Real Life, Real Decisions

Real Life has returned. As of last week, I have myself a job. It’s a cheating sort of job, in that it is the same one that I left 12 months ago. Some of my colleagues were surprised to see me again. Others, I got the distinct impression, were supremely unsurprised. Importantly though, no-one seemed to mind when I turned up on Wednesday wearing the earrings that were my going away present last year. The fact is, I’m not the first in my department to act out this role of prodigal worker. I’m not even the second. Nor the tenth. Leaving this company is often less about cutting ties, than swapping the metaphorical rope for a very elasticated elastic band. One that stretches all the way to Australia without snapping, it would seem.

Even so, I wasn’t entirely sure if it was the best thing for me to do, and so I sat down with my soul and had a heart-to-heart chat. I then peered into my bank account. And had a heart attack. Big Adventures don’t come cheap - even at $2 a meal with 50c beer chasers - if you stretch them out for months. So, I’ve got to be pragmatic. Time will tell if I’ve made the right decision.

Meanwhile, to further hasten our decline into bankruptcy, on Saturday Mat and I went out a bought a car. That really is the best thing to do when you have no money and are looking to move back to a big city like London where you mostly get around using public transport anyway, isn’t it? Yes, that’s what we thought too. And so, after a full week of shopping around, test driving, and endless making and unmaking of minds, we settled on this. It is a Rover, and, yes, apparently it doesn’t exactly ooze street credibility. In fact, people on the internet opine that from a security consideration it is an unbeatable choice - mainly because car thieves would not be caught dead in a Rover. But how could we resist the leather trim seats and an onboard carpet in a particularly fetching shade of red? Mat fell in love, and I could not bear to come between my man and his car.

And finally, in this busy week of all things Real Life, we have found ourselves somewhere to live. It’s a temporary arrangement to keep us ticking over until we can move into my flat. We are renting a room in a share house with a couple of others. The room is a decent size, our house mate is very quiet and tidy, and - importantest thing of all things important - we have wireless internet. These last couple of weeks in the land of modernity I have found it harder to get online than I did in even the most remote parts of Asia and India. You just go and figure that one out. Or, don’t try to figure it out. Just wonder and gasp at the irony. I have been.

Reverse Culture Shock

I have left behind the frenetic pace of ‘Incomprehensible India’ and am now living deep inside the heartland of countryside England - a place of little noise and fewer people. No-one is shouting. There are no horns beeping stridently, and driving around involves using one’s indicators without even a blurp of horn tapping. Cars drive within the lane markings. And sadly, the only cows I’ve seen are wandering orderly around their fields. To be fair, if they were left to wander around freely, they would struggle to find enough cardboard boxes and plastic bags for an equivalent Indian bovine diet.

We are housesitting for Mat’s sister, a cultural decompression that involves enveloping ourselves in the privacy of a (modern! clean!) house, and the company of two friendly labradors, for a fortnight while the family are off on a birthday cruise. I know. Life is very difficult. The reality of work (blah. Panic! blah.) and flat hunting (blah. Shit! blah.) are still on the horizon. The Big Adventure is over, but Real Life is not quite here. Long may the limbo last.

My first night back, I struggled to sleep properly. I kept surfacing in a half-dreaming half-awake state, feeling like I was almost suffocating. The problem, you see, was the fluffy feather pillows. And the dreamy, thick duvet. The mattress was too firm and comfortable. I wasn’t sweating. Mat and I were in the middle of the bed - actually touching legs or arms - instead of our preferred positions of balanced precariously on opposite sides of the bed to ensure that NO body heat was being transferred between us. My feet weren’t hanging off the end of the bed. How was I to get comfortable, for crissake!

It’s been over a week. I have readjusted again. I now sleep the whole night through, without needing to replenish vital bodily fluids with litres of water 2-3 times during the night. This temperate climate takes some getting used to, but I have pushed through the pain barrier. Feather quilts and oversized beds are something I just need to take in my stride.

Oh! And, great news! One of packages we sent from the other side of the world - with presents for others, and of course, also for me - has arrived. I declare this to be Christmas in June, with the Laos postal service taking the honorary title of Summer Santa Claus.

