Mumbai and Leeds

The memory, now, is the journey itself. I've already been home for over two weeks. I don't know where the time has gone. With a huge long list of 'todos' in hand, the completion of my blog got pushed towards the back, but not forgotten.

My final day in Mumbai, as planned, involved a tour around Dharavi slum. Initial reservations about a tour around a slum were quelled by the company who ran the tour. 80% of the profits go to the learning centre within the slum that has been set up by the company, and those within the slum seemed fine with the occasional tour group eyeing their daily activities. Photographs are banned. The kids, as normal, were delighted to see us. The slum is not, as may be expected, a constant stream of diseased and starving people left in the gutter. While conditions were poor, our tour concentrated on the working lives of the inhabitants within the slum. Thousands of people work on the recycling of various materials and waste. These are then sold back to manufacturers and reused.

The most surprising thing about the slum was the atmosphere; so many people seemed so happy, especially the children who played with yo-yos and cricket sets in the street. For a split second it almost made it possible to forget that the huge profits that were made in the slum went to the bosses who lived outside, not the souls working hard within the narrow streets.

Suddenly that was it. I was back in the heart of Mumbai counting my final rupees and scouring for my final meal. Once that was eaten, there was little to do but to go back to my room, pack and go to bed.

My day of travel went fairly smoothly. My hotel booked me a taxi to the airport, and my flight to London was fine. My joining flight up to Manchester airport felt like about 15 minutes (I think I fell asleep), and after a quick jog in the snow wearing summer clothes, I managed to catch a train to Leeds with minutes to spare.

In Leeds train station I waited for my lift home. Hungry, and with little choice, I entered McDonalds. A man approached me. He was fairly scruffy looking, had a large beard, and his dog waited for him outside the restaurant. "Aren't you cold in that?", he asked. I told him that I was fine, and that I had some extra clothes in my bag. "I used to be homeless" said the man, "Would you like my coat?". A year of travel changes your outlook on life. Amongst the many things I learnt, I learnt that poverty is everywhere ... and so are friendly people.

Wearing a winter coat brought to me by parents, I finally arrived home. It was strangely familiar. Little things had changed in each room, but it was hard to remember what had changed over the last year, and what had actually changed shortly before I'd gone away.

Months travelled : 12
Countries visited : 10
Plane journeys taken: 13 and a half
Favourite Countries : India, Myanmar
Favourite locations : Don Kho (Laos), The Road to Manali (India), Varanasi (India)
Favourite 60 seconds: Skydiving (Cairns, Australia)
People thought I was : French, Spanish, Italian, Turkish, Greek, Russian, Egyptian, Israeli, Lebanese, Indian, Pakistani, Mexican, Chilian, Brazilian, Argentinian ... or David Beddiel.

Real life begins again. Getting up in the morning in preparation for a full day of travel in blistering heat with a selection of new mosquito bites and the occasioanal offer of a rickshaw or tuk-tuk feels like a distant memory, and I'm glad it is. I'm ready for normality again. Things will be similar to what they were, but one thing has changed; I have memories and stories. I have struggled to breath in both the dizzy heights of the Himalayas and whilst freefalling from 14,000 foot down-under. I have enjoyed the off-beat comedy of an outlawed Burmese comedy trio. I have stumbled upon the sacrifice of seven chickens.

I have travelled for a year throughout two continents. For now, I want to stay put ... it's good to be home.

From Cochin to Mumbai

Back in February, I wrote this ...

At one point I past a couple of English guys thrusting a guitar into the face of a Laos shopkeeper. I paid little attention to this, but seconds later my ears pricked up. "Want a guitar?" shouted one of the guys to a stranger across the street. If the stranger replied I don't know, my instinct kicked in. "I'll have a guitar!" I said on the swivel. Whether the stranger across the road had even wanted it, I don't know - I never even looked in his direction! Within thirty seconds I found myself walking down the street with a barely used guitar on my back, tuner included! It all happened so quickly that we were already walking our separate ways when I realised I should have at least offered to buy the boys a drink! Back in my room I gave it a quick spin. It sounded great.

