The food is fabulous, the Kingfisher beer strong

and the evening slides into raucous laughter and wild stories of bizarre

adventures.

The locals are just as funny and equally charming. At 1am the flouro lights

come on leaving us all squinting in disappointment that the night is over.

There's a big jug of water on the table and everybody is poured one, I’m on

my second glass before I realise my fatal blunder. There is bacteria in the

water that my immune system has never encountered before. The risk of food

poisoning is huge.

The next morning I’m ok so I’m hopefully I’ve avoided getting sick.

My driver David is from Goa, a Christian (which I am most certainly not) and a

lovely gentle guy with reasonable English. We drive to Mahabilpurm and I

spend the morning exploring. A quick visit to an orphanage leaves me

penniless, it’s impossible not to empty my pockets for them.

Out on the road a few things become apparent: there are no rules, you can

drive in any direction of either side of the road, ‘might is right’ = the bigger you

are the less you need to give way or care. All of these things I’ve seen in

other countries but nothing prepares me for our next encounter.

On a bitumen road wide enough to fit one and a half cars was begin to

overtake the car in front of us using our horn (indicators are cosmetic),

coming the other direction is a small bus overtaking a truck. In the middle of

all of this is an old man on an old bicycle going in our direction. He can hear

the incessant honking of our horn and he can see the bus overtaking, so he

must know that he is in danger. But he has a right to be on this road and he is

unwilling to do the sane thing, move over for his own safety. No he will pedal

along without concern as we engage in the perilous dance of chance.

We’re all calculating; speed, distance, the closing gap, the amount of time

until impact, all of which are in flux. The oncoming overtaking bus has an arc

and so do we, the question is will they overlap leaving catastrophe and

carnage in their wake or will it be another in a long line of near misses?

It’s hard to watch as the gap closes, we’re both doing about 80km/h. We

reach our widest point and begin moving back towards the middle of the road

just as the oncoming bus does the same, I almost can’t watch, we miss by

centimetres the force of air pressure in the gap kicks us sideways but not

enough to clip the stubborn old man on his stubborn old bike with is stubborn

old attitude. He has a right you know.

He also has a right to join the annual death toll which is 200,000 per year. Yep

highest in the world and I can see why. The whole episode is beyond my

comprehension, why would you risk your life for something so trivial. I’m sure

he would argue that his rights are not trivial but there seems to me a point

where survival is more important.

We drive for an hour and stop for a late lunch in the middle of nowhere at

some random place. The restaurant looks ok from the outside but it’s not so

great inside, the food was not particularly nice either.

It’s not a long drive to Pondicherry, the scenery is interesting and the driving

is regularly heart stopping, near miss after near miss.

We arrive late afternoon I check into one of the beautiful rooms at the

guesthouse, a series of rendered bungalows. Pondi is a former French

territory and charming in its architecture. With a small bag on my shoulder I

head into town to walk around the huge park in the centre. The mid afternoon

heat is stifling and I’m sweating already. About 20 minutes in I start to feel

weird, like a noticeable amount of energy is draining out of me with each step.

It takes a while to figure out what’s going on, when the first pang low in my

stomach comes I don’t take much notice but the third one is stronger and

familiar. I find a seat, my mind is foggy but I know what’s coming, I regret

walking so far in the extreme heat now.

I head back towards my room when a serious stomach cramp hits me hard,

yep its food poisoning, no doubt now. I have to stop every 50 meters to sit

and hold my belly as the intensity climbs each time. I’m only halfway home,

down to 20 meters each time when a cramp drops me on my knees, the pain

searing. After four or five of these I get a cramp so violent it puts me on the

ground, I’ve never experienced a cramp this savage before.

I need a bathroom desperately. After only a few meters and another one

drops me again. I’m worried now if I can make it back. I’m no longer sure

where I’m going but I have to push on. Everything gets super blurry and a

cramp so powerful leaves me shaking in the foetal position. I’m now crawling

on my hands and knees, sweat dripping from my nose, drool from my mouth.

My head spins as I fall on my side convulsing in agony close to delirious. On

and on crawl, cramp, fall, shake, gasp and groan my way back onto my

hands and knees. It’s only my sheer desperation for a toilet that drives me on.

The building pressure in the pit of my stomach can’t be held for ever.