Home Time

Tomorrow, that’s it. We go to the airport, hop on Virgin’s finest Big Plane, and 8 hours later touch down in London. Cool London. Comprehensible London. The land of no mosquitos. And honestly? I can’t wait. I can’t wait to dive into a freshly made salad - lettuce, cucumber, cherry tomatoes, avocado, olives. And cheese. A selection of cheeses. And crackers. Fresh bread. Can you guess that I’m kind of over the whole curry thing? I haven’t had salad for over a month. I miss salad. We have become slightly food obsessed of late.

These past five weeks in India have been alternately fabulous and frustrating. Overwhelming. Confusing. Amazing. I’ve learned how to haggle and hold my ground. I’ve learned to be firm and say no. I’ve learned that English politeness takes you absolutely nowhere in this part of the world - a well aimed shove with the shoulder will get you much further. And I’ve shopped, oh boy, have I shopped. India is practically one enormous market, chock full of clothes and jewellery and textiles and scarves and paintings and just about anything that you could possibly want to fill up your home with. Now I just need to sort out the home.

For 4 months I’ve been traipsing around, lugging a bag full of my meagre and dirty belongings from place to place. I’ve seen and done so many amazing things - some of them I managed to record here, others are sitting in my paper diary, possibly never to be looked at again. But, you know, I’m done. It’s time to go home. I want to wear something that I haven’t worn a gazillion times already and that doesn’t have dirt and dust ground into every seam. I want to look in the mirror and have a version of me reflected that isn’t so sweaty and grubby. I miss domestic things that I never thought I would miss - having my own washing machine, cooking my own food, knowing that the bathroom has definitely been cleaned more recently than 2004. I tell you, some of the rooms we have stayed in - and some of the places we’ve eaten - it’s no wonder that our bodies have been ejecting food from both ends in recent days (in poor Mat’s case, going on 3 weeks now). Vomiting out of moving vehicles is becoming my forte these days - a trait that I can certainly live without.

Above and beyond the whole backpacking adventure, though, is the excitement of getting to see all my bestest friends again. It’s been a whole year without the guys and gals I’ve been calling my own for, gosh, about 8 years now. A whole year without them. Coming home really is one of the best parts of going away. I’m just so damn excited!

We have an adventure!

While India has been brimming with experiences of the eye-opening, soul-squeezing and brain-bending variety, the extreme heat and sheer energy-zapping nature of merely getting from A to B, has left us little energy for throwing ourselves into situations that can be counted as truly adventurous. Although, in many of the places we’ve been, just walking down the street, and surviving (with all toes intact), is a feat of which we are justifiably proud. Not to mention gambling the health of our intestinal comfort on the lure of roadside sweets and savouries.

But then we visited Rajasthan. And went on a camel safari.

The place is called Jaisalmer -  a small city that incongruously sprouts out from the middle of the scrubby Thar desert in far western India. Known as the ‘Golden City’, the skyline is dominated by a huge sandstone fort that rises up from the desert like an enormous yellow sandcastle. The buildings of the old city are similary made from sandstone, a labyrinthine confusion of intricately decorated havelis (very old buildings formerly used as residences) lining narrow, crooked alleyways. The result truly is Golden.

The main draw for tourists to Jaisalmer is the opportunity to go out into the desert on a camel safari - a lure that’s impossible to resist if you’re passing through the area. Even if it is a seemingly life-threatening 45 degrees, with minimal shade. We weighed up the pain of potential sunstroke against the once-in-a-lifetime chance to ride around with the camels. We decided to jump on the camel train. As a compromise, we opted for a sedate day and a half trip, rather than the usual three day adventure.

I was expecting the camels to be grumpy. I thought I might get spat on, or even bitten if very unlucky. But, really, the camels were lovely. My camel was especially good natured, and holding the reins, I was able to ‘drive’ him in the direction I wanted to go. He didn’t even walk me into any thorny trees (although the same can’t be said for some of the others). Riding on the camels is a serene and calming experience; walking slowly through the hot, dry desert; no sounds apart from the camels walking and the chatter and songs of the camel men; occassionally passing goats or deer.

