Malang Market and the Bromo Gathering

E had gotten it into her head that Malang was a 'market town' worth checking out.  Unfortunately she was wrong and had the good grace to admit it.  It was, in fact, a little creepy.  Dirty and with lots of dark alleys that didn't look alluring, just alarming.  We did, however, have a nice place to stay - a white bungalow on a courtyard - and we spent the majority of our time hanging out and listening to Janis Joplin.  Oh yes - and eating donuts.

But better was to come.   Mount Bromo was a trip that everyone recommended.  A long sick-making bus journey to the top of a mountain and then up the next one!  We were sharing our final furlong with a couple of young Indonesian civil servants who were clearly talking about us.  They spoke much more quietly when we (inaccurately) managed to convince them that we spoke some of their language by asking them some questions in faltering Indo.

Up at the top was a guesthouse and 'restaurant' overlooking this extraordinary lunarscape.  A sand sea at the bottom of a cliff, within which were two smoking mountains.  Two volcanoes within a volcano. The sky was blue and plans were made to go and see the sunrise.

That wasn't until we had made some friends with some local language students who were camping in the freezing cold, drinking beer, singing songs and falling in love with E.  

So - up at 3am and across the sand sea.  Quite alone and lit only by the moon and a failing torch.  We were heading in what we thought was the right direction - quite fearless of the cravasses that appeared to be opening up in front of us.  But we 'turned a corner' and, somehow, found 'everyone else'.  There had been a motorbike convoy spotted in the distance at one point but this was a serious gathering.   Everyone (including water sellers and horse handlers) headed up the cliff, to the ever-increasing smell of sulphur, and waited for the moon to go down and the sun to very slowly rise.  I likened it at the time to Close Encounters and it still reminds me of that.

We stayed for another day and I tried the walk again, only to be sent back by rain.  The sky was newly overcast and the magic was gone.  Time to go.  Another long haul back down the mountain, a row with a ticket tout and a long long journey to.....Bali.

 

Batik, Trekking and Bedbugs

Yogyakarta remains one of the most beautiful and interesting places I've been to.  There are so many things that make and made it just that.

Our first task was to do a Batik course (of course).  In, what was, my usual style, I tried to reinvent the approach that could or should be taken and I tried to do a piece based on the cover of the book that I had been reading and that which made a particular impression on me.  Batik-making is difficult enough at the best of times - a trial of wax-dripping in the right quantities and dying and re-dying.  My reinvention didn't go particularly well and I quickly gave up.  E returned time and again in the quest for perfection and did rather well, although the levels of disappointment and dissatisfaction were not testament to that.

There were two notable and extraordinary sights to see.  Prambanan and Borobadour.  Both crawling with tourists but large enough to accommodate two more in search of a unique or spiritual experience.  The latter was my favourite, dotted throughout with buddhas, some encased in stone-carved 'cages'.  There was a way in which you were supposed to walk around it, in a direction and with a number of times that brought, I assume, good luck.  The whole thing is supposed to resemble a mandala.  We climbed to the top and imagined what it must be like at sunrise.

Accommodation and food were plentiful in town - although the first of the former had to be abandoned due to bedbugs.  But even that is a rite of passage for a backpacker.

For some reason that escapes me we decided to take a day out of town to a place called Dieng.  The journey was particularly notable in that the minibus that we 'took' (minibuses passed as buses in this part of the world) became more and more full - five people in the front seat alone - to the point of bursting - before the driver would consider departing.  As a result (or for some other life-threatening reason) the floor of the bus got unbearably hot later in the journey - to the point where you couldn't put your feet on it.  Reaching Dieng we found ourselves in a cool plateau - rice paddies and rolling hills.  The only place in town to stay was inhabited by some rather snooty Germans and we rather swiftly realised our mistake - this was a place for hillwalking and suchlike - not for 'hanging out'.  A couple of walks that we did, indeed, do were short and abridged thanks to the rolling mist coming down the mountain in a manner that was beautiful but a little forboding.  So - back to Yogya it was.

Merapi - the volcano - had recently erupted - the temperature was higher than usual, smoking was billowing and people were, of course, taking pictures.  People had died.

Bandung - JKK - Singapore (and wait) - JKK - Bandung - and onwards....

I found myself deeply troubled by leaving E alone in Bandung - a feeling that was exacerbated by a terrible dream which I can still remember to this day.  E was, in the first scene, surrounded by all of the people we had met in town - but I couldn't see her face.  The next and final scene was to see her rise towards me - face first - with dark eyes and hollow cheeks.

It turns out that my fears were unfounded - although she would have preferred to have stayed in Bogor, it wasn't so bad - she took a trip out to see an artists studio and, in general, hung out with the other backpackers that had swung by this area.  I found it particularly amusing that the guesthouse staff were particularly nice - something that I found contradictory when thinking about how unpleasant the town was in general.

My journey to Singapore was pretty uneventful - lots of uncharacteristically smooth connections.  I stopped by the old JKK guest house in one of their dorm rooms with the successful intent of leaving at 330am.  The bus to the airport was waiting for me but the destination was closed.  It seems I was particularly looking forward to a Dunkin Donuts breakfast there - alas, the disappointment!