That was a long time ago. Now its eleven months later, and my journey is nearly over. One week ago I was in Cochin, a city I'd visited before. I spent some time here relaxing, but also planning my final week in India. I needed to make the long journey north. However, this was a very busy route, and finding a vacant train seat was proving difficult. After a frustrating day, I decided to join Hannah to a trip to the cinema. We saw Avatar, a Western film that was visually incredible but bored me hugely. However, for the first time I witnessed what Indians are like at the cinema; loud and boisterous. There is much applauding and whistling at the start and end of the film, not to mention during popular bits within the film itself. It was quite bizarre.

By the following day my decision was made; it made more sense for me to simply catch a plane north; This would be more comfortable, and would also allow me time to return to Alleppey for another backwater trip. On Friday, therefore, I said goodbye to Hannah (yet again!), and caught a bus south. However, despite all the bus journeys I have made over the last year, on this one I felt somewhat empty handed. It had become ever-clear to me over the past year that the guitar I had been handed in Laos should not be kept. It was handed to me by a couple of generous guys on the street, and therefore I made the decision to do the same. I intend my guitar to travel the world; passed from hand to hand from traveller to traveller. My decision of who to pass it to, by now, was obvious. During the many weeks I had been travelling with Hannah she had played my guitar more than me - and after having stated her approval of the idea of a travelling guitar, she had hinted that she would love to be the new bearer. I have therefore created a group on the website Facebook so everyone who owns the guitar can log where they have taken it, and on Friday I left my hotel guitar-less. Hannah now has some extra-luggage.

On arrival in Alleppey I soon bumped into Dave (aka Dave 2 aka Dave 1 aka Canadian Dave) at the guesthouse Hannah had recommended to him. He told me about the canoe trip that the other Dave (aka Dave 1 aka Dave 2 aka American Dave) had informed him about, and so I made a quick phone call and booked myself onto it.

On Saturday morning I met my canoeist at Alleppey boat jetty. Kunjachan, it was soon apparent, was a very friendly and very excitable local man who enjoyed ferrying canoeists across the backwaters, through villages, and in my case, letting them stay the night in his house. Joining me on the canoe part of the trip were Haidi from Finland and Gavin Webster, a former professional rugby union player for Northampton and Rotherham. He denied being famous.

The trip was very pleasant, yet very hot. We were punted round narrow canals and through friendly villages. There were many birds, and also early on a rattle snake shimmying by our canoe. Kunjachan's wife made us lots of food, and in the evening I joined Kunjachan in watching the history channel in his little house comprising of three tiny rooms.

The next day I woke up in my little room and was taken back to Allepey on the back of Kunjachan's son's motorbike. Later that day I found myself outside Allepey train station waiting to go to Trivandrum. As I waited I was approached by a bunch of guys all dressed in black. I had seen many of these people throughout the state of Kerela; they walk for many days or even weeks to get to the temple once a year. They are bare-footed and carry their belongings in a wrap on their heads. The friendly men told me that they were going to see their god in south Kerela. On Thursday he would appear before them as a small star that would rise from the ground into the sky. The most talkative man, whose English was excellent, was seeing the spectacle for the fifth time. They were very friendly and very interested in me, and the obligatory photo session finished off the interaction.

That evening I travelled to Trivandrum, and the following day I caught my plane to the final location of my travels; Mumbai. On my first evening I walked around the area around my hotel, and the next day I visited Elephanta Island and The Gateway Of India. I also saw The Taj Mahal Hotel, the prime location of the terrorist attacks which I mentioned in my very first blog entry back in 2008.

In the evening I bought an excellent seekh kebab before going to the cinema, something I had planned to do in Mumbai my entire Indian journey; Mumbai is Bollywood central.


Back in Delhi four months ago I remember being in my hotel room for three days straight; I was stricken with Delhi Belly. I was alone, but one familiar face kept coming to see me. As I watched TV, an advert for Coca-cola was rerun over and over again, and the terrible overacting of the main man in the advert began to annoy me; he was so bad. As the weeks and months went on, however, I noticed the man more and more. He was donning glasses and trying to be serious on hoardings for opticians, and then running around trying to be cool on crisps adverts. Lately, however, he had been even more prominent; his latest film, 3 Idiots, is huge. His name is Aamin Khan, and despite having been the most annoying man on my travels, it felt like I had little choice in what Bollywood film to watch.