I’m not sure how I arrived and the bungalows. I crawl up the stairs, I’m so

close. I manage to get on my feet clutching at anything to hold me upright. I

search my bag for a key but I can’t think or see. I must have been a full

minute when my fumbling fingers find the jangling key ring.

I’ve been sweating since I left but now, key in shaking hand, the pores on my

scalp open and drench me, I can feeling it running through my hair, running

down my back and chest like I’m in the shower, I can’t get the trembling key in

the hole, another cramp is coming but my shaking hands won’t work and

blurred vision is failing.

Success is a surprise, I fall through the door hit the ground hard as the cramp

rips through me, I cry out in pain for the first time. I lay on the beautiful

polished wood floor shaking through the subsiding pain. I get to my knees

and fumble to unzip my bag. Inside is a plastic bag with travel drugs, I snatch

them and lunge for the bathroom.

Once inside another cramp paralyses me, I hold the sink as it rips through

me. It feels like it will never pass. Finally I make it onto the toilet. I’ll spare you

the detailed description. After 10min of explosions I find the bag of drugs, I

have medication for stomach cramps (Buscopan), diarrhoea (Imodium),

electrolytes (Hydrolite) and most importantly broad spectrum antibiotics. I

down the Buscopan and Imodium but they come straight back up. I try again

a while later but same result. On the fourth attempt I hold them down, by this

point I’m swaying around on the seat fighting to stay upright. I fumble for the

antibiotics. It’s standard to take two and then one every four hours, I take four.

It’s hard to say how long later I resurfaced, making only to the bed before

dashing back again. It’s impossible to know how many times I did this but I’m

grateful to be here, belly full of drags and my own bathroom in crawling

distance.

At some point I manage to make it onto the bed to stay. A fever has been

building for a while, my joints ache more than I imagined possible, and my

head is pounding, I’m utterly exhausted. One the plus side the pain in my

abdomen has reduced and the nausea subsided. When I open my eyes the

room dances in a kaleidoscope of shapes and colours.

And then I hear it, a gunshot, clear as day. My mind races to comprehend the

sound. Then another shot followed by two more. They’re alarming close, I

search for reasons when a massive explosion shakes me into panic. What

the fuck! My mind spins out of control, the shaking worse, I can’t do this, I

can’t cope with this, not now, I’m helpless.

Clearly I’m in no position to get up, I’m trapped. Then four or five shot in quick

succession, I can’t do this I’m murmuring, More shots follow by even more,

what are they doing out there. It must be a lot of them shooting. Suddenly

everything spins completely out of control; the gunfire is louder, closer and

more frequent.

I read in the paper that a car bomb exploded in Madurai which is my main

destination, six people were killed. Here I am with more and more gunfire

ringing out. I’m beyond panicked now, delirious and spiralling into madness.

Twenty shots all jumbled and then another thirty, closer all the time. It must be

gangs of people. I can hear yelling and shouting and everything becomes

more intense. Another massive blast like a canon or mortar shell. What

possible could they be doing? Will I be safe in here? Will the mob pass me by

or drag me out into the street.

I’m frozen in fear unable to move, more rapid fire intermittently pierced by

heavy explosions. My conclusion now is that I’m in the middle of a civil war.

It’s only a matter of time before they’re banging on my door. I bury my head

under the pillow but there is no escape. I pass out.

The sun is setting when I wake, the room is silent. I feel almost human, I can

think clearly and the shaking has been replaced by a mild tremor in my

hands. I take another round of drugs. The memories float back into my brain,

a whirl of confusion. I still don’t understand what happened. I sit up feeling so

much better, still weak but the worst has well and truly past. I drink as much

water as I can, dehydration is not wise. It’s half an hour before I can get to my

feet and shuffle to the bathroom.

Back in my room I open a window and stick my head outside so I can see into

the street. It looks the same as when I arrived, no bullet marks, no exploded

cars, no burnt out buildings, no evidence of the revolution, nothing.

I crawled back into bed.

When was the last time you hallucinated from food poisoning? Well this was a

first for me. Able to think straight now, I pondered the events until it became

obvious, firecrackers. Yeah probably a festival or a celebration of some sort

but no revolution today.

