Two things - the way I say the word Mahabalipuram always makes U laugh. And this is, I think, the episode I tell people about the most. Because it was the most horrific.
After J was gone there was a powercut. The perfect opportunity for me to contemplate the next 5-6 weeks entirely alone.
My first step, in the morning, was to plan and execute my trip to Mahabalipuram, via Madras. The famous shore temples were supposed to be the 'must see' sight of Tamil Nadu. My account of getting there is full of heat, frustration and bangle-sellers. My rhetoric is all about being 'confusedly hassled'. First impressions of the town appear to be good but am immediately conned into staying at a homestay under false pretences. Mr Neelankandan will remain, however, close to my heart for reeasons that will become apparent.
The most stereotypical array of travellers proceeded to career into view. There was the yogic American called Brad. There were the gaggle of Australian girls who particularly caught Brad's eye - "The ocean is my guru". And there was Jim. More on Jim no doubt later.
The most stereotypical array of travellers proceeded to career into view. There was the yogic American called Brad. There were the gaggle of Australian girls who particularly caught Brad's eye - "The ocean is my guru". And there was Jim. More on Jim no doubt later.
There seems to be an increasing impatience with Indian tourists and a need to find peace and quiet. It's clearly very hot indeed and my cough is getting worse and worse. The food, it seems, is good - apart from a head attached to a grilled fish.
The 'tipping point' day was filled with unease, pain and inability to settle. I go for a walk to clear my head and am picked up by "Mr Glastonbury" and put on the back of his bike and taken to the doctors. 50 Rps of drugs are dispensed, taken home and thrown up again. An Australian Hippy administers a face massage. And it gets worse.
Before I know it I'm in hospital being injected, blood tested and dripped. My reflections are not of being at all alarmed - just deliriously going with the flow. I had my own room with a lock and constant visitors and attention - notably from the Australian Girls, Jim and Mr N. There's been a bubonic plague outbreak. Incoming visitors to the country are being fumigated, outgoing tourists are being blood tested and television sets are being exchanged for 1,000 dead rats apiece.
And there's a little boy called Hari Krishna who's Uncle is in the next room after a motorbike accident who brings me Tamil comics to read.
The 'tipping point' day was filled with unease, pain and inability to settle. I go for a walk to clear my head and am picked up by "Mr Glastonbury" and put on the back of his bike and taken to the doctors. 50 Rps of drugs are dispensed, taken home and thrown up again. An Australian Hippy administers a face massage. And it gets worse.
Before I know it I'm in hospital being injected, blood tested and dripped. My reflections are not of being at all alarmed - just deliriously going with the flow. I had my own room with a lock and constant visitors and attention - notably from the Australian Girls, Jim and Mr N. There's been a bubonic plague outbreak. Incoming visitors to the country are being fumigated, outgoing tourists are being blood tested and television sets are being exchanged for 1,000 dead rats apiece.
And there's a little boy called Hari Krishna who's Uncle is in the next room after a motorbike accident who brings me Tamil comics to read.
And I'm going profoundly deaf.
It seems my stoicism is being read in backpacker circles as great bravery. It is, of course, nothing of the sort. But the whole experience is nothing short of miserable. I get out after five days - after x-rays and ear gouging and a 3,000 Rp bill. Jim and Mr N walk me slowly home, stopping along the way to chat to people and look at stone carvings - mainly chillums for Jim.
A community art project is being undertaken in Jim's room - a mandala begun by Brad and radically improved by Jim who spends hours working on it wearing nothing but a small pair of blue shorts.
And I prepare to leave. Mr N firmly believes that I should, in the least, send him a walkman when I return home. Mrs N just thinks money will do. And so, with sore tonsils and ongoing grumpiness at the people who continually hinder my (deaf) path with diversions to money-changers and dope dealers, I leave for Madurai.
Picking up a newspaper somewhere along the way I discover that there is now a moratorium on killing rats and that the best way to deal with delays on the railways is to set the train on fire.
Memories. Dreams of having to return to India and finding myself back there already. Mr N, appearing at my bedroom door each evening, bare chested with his face painted, giving puja. Jim's shorts.
It seems my stoicism is being read in backpacker circles as great bravery. It is, of course, nothing of the sort. But the whole experience is nothing short of miserable. I get out after five days - after x-rays and ear gouging and a 3,000 Rp bill. Jim and Mr N walk me slowly home, stopping along the way to chat to people and look at stone carvings - mainly chillums for Jim.
A community art project is being undertaken in Jim's room - a mandala begun by Brad and radically improved by Jim who spends hours working on it wearing nothing but a small pair of blue shorts.
And I prepare to leave. Mr N firmly believes that I should, in the least, send him a walkman when I return home. Mrs N just thinks money will do. And so, with sore tonsils and ongoing grumpiness at the people who continually hinder my (deaf) path with diversions to money-changers and dope dealers, I leave for Madurai.
Picking up a newspaper somewhere along the way I discover that there is now a moratorium on killing rats and that the best way to deal with delays on the railways is to set the train on fire.
Memories. Dreams of having to return to India and finding myself back there already. Mr N, appearing at my bedroom door each evening, bare chested with his face painted, giving puja. Jim's shorts.
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