To my surprise, 3 Idiots was pretty fun. I expected a dire movie concentrating on three Mr bean-esque characters, but actually the main trio didn't seem like idiots at all. Although much of the film was lost on me due to the language barrier, I actually found it funny in parts - whilst the Hindi understanding families around me found it an absolute riot. Having said that, they were surprisingly not as boisterous as the lot who joined me for Avatar in Cochin, although they did shoot up like they had been all shot at the same time when the screen instructed them to rise for the Indian national anthem at the start of the film. Aamin Khan, on the other hand, has become my favourite Indian actor - although I actually don't know any others.

It is now my final full day of travelling. Soon I hope to embark on a guided tour of Dharavi slum (which, despite my fears, is apparently very ethical and 80% of profits go to the slum).

Tomorrow, I go home. My next blog entry, I'm sure, will be written from a much more familiar place.

From Alleppey to Cochin

It's been a while since I've had a chance to write my blog, and so I will try and gloss over the bulk of it and concentrate on the highlights. I joined Hannah in Allepey (also known as Alappuzha) on 23rd December, and since then have tagged on to her plans with her friend Ciara from home. The pace has been fast.

The 23rd December was Hannah's birthday, and after a small party in the guesthouse, we woke up on 24th December with a surprise. Alleppey is famous for boat trips down the backwaters of Kerela, and someone had just cancelled. We were therefore offered to take their place for half the price. Along with Hannah's friend Nick, the three of us rushed out of bed and were soon sailing down the peaceful and picturesque river. It was very pleasant. As we anchored by the riverside in the evening, groups of kids approached the side of the boat, often including one dressed as Santa. They sang merry Indian Christmas songs; Asia's equivalent of carol singers I presume.

I woke up on Christmas day floating on our boat down a quiet river scattered with occasional riverside churches. Presents were none existent though. We soon returned to Alleppey to laze away the rest of Christmas, and the following day we travelled to Cochin. After a short walk we went to bed, only to suffer one of the worst nights I have had all year; the room was sweltering hot. The fan did little to help, and opening the windows seemed to let in little air any cooler, whilst simultaneously bringing in mosquitoes.

After a walk around Cochin the following morning, we took a very busy and hot train in which we failed to obtain a seat in for a couple of hours, and then found it very difficult to find a place to stay in an ad-hoc night in Calicut. Eventually we treated ourselves with an expensive room with air-conditioning, but the luxury was welcome.

With our batteries recharged, the following day involved a comfortable taxi ride to Kannur. The next day, however, was eerie. Kannur was in the middle of a strike, something we struggled to understand. It was a ghost town. For the first time ever in an Indian city, I heard no noise other than the occasional squawk of a distant bird. It was very bizarre; No rickshaws, no shops, no hustle. Later we went to the beach for an hour, and then returned to out guesthouse.

The main reason for going to Kannur, however, was to see some theyyam; a popular Hindu ritual of worship. As far as I understood, this meant all-night costumes, masks and dancing. We found out about some theyyam going on in a nearby village, and prepared ourselves for a long night. Upon arrival, things looked promising. Drums were banging in the temple, the place was packed, and one man was dressed in an extravagant orange costume. The locals were all excited to see some white faces, and before long we were mobbed. My favourite local was a kid I secretly named 'Question Boy'. He would discuss with his mates for about five minutes, then come to us and ask us a simple question (usually requiring a one word answer), before returning to his mates to decide on the next long-planned enquiry.

However, things gradually went quiet as the night wore on. The crowds depleted. After a few enquiries, we were informed that there would be no other ceremonies within the temple until, if I remember correctly, four in the morning - and so we waited.

Not too long after midnight Ciara suggested that the three of us went for a walk. I felt there was little to see, but I had no good reason to decline. After a few minutes of walking we heard some drums, and headed through some dark trees to an encirclement of houses. The drums got ever closer. We didn't quite know what was going on, but it felt worthwhile to find out. However, when we got just metres away from the house with the activity, we turned around; We feared it may be a funeral procession, something which it would be rude to walk into. As we turned and walked back through the dark trees, we heard a strange high pitch squeal. I was unsure if it was a baby or an animal, but as we increased our pace I felt deja vous, and soon realised that this all felt familiar; it felt like a scene from the Blair Witch Project.