Without the antibiotics and Imodium it would have been a totally different

outcome. I would have got back to my room, had to call a taxi to get taken to

a doctor, stomach cramps all the while and play charades between desperate

and embarrassing dashes to the toilet for my own explosions. Then back out

into a taxi, delirious and shaking for my trip to a ‘pharmacy’ a tenuous

description for some guy selling powders and potions which I have no idea

what they are, only to play charades again, throw money at them and in

between toilet dashes and cramps, taxi home to pray the mysterious powder

worked.

And here I was sitting up in bed feeling better by the hour, the early

intervention of antibiotics stopping everything in its tracks.

By the morning I’m week but to my surprise well enough to travel. About two

hour drive, we stop at Chidambaram and I manage a ginger walk around the

impressive sights.

It’s a long drive to Tanjore (Thanjavur) maybe three hours, my strength is

returning, I’m downing water bottles like a collage freshman at a frat party.

We stop for lunch before the temple but I can barely eat. The temple site is

spectacular. I read the history in the travel book as I stop for breaks around

the buildings.

Brihadishvara Temple (originally known as Peruvudaiyar Kovil) also called Rajarajeswaram, is a Hindu

Dravidian styled temple dedicated to the god Shiva located in South bank of Cauvery river in Thanjavur,

Tamil Nadu, India. It is one of the largest Hindu temples and an exemplary example of a fully realized Tamil

architecture. It is called as Dakshina Meru (Meru of south). Built by Chola emperor Rajaraja I between 1003

and 1010 CE, the temple is a part of the UNESCO World Heritage Site known as the "Great Living Chola

Temples"

We decide to stay in the city and I find a cheap room. He sleeps in his car

again much to my dismay. I invite him out to dinner but he refuses. I insist and

he eventually caves in. At the hotel restaurant they refuse to serve him

because of his low class. I get angry and have a go at the waiter and then the

owner. David is horrified and leaves insisting that it doesn't matter, it not worth

it, it’s just how it is.

I want to make him stay and force them to serve him but I sense this is just

my ego, my western view and my sense of righteousness. I’ve read a lot

about the class system, seen movies and spoken to people about it but the

idea that I understand is hubris. I let go and eat alone in the sombre silence,

the veg dinner is good but I would have preferred company, a laugh and to

get to know this humble guy.

It will be some time before I learn than most of the low class don’t want the

system dismantled and even longer before come to terms with the reasons.

Next morning we’re off to Trichy (Tiruchirappalli), it’s a pleasant two hour drive

and still recovering it’s a hard climb up the massive boulder to the Rock

Fortress and temple at the top. The view is breathtaking.

Tiruchirappalli Rockfort, locally known as Malaikottai, is a historic fortification and temple complex built on an

ancient rock. It is located in the city of Tiruchirappalli, on the banks of river Kaveri, Tamil Nadu, India. It is constructed

on an 83 metres high rock. There are two Hindu temples inside, the Ucchi Pillayar Temple, Rockfort and the

Thayumanaswami Temple, Rockfort. The fort complex has witnessed fierce battles between the Madurai Nayakas and

Adil Shahi dynasty of Bijapur, Carnatic region and Maratha Imperial forces. The fort played an important part during

the

Carnatic

Wars,

helping lay

the

foundation

s of the

British

Empire in

India.

The view from the Fort

I think you get an inkling of how the doco inspired my trip and fuelled my

desire to take on this adventure. My fascination with India was a long time in

the making, I had no misconceptions that it would be challenging but equally

rewarding.

Brunch after the temple was amazing. Good quality, tasty, spicy vegetarian

food is everywhere; I’m in heaven.

It’s a decent drive to Madurai, I’m excited because this is the jewel in the

crown of Southern Temples. I’m also a tiny bit concerned about the car bomb

and the rivalry that inspired it. I push it out of my mind, I can’t let fear control

my choices, safety is smart but too much safety is the death of living. You

have to take a risk sometimes.

We roll into the city and check in to my hotel, it’s a big one for a change. I can

walk to the temple from here. I will go many times before a leave.

It’s sublime, everything I’d hoped for and more. The atmosphere is serene

and reverent during the day and quite festive at night. The architecture is

incredible; the people are friendly and generous. I don’t feel so much out of

water, even though they find my presence peculiar as so few foreigners make

it this far south but they think my curiosity is flattering.