There is an aspect of the journey that is slightly, well, stinky. Camels, it turns out, are particularly flatulent animals. Like cows, they fart a lot. And boy, does it stink. Not to mention being sniggeringly noisy. Still, you get used to the odour after a few hours, especially when the main focus of your attention becomes your thighs and hips, which feel like they are slowly being stretched out of their sockets. Camels have broad backs, and unless you’re an olympic gymnast with elastic muscles, hours of sitting in a riding position with legs stretched widely apart are going to take their toll. A tip if I may: if you see a camel safari in your immediate future, start some exercises to loosen those hips. Immediately. 

Apart from the well behaved camels us tourists were riding (there were 6 in our group), there was a very naughty camel in our midst. He was a grunting, whining bad-natured steed that none of us wanted to go near under any circumstances. He really looked like he just couldn’t wait for any of us to get within spitting or chomping distance. The men explained to us that they had only had him for about 10 days, and so he was still being broken in. He huffed and whinnied and shook his head around, but the men (very bravely in my eyes) were able to get him to sit down and stand up while they sat on his back refusing to be shaken off.  The camel was visibly annoyed by the entire arrangement, and that evening, took it out on the other camels at dinner time, trying to eat all of the hay and headbutt any of the others who came too close.

We trekked out to some sanddunes near to a village in the desert, where we had dinner cooked for us before we settled down to sleep for the night. With just a blanket under us and the stars above, we slowly drifted off to sleep. It took me a while to get comfortable, as I kept thinking the camel lying in our vicinity was going to accidently walk on top of me during the night. Eventually though, I nodded off, blanketed only in the odour of camel farts and the silence of the desert.

Diu You Like a Drink?

Last week, we spent a couple of days in a town called Diu, an ex-portuguese colony on the very southern tip of Gujarat state. We were lured there with promises of sand and sea, but - more importantly - peace and quiet, and the chance to rent a scooter and reclaim a modicum of independence. Thankfully, Diu does exactly as it says on the tin (oh alright, in the guidebook), and we had a very relaxing time with no hassle, in a place that looked so much like Portugal (or how I imagine Portugal to look, never having been there) that I needed to keep reminding myself that I was still in India. Batteries successfully recharged.

Diu is also very popular amongst Gujarati locals, but for reasons not related to the seaside. Gujarat state is a dry state - that’s a reference to alcohol, not water; although it most definitely is a hot, dusty part of India - but little seaside Diu, through means too complicated for my melted brain to properly fathom, is somehow officially linked to Delhi. Which means alcohol is available. And very cheap. End result? Drunk Gujaratis galore!

We saw a man snoring in a beachside bar - at lunchtime, mind -  sozzled head lolling from side to side and just a hint of drool peeking over his bottom lip. His brother or friend, who appeared marginally less drunk (in that he was at least still conscious) was trying to placate the very annoyed wife standing in front of them both and shouting.

Later that evening, a young guy was vomiting out of the window of a car which was parked just below the balcony restaurant where we were trying to enjoy our sunset drink (that’s right, in the singular - India has stolen my alcohol mojo). You know, vomiting onto asphalt because you’ve overindulged in the midday sun is fine, really. We’ve all been there right? I really felt for this guy, though, because it wasn’t that he was with a bunch of friends with who he could later reminisce about ‘the time, dude, when you threw up in the carpark? That was hilarious!‘ I had a little peek into the car as we walked past later. He was doing the spew of shame with his entire family in tow - mum, dad, kid brothers and sisters, and an elderly couple who could only have been grandma and grandpa. Oh dear!

The prize for swiftest drunk goes to the two men who were seated opposite us in a bar one evening. (Well, they call them bars, but we nicknamed them Drinking Dens after we were stumbling around on our first morning looking for breakfast at about 8am, and passing an open shop enquired if it was possible to get something to eat. The man replied that ‘no, we have no food here, just alcohol to drink’. And he was holding a bottle of what looked like vodka. Drinking Dens.)

Anyway, we were in a Drinking Den, and 2 sober men sat down opposite us. They ordered a quart bottle of whiskey, and I swear to you, drank it down between them in the space of ten minutes. Ten minutes, if not less. Within 15 minutes, the quiet, respectable men who had been sharing our booth became decidely more dishevelled. And, of course, started chatting to us. Now, I have to be honest, the Hindi accent is quite difficult to understand under optimum conditions. With a hefty dose of whiskey coating their tongues, it became downright impossible.