As we walked past a neighbours house, we enquired what was going on. He told us the family were praying, and that we would be more than welcome. We therefore returned. We were welcomed heartily, and were instantly moved to the edge of the square in which the ceremony would take place. Many people were there, including men with drums in local holy dress. Ciara, however, spotted something that neither me or Hannah had. It apparently took her a few seconds to take it in, but soon, in an unbelievably calm voice, she uttered the words "Oh, they're going to sacrifice that chicken." The drums rolled, the candles were lit, and about two minutes of horror and fascination began beneath our noses. The parts I remember proceeded as follows...

A man holding a knife began to dance around a square of candles. The bells around his ankles jingled with each step in time to the hypnotic drums. Once he had finished his jig, he knelt down by a bowl of red liquid, and fiercely splashed some of it out of the bowl. Soon afterward, a second man presented him with a chicken. The dancing man began to fiercely pull the feathers of the disturbed chicken, before sprinkling them on the lit square. He then unleashed his knife, and as the chicken was held still, he amputated the comb (the red crest on the head). This too was thrown onto the candle-lit square. As the drums quickened to a dramatic and pacey climax, the chicken's head was pushed down just above the liquid-filled bowl, before the knife was dropped. It sliced and cut its way through the chicken's head. The head was thrown away like litter, whilst the headless chicken was subsequently dipped into the bowl. As the bowl grew increasingly red, the chicken was stirred like a spoon. Once the recipe appeared complete, the chicken body was too discarded like a piece of insignificant waste.

At this point I gazed hazily at the headless body. I saw first hand the origin of the term 'running around like a headless chicken'. Despite failing to land on it's feet, it scampered frantically on the floor, occasionally rolling over. Occasional spasms could still be seen maybe twenty or thirty seconds later. Ciara also reportedly witnessed the beak on the chicken's lonely head chattering away.

The posthumous movements of the ex-chicken, however, seemed invisible to the locals. They all focused on the main man, who was now taking a double-hand full of reddened liquid and seemingly pouring it into his mouth. Either that or he was at least pretending to. Soon the candle-lit square was pushed over, signifying the end of the ritual. It felt like the lights had just turned on and the crowd were told to casually stroll home, silent in admiration of what had just happened. In contrast, I stared idly at the open space in front of me; a space stained in blood-red water, a collapsed square of candles, one chicken head and one chicken body. I failed to speak for a minute. We had just stumbled upon something intense.

I thought at this point that I would always remember the night for the moment I witnessed a chicken sacrifice, but I was wrong. I would remember the night for being the time when I witnessed the sacrifice of seven chickens. The holy men were going from house to house practicing the holy ritual so that everyone could be blessed by the village god. We followed, witnessing calm chickens, screeching chickens, headless chickens that ran in circles, small children enjoying the fun, drums beating, people praying and three bewildered tourists.

When daylight began to return, we were back in the temple. It had been easy to forget that we had initially come for costumes, masks and dancing. When this finally happened, I was left underwhelmed. One fancifully dressed man pranced around to a small audience with little atmosphere. Whilst Hannah enjoyed it, Ciara drifted in and out of a snooze. We had barely slept. The theyyam itself had been of little interest, but sometimes it is the unexpected that makes a trip worthwhile.

The following day, Wednesday, involved some much needed sleep and a journey to Wayanad. Thursday involved more sleep and an unsuccessful attempt to see a waterfall before the entrance was closed. However, we knew we had to make something of the day; it was New Years Eve. That evening we were joined by Dave from America who we had met back in Alleppey. He brought along a Canadian guy he had met, also named Dave. In our room we played cards and had a small party to welcome in the new year.

On New Years Day our group of five made a pleasant walk through some tea plantations, which also involved a local woman inviting us into her small house. Inside was a disabled boy, probably in his teens. For the thirty minutes or so we spent there he just laid on his bed, occasionally stirring or laughing in an unlit room.