I wander aimlessly soaking up the ambiance, I take very few photos, I didn’t

come for that. I meet people and chat, I sit and try to be still, the sounds and

smells permeate the corridors, groups of men in robes and head cloths float

past incense wafting behind them, the plink of Indian sitar with a high pitch

melody the background tone. I don’t really want to leave, so I wander some

more and sit a while longer.

I go out for dinner to a splendid meal. The dahl is particularly amazing. I go

back after dinner to the temple which is thronged in lights and people, lively

and energetic.

There’s a feeling of festiveness around though still relaxed. The music is

loud.

On my last night in Madurai I convince David to join me on the roof top for

dinner. They serve him to our relief and we finally get the chance to relax and

have long conversations about his life and mine. He has a wife and kids, the

money he makes on this trip will feed his entire extended family for months.

He learnt English just to do this job, he spends time away from his family but

they are fine, his parent and grandparents all live together so plenty of

support.

After dinner I go to the loo and on the way back a table next to ours has a

couple of young English girls who are laughing loudly, I make some smart

remark about “Not enough good curries in London?”, they giggle as the

opposite is true. We chat for a while and I ask David to join us. He declines

graciously and disappears leaving me with them for an hour of fun and

drinking.

They are from London, nursing graduates on a gap holiday before starting

their careers. They tell me cool stories as their travels are vastly different to

mine. They cannot walk out of a hotel or train station without being

surrounded by dozens of men offering to ‘help them’ with their bags. They get

marriage proposals several times a day. Despite this they catch trains

everywhere and stay in dirt cheap rooms. I think they show a lot of courage to

travel like think despite the constant unwanted male attention which verges

on harassment.

There is a sci-fi themed bar in the basement and we continue our stories over

more drinks. I tell them about my delightful food poisoning experience as they

sit agape in horror.

They met some Indian guys in a bar a week before. One asked them how

much they earned, it’s not polite in western society but here it’s completely

acceptable. He tells her he works in IT and earns 15 score rupees with pride

and shows his expensive watch, he even has a flash car! They use their

phone to do the conversion, one score is 10,000 rupees and when they figure

out what that is in British pounds they burst into laughter. It’s less than a third

what they earn as trainee nurses. He and his friends are blown away by this

but the disparity in earning underscores the massive difference between East

and West.

Our discussion moves to exploitation and colonialism. I’m pleased to chat to

people who are prepared to have a deep dive into the way the world works.

Their hotel this particular evening is awful and I tell them that mine is better

than normal and has spare beds, they hit me up to share, why not, it’s bound

to be fun.

A few drinks later and they go back to their guesthouse to grab their bags and

come back. I go back to my room but get a message 20min later. The security

at the hotel won’t let them in because they cant produce evidence of a room,

they can’t even enter as guests past a certain time unescorted by a

chaperone. Welcome to the joys of the rural Indian south.

Next day we’re off to the mountains. One of my new found friends at the

Spanish tapas bar told me about the hill stations in the south so I adjusted my

trip to take them in. 45 minutes into our trip we drive through a massive wind

farm. A field if wind towers which will go on a far as they eye can see for half

an hour, it’s staggering.

Once we hit the foot of the mountains everything changes. Lush, emerald

green jungle climbing steeply from the dry flat plateau I’ve become used to.

Unfortunately driving becomes more dangerous hard as it is to believe.

Indians drive on the left, a remnant of British occupation. We drive up the

steep straights and then cut the corner of the hairpin bends crossing to the

wrong side, at the same time huge trucks and buses come flying down the

hill, brakes over heating and screeching, they too lurch from the wrong side of

the road and we play the same game as before but my confidence in the

ability of these massive old vehicles that swish past with centimetres to spare

is low.

Our first hill station stop (Kodikanal) affectionately called Kodi is really

beautiful little town, the jungle has given way to ferns, massive eucalyptus

trees and wild grasses. The wet season is due soon; it’s such a relief to

lose the humidity, a fair trade for cold nights, misty mornings and refreshingly

cooler days than the low lands.

There’s a lookout over the mountains so in the late afternoon I walk there, the

view is spectacular. It’s not too busy but the local monkeys have taken to

openly begging for food, don’t be fooled by their ruse, while you’re distracted

by one the others are rifling through your bag and even trying to prise stuff

out of your pockets. Once the jig is up the snatch things from your hands and

run away squealing wildly in victory, you’ve been warned.