What I did - finally - understand, was that the chanting sound that one man kept repeating in our direction was actually his telephone number and address - he was inviting us to visit his home in the city where he lives. Which was very sweet, but unfortunately, completely incomprehensible.  

Bottoms up!

On Being a Z-List Celebrity

Have you ever hankered after those elusive 15 minutes of fame? Have you secretly wanted to audition for Big Brother, to just be in with a chance to have your face recognised, even if only for a fickle fortnight? Well, here’s a secret. There’s no need to stalk or sleep with that famous footballer; nor pick a fight with an X-list celebrity on the off-chance that Heat magazine will run with the story. If you want to know what it feels like to be moderately well-known, stroll down the streets in Gujurat, India. Voila! Instant faux-celebrity.

From what I understand, Gujurat state is not as firmly on the tourist trail as other destinations in the guide book. Based on all the attention we have been receiving here, it does seem that lost and sweaty tourists are still quite a novelty in these parts. Every time we go for a walk or have a meal or take a rickshaw - in other words every time we leave the anonymity of our hotel room - we encounter groups of polite, giggling strangers who gather around, talk to us, and ultimately, want to have their photographs taken with us. I have lost count of the number of snapshots in which we have featured over the last week. It has most definitely been lots.

If we keep moving, it’s usually fine. Forward, purposeful movement keeps all but the most determined at bay. But if we stop, even for a just a moment - to look at a map, decipher a street sign, pause for the endless traffic - a beaming young man (it’s always the men) will inevitably come striding up to Mat (always to Mat) with his hand outstretched. After the preliminaries are exchanged (at the very least - our names, our country; if the man’s grasp of English is particularly good - our professions, our income, our marital status), we find that we have gradually been surrounded by a group of smiling and nodding family members and best friends. India being India, the amount of people is usually somewhere between 5 and 500.

Everyone then introduces themselves. We all take it in turns to shake hands. Allowing for all the permutations, this can actually take quite some time. The small talk and social niceties do eventually dry up, and it is then that someone whips out a camera. That someone (unsurprisingly) is usually the same guy who initially approached us.

‘Is OK,  we take your photo?’

‘Sure,’ we shrug. Every time. My ‘photo’ smile is, I assume, getting better.

And so, surreally and sweaty, we stand under the blazing sun - in the middle of big groups, in pairings, in trios, in endless variations of photographees - as everyone takes their turn to get in the photo with us. Fifty thousand snaps later, we are released from our rock-star obligation. A round of farewell handshakes, the occasional kiss on the hand, and we are left standing alone.

Bemused we stand there for a moment. ‘So, I guess that’s what it feels like to be famous, hey?’

‘Yeah, I guess so.’

We continue walking down the street, still looking for the elusive restaurant or palace or whatever damn thing is our mission for that moment. A few steps later, a familiar refrain floats across to us.

‘Hello, where are you coming from? …..’

It’s kind of fun, but I have to be honest, it can get a bit tiring. Luckily for me, Mat is more popular for the chit-chat, and so I can mostly lurk on the side, quietly nodding and shaking hands.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go and practice my autograph. Just in case, you understand. And I’d like to check how I look in these new sunglasses…

Not Quite Bollywood but Fun All the Same

It wasn’t a proper Bollywood film! There was no cheesy dancing, no endless warbling songs. In the entire film, there was only one piddly song, one and a half songs at a very generous push. To say I am disappointed is seriously understating the level of my…well…disappointment.

Still, it wasn’t all wasted experience. Just going to the cinema was more than worth the rupees and the lost 3 hours. Usually, going to the movies, there is an etiquette. You know - the etiquette of being quiet, of turning your phone off, of not walking in front of the screen and blocking the view of the dozens of other people in the cinema. In India, however, there is no such etiquette. In India, going to the movies, as an experience, is more like going to a concert. A sit-down watching-the-screen sort of concert. And in this case, light on the music.

After the advertisements and trailers finished, and the opening scene starting rolling, the entire audience started clapping and whooping and screaming. The excitement of the moviegoers was of such a fever pitch, that the first 10 minutes or so of the dialogue was incomprehensible. As it was in Hindi - and thus incomprehensible for all of the 3 hours for me - this wasn’t in the least bit annoying, and in fact made me like the movie much more than I would have otherwise.