Later in the day we did a safari. Over my entire year, I feel like the main thing I have missed out on is wildlife. I have seen some, but maybe not enough, especially in the wild. I wondered if my luck was now in. However, people who go on safari often come back back disappointed; if it's wild, it's not going to want to come and say hello to a big loud noisy jeep. And so after an hour or so of driving, my sighting of one dog, one cow, a few deer, one 'dancing' peacock, three chained working elephants and a couple of flies was expected, if unsatisfying.

Saturday was a big day of travel. We said goodbye to Dave 1 (American Dave) the night before, and Hannah, Ciara, Dave 2 (Canadian Dave) and myself endured a taxi, a train, a bus and another taxi to arrive at Ana Mudi. This was something we had all been looking forward to; an Indian friend of Hannah's had invited her to the Christian wedding of her brother, and friends were more than welcome. On Sunday, therefore, we donned our best clothes (I bought a new shirt and trousers in Wayanad) and hoped that our white faces would not overshadow the bride and groom. Compared to many other places I have been to, in fact, the attention we received was low. We were given a lovely meal of seemingly unlimited food, while a few things seemed to be happening on the stage at the other side of the huge banqueting hall. However, by now I was a little confused. It appeared that the on-stage couple were already wed. Indeed they were; the previous night we had been told that there would be a service at eight in the morning, but it would not be something we would be interested in. By now it was apparent that it had been the actual wedding itself, and so after our feeding, there was nothing left for us to do but head back to our room.

The potential disappointment of this, however, was quelled by one important factor. I previously had had no hopes of being able to catch the hugely exciting televised Leeds United versus Manchester United FA Cup tie, but now I had a chance. However, it was not to be; I fiddled with the television settings for ages, but clearly I had no access to the game. I found out later that night that Leeds had achieved an historic one-nil victory. My ecstatic delight was matched by my disappointment of missing it. Bittersweet.

On Monday we travelled to nearby Munnar and undertook a really beautiful trek through, I think, the highest region in South India. Yesterday I took a break from things (partly to write my long overdue blog!) whilst Hannah, Ciara and Dave (who by now had promoted himself to Dave 1) embarked on another trek. In the evening we moved back to Cochin, and from here we go our separate ways.

Today is 6th January. On 14th January I fly home. I am ready, I look forward to it, and yet it seems insane.

From Kodaikanal to Trivandrum

Since I picked up a copy of 'The Beach' back in Laos, I've always a had a book in my bag. Sometimes I'd fly through it in just a matter of days (Dan Brown), other times I wouldn't plough to the end for weeks (Barack Obama). However, this is the first time I've had a book which is helping me grasp a deeper knowledge of the country I'm travelling in. 'The Age Of Kali' by William Dalrymple is a collection of essays from India in the 1990s, but it gives a fascinating insight into both the present and the past. When I was unsure whether to enter Nepal or not, I think I partly decided not to go because 'The Age Of Kali' made me realise I still had so much more to learn about India. One of the chapters inparticular would turn out to be very relevant to my travels. Dalrymple talks about his visit to The Meenaksi temple in Madurai, and the sacred ceromonies that continue today, unchanged, as they did in ancient times. Madurai became a 'must-do' stop on my journey.

I said goodbye to Kodaikanal on Friday. The place uninspired me, but at one point it did make me giggle for the first time in a while. The two locals standing beside me couldn't understand what was going on. They interchanged between looking at me and looking in the direction I was facing, but they didn't get the joke. I couldn't help it though, the choice of photo which had been put onto the sign for the Hotel Ruchi Restaurant made me laugh.

Before long I was at the bus stop, and the prospect of getting a cheap and fast car journey down to Madurai seemed too good to turn down. I was told that the car was going there to be returned, and the driver was very friendly. He even bought me a tea at our halfway stop.

We arrived at Maduraui as it was getting dark, and once I checked into my hotel I had a stroll around. For the first time in quite a while, I was remainded what I was travelling for. Just around the corner in the buzzing streets were a series of lights going skyward; The Meenaksi temple. Amongst the regular street folk were groups of pilgrims who had come to worship there. They wore only black, although many also chose to be barechested. There was a unique atmosphere around the streets. However, when I approached the temple there was a huge queue. I decided to delay my visit until the following day; I felt like I needed to give myself a little recap in what the temple was about before getting bamboozled in it. I spent the rest of the evening strolling around Madurais fascinating streets.