There is little to do after dinner so I turn in early. Next morning I find David

asleep in his car, window down, a small blanket providing little respite from

the cold, his thick coke bottle glasses coated in vapour, a small amount of

drool seeping from his mouth. I almost don’t have the heart to wake him.

He startles blinking and sniffling, adjusts his glasses and smiles deeply at me,

he seems content most of the time and since I’m not demanding we slowly

form a relaxed bond. It’s high time I discuss the mountain driving with him, my

second attempt to get him to do something different.

I gently explain that if he stays on the left the whole time he won’t have to

make the panicked dive out of the way of the trucks and buses. Initially he

doesn’t understand but he says he’ll try it. It doesn’t last long, much to my

dismay so I’ll just have to get used to it.

Its a relatively short drive to Ootty (Ootacamund) our second hill station,

much larger, more famous and subsequently busier. It has a massive 22 acre

botanical garden (the largest in India) with 20,000 varieties of roses, which is

really impressive. The highlight for me was the misspelt “Tornville and Dean”

rose named after the popular Olympic skating duo. Also a 20 million year old

fossilised tree. You don’t believe me do you? You’re going to look it up now?

The huge park within the grounds is delightful, it’s such a stark contrast to the

bustling towns I’ve been for the last week.

The lake is also lovely but drowning in people so I avoid it.

There is a sense that it’s like being in the country side or mountains in any

other country but that’s not the case. When we left the frantic chaos of

Chennai behind on the first day I expected, like Mexico, Italy, Thailand and

Japan that the towns would become smaller and further apart as I travelled

more but with a population (back then) of 1.3 billion people it never happens.

Every 5-10 minutes there is another town and another, they’re not small

either. Ooty is 88,000 people without tourists. This is as ‘ in the middle of

nowhere’ as it gets but if India has an abundance of anything it’s

people.....and poverty.

My countries total population 25 million. The number of people who live below

the poverty line in India (back in 2008) was 400 million, just let that sink in a

bit. These people live on US$1 a day and sadly that is adjusted for the local

economy. It is exactly the equivalent of you and I living on $365 a year. I sure

as fudge couldn’t do and if you’re honest neither could you.

In other countries like Cambodia, Mexico/Guatemala where you are greeted

at tourist attraction by kids begging, it’s maybe a dozen, here it’s a hundred or

two hundred (not all kids either) and you can clearly see the difference. They

are not smiling and happy to see you, they are starving and desperate. Your

failure to show ‘compassion’ means they don’t eat that day but the sheer

volume makes it impossible to help everyone. It’s a no win situation leaving

you feeling helpless, heartless and a failure.

You could literally got to an ATM get out a thousand US dollars, change it for

dollar bills and give one to every poor person you meet, it would be gone in

two days, maybe less. As i said, the scale massive is hard to

comprehend.....until you stand in front of them. I gave a away money to

beggars but I have to be careful how many people are around, it’s too easy to

create a drama.

Dinner is fabulous and I stumble into a conversation with someone randomly

ending with a small drinking session outside in the cold. I only have a few and

then head back to my tiny basic room to find the blankets inadequate for the

rapidly declining temperature. I’d complain but David is in the car with his one

tiny blanket so I’d just look like a pussy.

Next morning it’s raining heavily, the smell of wet forest permeates

everything. It’s that wonderful dense earthy mushroomy fragrance that is so

primal and ancient. We drive through the deluge, ropes of water hammering

the shops and smashing into the dirt like machine gun fire, bouncing back up

only to be hit by more relentless incoming streams.

As we head out of town into the unknown, torrents of water gush across the

road making our progress slow. The game of chicken with the oncoming

trucks is unimaginably more treacherous. We wind our way through mountain

tracks, sometimes just dirt and mud to regularly find our path blocked. We

plough though creeks water level with the top of our tyres, the tiny car not

designed for these conditions.

David tells me the ‘wet season’ is coming and soon, maybe a day or two

these roads will be impossible except for 4WDs and in a week or so they will

be cut off for months. An hour or two of this hard slog and the rain eases a

little. Were heading north now through the mountains for most of the day to

get to Mysore. An hour later in some wide fields with over a metre high grass

ringed in forest, I see some elephants working, David tells me he’s seen

tigers here, more than once. They leap out he says, you never see them

coming. Good to know...I think.