People gradually calmed down, but at various key moments of the plot - when the leading lady was introduced, when the leading man first talked to the leading lady, when the leading lady threw the leading man out of their house, when the leading man made a particularly funny joke, when the leading lady delivered a particularly sharp rebuke - the whole theatre cheered and clapped and whistled. The loudest celebration, however, was reserved for that special moment when the hero and heroine finally kissed. And not just any old kiss. Oh no. They were in bed! Suggestively naked! The wolf whistles were deafening.

And forget about the prissy shushing of mobile phones or inter-audience conversation. Ring tones were ringing, friends chatting, people getting up to go out to the foyer to continue their conversations via Nokia (I guess the movie was a bit loud for completely comfortable phone conversation). This was cinema for the young and the restless.

For the last half an hour or so, Mat was befriended by the guy next to him. This fellow had already been to see the movie the night before (there aren’t too many film options in Ahmedabad, just the one movie being shown four times a day) and so I guess he wasn’t too worried about missing the nuances of the final scenes. He kept telling Mat jokes (that Mat didn’t really understand) and passing his phone over to share more jokes (of the text message variety). And so, between not understanding Hindi, and straining to eavesdrop on the conversation between Mat and his new buddy, I didn’t really follow entirely what the film was about. I can tell you, though, that the leading man dies at the end. I hope that doesn’t wreck it for you.

Feeling Like a Fried Poppadom

We’re off to see a Bollywood film in about half an hour, so I don’t have much time to punch this out. Based on the queue 10 minutes ago, I may just be the only woman in the theatre. Mat and I will certainly be the only westerners. It’s a film about cricket. Mat is most happy.

India is getting easier. We went to Agra, a place I was expecting to be at least as crazy as Varanasi, and was pleasantly surprised to discover that to not be the case. Agra is home to the Taj Mahal which, yes, is as beautiful as it looks. We were very good tourists (for a change) and woke up at 5.30am to go through the gates when they opened at 6am. I thought there woudn’t be too many people around at that time, but as most of the visitors are Indians - and they are naturally early risers - it wasn’t anywhere near as deserted as I was hoping. I did, however, manage to get ‘that’ shot of the Taj, without any pesky persons spoiling the shot.

In spite of the touristic pull, Agra is not very hectic. There’s not too much hard sell, it’s possible to wander around with bursting an eardrum or losing a foot to a rickshaw, and it was even a few degrees cooler. So, overconfidently, we started feeling that maybe the heat isn’t such a big deal. After having recharged our batteries for a few days, we changed our minds once, then twice, and then changed them AGAIN. We reassessed our approach to this trip in India.

In less than a month we will be heading back to cold, unpredicable England. This may be our last chance to get seriously sunned up for a while. We ditched the Himalayan plans, headed south west and are now in the state of Gujarat. Yesterday, it was 45 degrees. Careful what you wish for, hey? It’s hotter than the devil’s armpit, but we’re coping. We are aiming for a beach called Dui, right on the south tip of the state, gambling on sea breezes and cooling water.

The best bit about being in this part of the country is that we’ve sidestepped the tourist trail. We are almost the only foreigners around, and so the trickeries and the scams that were so exhausting at the beginning, are almost completely absent here.

What is notable, is that we are spending alot of time answering the following  litany of questions, over and over:

‘Hello! What is your country?”

“Hello! What is your name?”

“Hello! Where are you going?”

All with big smiles and often accompanied with a handshake. I take back all the bad thoughts I was having last week. The people are really lovely and this country is alot of fun.

Excuse me if this doesn’t make much sense, but between the heat and the noise and the hassle, I’m feeling quite frazzled

We are in Varanasi. I think this is the busiest city on the planet. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe there’s somewhere more frenetic. If you think you know that place, can you tell me the name so that I make sure I never visit there.

How can I explain this? Right. Imagine you’ve been at a festival. A day time festival with all the most popular bands of the moment, packed with people having a good time. The day comes to a close, and everyone starts trudging out of the park, a park with only one road. All around you are hundreds of people, jostling against you, and everyone is walking slowly, very slowly, trying not to step on each others feet. Are you with me? Do you know what I mean? It’s packed, there are people everywhere, and there is only one main road to walk up and down. (Actually, that’s not true. There are lots of roads, but they are all impossibly busy.)