On Saturday daytime I ventured inside the temple. Unfortunetely, some of the most holy parts are for Hindus only, but there is still much to see, and a lot of atmosphere to soak up. There were various impressive statues, a large water tank, and also the temple elephant who blessed the pilgrims in the same why I had seen in Hampi. However, I was yet to witness what Dalrymple had talked about in his book; that would have to wait for the evening.

Every evening at 9pm, figures of the god and goddess Meenaksi and Shiva are carried to the temple bedchamber to, so it goes, ensure the regeneration of the universe. I returned to the temple for the ceremony, but I wasn't quite sure where about in the temple I needed to be. However, I hung around and hoped to not miss out. If anything, the atmosphere was more intense in the evening than earlier in the day. People's devotion to the various idols around the temple was even more intense. At one point I stood next to an elderly woman as she marked the entrance to one of the Hindu-only sections in a white powder pattern. I had no idea why.

Suddenly I noticed that a crowd had formed around the corner. I joined it at the back. Within moments a small chariot-like box was being ushered through the people-made corridor. This was clearly what I had been waiting for. I followed as closely as I could, and surprisingly easily, I reached within a metre of the chariot. Before long it arrived at the entrance to the Hindu-only section I was by earlier, and it was placed above the white powder pattern.

It stayed there for a long time, but it was a relief; as soon as it entered the room, I would be able to see no more. Me and a handful of other tourists stayed where we were, mesmorised by events that we didn't realise still existed in the civilised world. As a mild smoke blew in the direction of the chariot, one bare-chested man fanned it, presumably to cool it down. Behind me were a small group of musicians, the most impressive of whom was playing what looked like a flute whose end had exploded, and sounded like a wildly flailing but fun trumpet. Finally the procession continued, and assuming that this was indeed the ceremony I had read about, the bedchamber awaited. If I remember correctly, various Hindus ran into the forbidden room behing the chariot, whilst a group of lost looking tourists hung outside for a few moments before realising it was time to leave. And so I did.

Outside the temple I came across an enthusiastic bunch of locals wanting their picture taking. It's difficult to explain to them that my camera display is broken, so only once their excitement is at it's peak and they await to see themselves in digital form, do they find themselves staring blankly at a smashed screen.

Madurai is the best place I've been to for ages, but it is further boosted by the excellent, if wordy, Gandhi Memorial Museum. Being in India, I felt obliged to enchance my somewhat limited knowledge of one of the greatest figures of the twentieth century. It was very interesting. For the journey home I took a cyclo rickshaw. My elderly driver had to put a lot of hard work into moving the vehicle, but he let me have a go at cycling for a while, and we took a breather halfway for a tea. It took a long time to get home though!

Yesterday I moved on from Madurai and arrived in Trivandrum. It's fairly nice for a city, despite there being little to do. However, it represents how the South India can be relatively calm compared to the north, even in the cities. It is also clearly much more wealthy than many other parts of the country. However, tommorow I head north again to Alappuzha. There I will rejoin Hannah once again to celebrate her birthday, and most probably Christmas.

From Bengaluru to Kodaikanal

Things have been fairly low-key lately. Firstly I moved from Hampi to Bengaluru (formerly Bangalore). It was the most modern and Western feeling city I've been to in India, but was ultimately quite uninteresting. I then moved on to Mysore, a popular place for local tourists. It's famous for it's market; I've never seen so many bananas!

Mysore was followed by Ooty, another popular place for local tourists. Up in the hills it was chilly and green and felt like England. Again, there was little to do, but I did meet the goalkeeper of Chennai (formerly Madras) football team, plus I visited surely the worlds worst theme park; Jolly World! After spending the 5 rupee entrance fee (about 6 pence), I strolled around the nearly-empty gardens, dangerous looking climbing frames, and stationery circular rides, before leaving ten minutes later. I didn't feel even remotely more jolly.

Ooty was followed by an impromptu stop in Palani, a town not even in my guidebook. I was clearly off the beaten track based on the stares from the locals, but after one night I moved on. I now find myself in Kodaikanal, another Ooty-style Indian tourist town, but the foggy views ruin the otherwise beautiful scenery.