Mysore is a big city with plenty of charm. There’s a marble statue of a

panther/tiger on a pedestal outside the main attraction Mysore palace, it’s

absolutely amazing, great detail and capturing the raw power and fierce

posture so clearly.

David gets a bit lost and we stop a few times to ask directions, it’s the first

time I see him frustrated. I don’t understand the conversation but the body

language suggests something is a little off.

I find an interesting place to stay, a Raj palace. It’s surprisingly affordable and

for only one night I lash out. There’s a stuffed lion in the lobby which is both

horrific and captivating at the same time. Clearly I’m not impressed that some

pompous fuckwit shot this beautiful creature and stuffed it to show off

his.....manlyness? power? prowess? insecurity? small penis? lack of

empathy?

People throw the word privilege around a lot these days but here is real

unabated, unashamed privilege on full display for the entire world to

admire/judge/cringe/condemn.

The lion is also massive; I mean if I laid down next to it I’d look small, ok

that’s probably not an achievement. If Michael Jordon lay down next to it, he’d

look seriously tiny.

The whole palace is really an extension of the stuffed lion in the glass

cabinet. Opulent, prestigious, oozing wealth and elitism, harking back to an

age when beating your servants was so common place you could laugh about

it with your friends. When lavish displays of your outrageous fortune made

you enviable instead of pitiable, heartless, pathetic scum that exploited

vulnerable people for sport. Surely the wrong animal was stuffed into the

class cabinet.

Dinner was served in a huge ballroom with chandeliers and plush chairs,

velvet curtains and waiters in white coats; it was like an unwitting self satire.

The food was sublime I must say. There was a couple on their honeymoon at

a table nearby, they ordered in English which I found curios, on my way back

from the bathroom I asked them about it, they were happy to tell me. They

were from Dehli and spoke Hindi, the local language is Karnataka, so they

have difficulty understanding but more to the point they told me that even if

they did understand they would never let on. So they ordered in English, it

was easier.

This explains the problem with directions earlier.

They offered a seat and we spent the rest of the night chatting.

India has twenty six states and twenty six languages, not dialects, full

separate languages. Bollywood movies have to be translated within India so

everyone can watch them. In Chennai they have their own version of

Bollywood called Kollywood pumping out hundreds of full movies in Tamil.

No I’m not making it up, no don’t look it up.....uuuuhhhg I told you so.

The coffee is average; actually the coffee everywhere is awful, everywhere in

Asia to be honest. I don’t know why I don’t just drink tea, they’re damn good

at that.

We’re off to Mangalore (sister city to Bangalore) the tech hub of India.

We arrive late I’m not sure why and I find a cheap room. Out for dinner I meet

another expat and we chat over a Kingfisher or two. The restaurant closes

early and we jump in a Auto to look for a bar which becomes increasingly

difficult. As it turns out you can’t get alcohol after 8pm but the driver knows

somewhere. We go in but are turned away, it’s not clear why. We repeat this

process a few times, I feel like I’m 15 again sneaking into pubs. I give up

easily; I don’t want a drink that much. I’m left with the sour taste of stale beer

in my mouth and a perhaps an unfairly poor opinion of Mangalore. I don’t

really care; I’m tired and coming close to the end of my trip.

I have no memories of Bangalore, I know I went there; it’s unlikely that

nothing happened but it’s all blank.

We arrive back at the New Woodlands in Triplicane, back to the chaos of

thousands of bleating car and bike horns all clamouring to be seen and

heard.

I deliberately leave a small bag in the car. Go inside to pay for the balance of

my car rental and driver. When I come out David is waiting with my bag. I tell

him I need his help to by something from a shop and drag him away from the

hotel. I already have a wad of notes ready for him. I thank him and hand him

the money, he flat out refuses. It’s not one of those pretend refusals, he’s

adamant. So after much insisting from both of us I pull my trump card, “I’ll

drop the money on the ground if you don’t take it”. He protests but senses I’m

serious; he gives in and takes the money. He graciously thanks me over and

over.

We can’t change the world and we can’t change everyone’s life but you and I

can change someone’s.