Then, add to the human traffic about a gajillion bicycles, a small army of cycle rickshaws (bicycles pulling a small carriage on which are perched yet more people), a few thousands of motor scooters and tuk-tuks, and the occasional car or jeep. Oh and cows. Cows just wandering around in their holy manner, as all and sundry swerve to avoid hitting them. How’s that picture coming along?

Right. Let’s add some sound. Every bicycle has a bell, and every rider insists on ringing their bell - continuously - as they meander down the street. Ditto for the cycle rickshaws. Ding-a-ling-a-ling!! The scooters and tuk-tuks have horns, obviously, and yes…they toot them also continuously as they duck and weave through the pedestrians and bicycles. Toot toot TOOT!! The cars - owned by an elite few - blast your eardrums into a ringing otherworld as they bully and push their way through. BEEP-FUCKING BEEEEP!!!!

The crush of humanity and vehicles and noise is relentless. From about 6am until whenever everyone decides to call it a day (about 9pm for us, the whole spectacle is just too exhausting). Oh, and have I mentioned that it’s over 40 degrees? Consider it mentioned. It’s over 40 degrees. All day and most of the night. I’m not getting much sleep.

Now, all that is just a background. A background for the hassle and the scamming and the constant chatting up. The tricks to lure us to a shop. The friendly banter that inevitably ends in a hard sell. The impossibility of being on the street for more than 5 seconds without being surrounded by men wanting to drive us somewhere, walk us somewhere, sell us something, offer us advice on how to not be ripped off and then proceed to try to rip us off. It’s hard work, I tell you. We’ve been here for just 3 days, and have started fantasising about home in a way that almost 3 months in Asia didn’t provoke.

Inside of all this chaos, however, Varanasi is an extremely interesting place. It is one of the world’s oldest living cities - 2,000 years or maybe it’s 3,000 years, an impressively long stretch of time anyway - and walking through the maze of the alleyways of the old city is both overwhelming and fascinating. Tucked away in the dizzying turns are families and temples and shops and brahmins and pilgrims and (more) cows and goats and lots and lots of cow shit. It stinks, it’s confusing and if I’m honest, a little bit scary. Great photo opportunities abound, and I’ve been taking advantage. Unfortunately, there’s a distinct lack of internet with USB connections, so I’m having trouble uploading (or is that downloading?) anything from my camera.

But here’s the best bit, here’s why so many people come to Varanasi. It is India’s holiest city, on the Ganges. Dying in Varansi is considered a way of breaking free from the Hindu cycle of life and death. People are cremated here every day at the “Burning Ghats”. The bodies are washed in the river, rituals performed, and then firewood is piled up and the body burned. We went to see it, and see it I did. The remains are then thrown into the Ganges (although some entire bodies are also thrown in, without being cremated). And this is the same river in which people bathe, wash their clothes, pump sewage and possibly drink. It’s just mind boggling.

There’s more, much more, but I’ve got to go get my train out of here. The train journey is almost a respite, because our next stop - Agra, to visit the Taj Mahal - sounds equally hectic. Then, we’re running for the hills. It’s the only sensible option in this unbelievable heat.

Of Squalor and Red Tape and Wide-Eyed Culture Shock

Oh boy, where to start. This is day 3 in Calcutta, and if I tell you that my nerves are frazzled and my eyeballs searing from unbelievable sights, I would be only scratching the surface. So, let me scratch a little deeper. I need to get some of this off my chest.

We arrived late, very late, on Monday night. Driving through the city at midnight, peering through the windows, we were greeted by a city asleep. Rollers down on shops and bars, empty streets, not much going on. Calcutta looked a bit grotty - granted - but not that much worse than many other cities at night.

Oh, but then. Then, we reached the zone where we were going to be staying. You know, living in a big city (like, say, London), you get used to seeing homeless people, you see things at night time that you’d rather not see, and you feel thankful that you have a roof over your head. This, however, was something else. This was homelessness on a scale I have never imagined. This was not just the odd person or two in a doorway or on the corner. The whole street, entire footpaths were covered with sleeping bodies; man lying next to wife, babies next to big brothers and sisters. Some had a thin mattress. Some a blanket. Some nothing, just themselves curled up directly on the footpath.

And then during the day. In daylight, how can I describe this city? Imagine a 1960s stylistic sensiblity meeting a level of poverty and filth that you would imagine only existing in the 1800s. And then twist that surreal dial up another notch or two.