So maybe I've been on the road for too long, but clearly the last week or so has been unexciting. I now enter my final month. Hopefully the grand finale is just around the corner.

From Nasik to Hampi

As planned, Monday involved a day trip to Trimbak before returning to Nasik for my journey to Hyderabad. Trimbak translates as 'Three-Eyes', another name for the Hindu god Shiva, and is a very famous place for Hindus. However, few foreign tourists seem to go there, and I was once again the centre of intrigue for the Indian pilgrims. The main part of my visit was to do the Brahmagiri hike; an uphill walk to the remains of Anjeri Fort, and eventually to the source of the Godavari river. It was a pleasant hike with some good views.

At the remains of the fort I was approached by numerous locals wanting to chat and take pictures (often with my camera and without even asking to see the results!). As further great scenery spanned into the distance, the pleasant atmosphere was further boosted by a man who gently lectured to a group of obdient listeners. My guess was that he was telling tales from the holy books. Later the pilgrims would queue up by the man to be blessed by water from a well. With an evening train to catch I decided not to progress further to the source of the river (my guidebook described it as 'rather unimpressive' anyway), and I trekked back down the hill.

That evening I took the night train south to Hyderabad, and after a low-key Tuesday I explored the place on Wednesday. Unfortunetly I found the place quite uninspiring; just another busy Indian city, albeit with a slight Islamic influence.

On Wednesday night I took the night train to Hampi. I have been on the road now for well over ten months, and I think it's understandable to say at this point that I am now rarely taken back by something. However, when I arrived at Hampi's river on early Thursday, I was taken back. From what I had been told, Hampi was unique because of the boulders that are scattered around the landscape, sometimes seemingly defying gravity as they balance upon one another. I had seen something like this before back at Devil's Marbles in Australia. However, Hampi was different. The beautiful boulder-scattered river winded through a landscape where hills and mountains were formed by boulders. It was quite bizarre. Furthermore, memories of Varanasi came back to me as locals washed their clothes joyfully in the waters. As I sat on the steps awaiting a boat to take me to the other side of the river, an elephant appeared some distant away on the steps, plodding down to the river's edge accompanied by his rider. He subsequently got a morning bath.

Hampi is a very laid back place, but to my surprise, there is also a strong backpackers' scene, with many lazing here for extended periods of time. I therefore too found myself intermitently sandwiching days of exploration with days of laziness. I spent time playing chess, and also giving advice to a bunch of locals who were setting up a restaurant. All their proceeds were going to charity, but as of yet they had sold merely a few cups of tea in the week or two they had been open. I hope they take on board my advice if they are going to make it!

It was Friday before I trekked to the temples and pathways to the North-East of the main bazaar. By chance though, it was the start of a Hindu festival, and yet more Indians in the busy crowds found great glee in saying hello and asking where I was from. Late afternoon I climbed to the summit of Matanga Hill, but after scurrying past a few steep drops, I was happy to found out that there was an alternative way down on the otherside.

On Saturday I relaxed a lot but also visited Virupaksha Temple. It was fairly dull, but worth the 2 rupee entrance fee to see Lakshmi up close, the temple elephant I had seen two days earlier. The local kids took great glee in placing a rupee in his trunk. In return, Lakshmi would bless them (plonk his trunk on their head).

On Sunday I embarked on a lengthy walk to the temple complex to the south, got mobbed by a huge group of school kids who yelled ecstatically once they got a picture with me, and finally headed back along a country path. However, the path didn't quite go where I expected. I eventually had to turn around, ask for directions, and wade through a shallow stream to get myself back to Hampi before it was too late. Strangely, it's the satisfaction of survival I get from these type of walks which make them the best!

Tonight I take the night bus to Bangalore, a city I expect little from, but a link to the following destination; Mysore.

From Varanasi to Nasik

The more I thought about my crossroads the more roads I discovered. It took a leisurely three days to work it out. A trip to Nepal? A flight south? A venture to the remote North-East or even Bangladesh? A full southerly clockwise route? On day three I concocted a new plan; I decided to head back west and work my way to the South. Depending on whether I would remain ahead or behind of schedule, there would still be plenty of options available for me.

During the thinking period I enjoyed yet more laid back time in Varanasi. This time included me somehow getting up for my second sunset in as many months, this time for a boat ride across the Ganges with Hannah. It was pleasant, but I prefer being in the thick of it in the busy daytime. At one point though, Hannah asked a surprising question. "Is that a body?" she asked, pointing left into the river. Looking left I noticed a head, a couple of hands and a couple of feet floating motionless in the river. Anywhere else you wouldn't flicker an eyelid, but in the Ganges who knows? A couple of seconds later the toes began to wiggle; a local was having an early morning bath. The submerged cow we saw later, however, was not.

For my final day in Varanasi, I bought myself a present; a sitar lesson. I booked it at a music shop near my guesthouse, only realising later that I hadn't even met the tutor. I knew what I wanted though; an old, wise-looking, slightly frail but still nimble sitar master. When I entered the music shop, I wasn't disappointed. Sat down crossed-legs on the floor was Babadi; a seventy year old with thirty-five years of sitar experience, and exactly as I expected. To further boost my expected stereotype, he was half-deaf and had only half of his eyes working to match.

"What is your name?".
"Andy".
"Angy?".
"Andy!".
"Angy?".
"ANDY!".
"Angy?".
" ... ... yes."

It felt like being with one of the grandmas.

The lesson went well. Being a guitarist helps immensely. However, the most surprising thing was the pain; not in my already callused-fingers, but in my left leg! The heavy instrument sits on the foot of the crossed left leg and leans on the upwards-bent right leg. As a beginner, I found my leg going to sleep every ten minutes, causing me to get up and stroll around the tiny music shop. This apparently is normal. It was good though. I'd like to play one again, only this time with the freedom to play around, rather than doing progressively difficult versions of a simple song called 'Papa, Mama'. I'm still not sure if it was English, Hindi, or gobbledygook, but Babadi did a nice job of singing along anyway. Babadi is so cool!

On Wednesday it was finally time to leave Varanasi. After yet another goodbye to Hannah (I've lost count), I boarded the long train back south. This was extra nice because no-one tried to drug me! I got off at Jalgaon and caught a bus to the Ajanta caves. Numerous impressive sculptures and murals have survived the years in a bunch of caves discovered in 1819. The caves are set in really nice scenery, and it was a worthy stop.

I subsequently travelled down to Aurangabad, my base for a couple of nights, and on Thursday I made the day trip to Ellora. Ellora is another set of ancient sculpture filled caves, and was even more impressive than Ajanta. Most impressive of all, however, was cave 16; The Kailash Temple. It may seem confusing for a cave to be classed as a temple, but when you're there it's easy to forget it's a cave at all. The Kailash Temple isn't built from rock, it is built out of the rock. Over a period of one hundred years, a huge whole was dug from the cliff face, and a beautifully carved temple was sculpted. It's all very impressive.

On Friday I travelled west to Nasik. and on Saturday I took a ride to the river and to Ram Kund; a tank made from the river. It's a very holy place for Hindus, and in some ways it was reminiscent of the popular bathing ghat in Varanasi, albeit on a larger scale. The atmosphere was nice as people bathed in the water and just generally seemed happy. I stayed there for a while embracing the mood, and engaging in the occasional lost conversation. Being fairly off the beaten track, friendly locals are more enthusiastic than ever in saying hello to the white face, and one seemed very smug about gabbing away at me for a good five or ten minutes even though it was blatantly obvious I barely picked up a word. As with most of these encounters, the chirpy local offered to pose in a photograph before he said his farewells.

After a while I moved on to Kala Ram Mandir; The Black Rama Temple. This was the setting for a very well known scene in the Hindu book of Ramayana. Again there was a nice atmosphere, and with no further plans for the rest of the day, I sat down amongst the enthusiastic music makers and took it all in. I was there for quite a while, although it seemed like the musicians were happily going to stay all day. I particularly liked it how the microphone was passed around the circle, allowing everyone to have a go as vocalist.

Tomorrow I catch the train to Hyderabad, but I also hope to squeeze in a day trip to Trimbak beforehand.