At the train station, in restaurants, guesthouses, offices - the decor is caught in a 60s time-warp of plastic furniture and peeling wallpaper; the waiters are over-solicitious but incompetent; bureaucracy is slow-witted and written down in triplicate. When we have dinner, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m caught up in an Indian version of Fawlty Towers - head waiters shouting at their subordinates, orders mixed up, endless fiddling and rearranging of cultery and crockery. On the streets, in the guesthouse, in fact everywhere, people yell at each other in order to get their point across. And everything, absolutely everything, takes forever.

Yesterday, for example, we achieved the following: we bought our train tickets for today; we posted a parcel back to England. That’s it. Buying the tickets took a good few hours - joining the queue, filling out forms, sitting patiently while the men in the office shouted at each other, filling out more forms, looking at the 80s computer, asking questions and eventually getting an answer, and of course the taxi trips back and forth for money and passports because we still have so much to learn about how things work in this country.

Sending the parcel, though,  was the highlight of my day. In front of the post office are men who help you to organise your package. Sending stuff through the mail in a box (which is the norm, right?) is not permissable. Yes, you put your things in a cardboard box, but then the box itself must be covered in fabric and then the fabric sewn together. A customs form is filled out, and copied in triplicate. The copies are rolled up and also sewn onto the package. A wax seal is stamped along all the seams and corners. A ‘to’ and ‘from’ address is then written onto the fabric (our ‘from’ address is our guesthouse, it’s not really going to help if the parcel is returned as we will be long gone, but these are The Rules, and they will be followed). The man explained to us that all this is necessary to ensure that no-one in the postal service is able to go through the parcels and steal things. The parcel has to leave India with all the seals intact.

Packages are only accepted at the post office until 4pm, and as we of course were doing all this at 3.55pm, a certain amount of pushing was done on our behalf at the counter.  Amazingly, we sent it off at 4pm on the dot. I can’t wait to receive that parcel when we get back home, it’s going to look so exotic. Assuming it arives, of course.

As a foreigner, I get stared at - unashamedly - when walking down the streets. Beggars see us coming, and practically run to us - plucking our sleeves, following us for a while. Last night, a woman tried to corner me on the street. She approached me, I murmured a no, and went to the right to step past her. She blocked me. So I stepped to the left. She followed suit and pushed against me. I think I feinted a move back to the right and then slipped past on the left - I can’t quite remember - but I did manage to get past her. However, don’t get the impression that it was threatening, I didn’t feel intimidated. She was just being persistent.

I buy milk powder for a woman with a small baby. Half a block later, I’m approached again, but this time I say no. Each refusal is a little easier than the one before. We are sitting in a taxi, caught in a traffic gridlock. The taxis are old 50s-style vehicles - they are beautiful - and all the windows are rolled down to get a small breath of air in the stifling 36 degree heat. Sitting at the traffic lights, engines turned off (to reduce pollution?), the foreign girl is a sitting target for the women and their babies. They always come to me “Sister, sister, buy milk my baby, baksheesh, sister, sister, my baby, milk, sister…” but leave Mat alone. I am learning how to say no. Turn my head away, don’t look them in the eyes.

Crumbling. This city is literally crumbling. Buildings are falling down, there are piles of rubble and bricks in the streets, I look around and see decay and decline. Everything is filthy. Men piss up against walls, people bathe under the water from pumps on street corners. The smell is a mixture of Indian food and spices, stagnant water, grime and rubbish. My nose is getting used to it now, but for the first couple of mornings the smell of this city was difficult to wake up to.

The cacophony of horns is overwhelming. Buses, taxis, tuk-tuks, rickshaws; all drive along blasting their horns; overtaking, undertaking, passing each other with only a inch to spare.

It is chaos for they eyes, chaos for the ears, chaos for the soul. I’m not sure how I feel yet - I certainly don’t love it, but I don’t hate it either. We are acclimatising. I still feel very wide-eyed and naive, and as much as the locals stare at me, I can’t help but stare back. I’m not ready to take photographs yet. I stand out enough already - walking around with a big, fancy camera feels like it might be asking for trouble. I’m sure I’ll get over it though, I desperately want photos and reminders of this experience.