The lack of legroom is all that appears to have been notable about the flight and I do remember sitting in the airport lounge for 5-6 hours waiting for my return flight.  I read the Daily Telegraph and worried about the state of the world.  I wondered about the cleanliness of the airport and my contradictory appearance.  My return to Indonesia was met with a raised eyebrow or two from immigration but I proudly sported a new two months visa with little trial or tribulation.

And back to Bandung.  A long-ish 'stopper' train that was notable for a long chat to a student for the duration - only to be criticised by another passenger, after he got off, for it being too long and noisy!  I also, by the way, got chatted up by two boys in Angie's restaurant in JKK.  I called them 'fags' in my diary - something that made me frown disapprovingly on reading it.  I simply can't remember (but doubt) whether than was an acceptable term even then.

And, as I said, E was perfectly content - the room was a little noisy but she had gotten herself into an early habit of being somewhat uncompromising on such things.  There was nothing holding us there so - so were were straight on to Yogya with a little ado as possible.

Bogor

Bogor was the most spectacular of revelations.  A hill-town-style jungle village, set on the side of a hill with a morass of shanty town below.  I found a guest house that I will never forget on the edge of town, next to a church, surrounded by transvestite prostitutes.  All of the rooms were set around a covered courtyard with battered lounge furniture to....lounge upon.

Bogar's botanical garden is the town's only 'sight' and is little more than a municipal park.  That said, it's surprise sight was a leafless tree, covered with bats.  The people, from one end of the town to the other, are consistently charming and welcoming.  I have my picture taken endlessly and a multitude of invitations to come and see homes and meet families.  I accept a couple of these invitations, to find myself deep in 'suburbia', sometimes acting as 'cover' for an illicit meetup between boyfriend and girlfriend.

I decide, at one point, to start learning Indonesian - on the suggested of 'Teddy' in the guesthouse, the terrible weather and hearing numerous travellers having picked it up with seeming ease.  I spend a couple of days on 'cat' and 'dog' and the numbers and 'that's expensive'.

And then it's time to go back to Jakarta to meet E who couldn't be more excited to arrive.  She's also terrifically well prepared for the trip (unlike me a number of months ago).  That said - her pre-travel nerves are quite similar to those that I experienced.  I had been very much looking forward to seeing her - by this point in proceedings I was feeling a little lonely and a little homesick.  Although I was talking, in my diary, about coming back soon and the 'chitchat' with others was much more pleasant and numerous than in might have been in the past.  E brings many things to the game - from someone to tell my 'tales' to (including a full photo viewing) through to someone to have a drink with - having long been a little teetotal.

After a terse exchange with the Jalan Jaksa guesthouse about their enthusiasm to get rid of us rather quickly, we headed straight back to Bogor.  E was particularly impressed and, it turned out, would have preferred to stay there instead of Bandung.  Because stay she must - on her own - I was headed to Singapore to renew my visa.....

Trans Sumatra

And so to the other semi-mythical story of my travels.  The way I remember it is that I realised that I had a too limited amount of time, now, to reach Jakarta in time to meet E.  The very practicalities of travelling were a little alien to me after these two weeks on Samui.  The chaotic unpredictability of minibuses, boats and buses was an unpleasant realisation to say the least.

Penang had mixed reports to say the least and a cramped minibus of a mixed bag of individuals arrived in this outpost and all concerned suddenly realised that they were in Malaysia now.  It didn't make much of an impact to say the least.  But I don't think I really wanted it to.  My only real memory of this spot was of an enormous cockroach coming out of the overflow in the sink in my room and needing to be scooped up into a newspaper and thrown out of the window.  I'd only seen its tentacles pointing out and thought that a burst of Lynx deodorant would real with it - said burst actually enticed it out rather than sent it packing!

And so to Medan.  And into a different country again.  Our arrival bus was swarmed by rickshaw wallahs - it was like being back in India - the shouting, hawking and deal-doing.  After getting momentary settled, I was overcome with 'advice' from travellers and locals alike about how to get to Jakarta.  I was worried how.  Boat vs Bus vs Plane were debated at length and I plumped for the bus only to be taken around town umpteen times by an increasingly irritating individual who wanted to get me on the right VIP bus, in the right place at the right time.  It seems I was to pay for him and his friends journeys around town and their return journey too!

And so a long 2-3 days of leaky-roofed bus travel began.  My notes use the word 'unbearable' quite a lot.  The bus was packed, the heat intense, the next seat constantly occupied - sometimes by people, sometimes by a box with a chicken in it.  The 'bus boys' thought I was bearing my lot calmly - they thought I must have been on something.  I'd wrap my head in the curtain to protect it from leaks and to use it as a pillow.  The stops involved inedible food and vomit-inducing lavatories.  The 'company' almost always insisted on resting their hand on my knee.  Although my mental state was calm - indeed my head was empty - I do remember letting out a hefty 'sigh' when I realised we had made to little progress.  Oh - and I think it was here that we crossed the equator too.

I arrived in Jakarta battered and bruised - hungover without the fun.  And it wasn't too bad - modern (I did, indeed, have a Burger King) but interestingly cultured - I went to the Museums and the Parks and realised that I was on time - by about three days.  So it was time to explore.  So I headed to Bogor.

Koh Samui Part 2

The second half of my stay in MaeNam was punctuated most notably by the Special Omelette episode.  A memory that has quite literally stayed with me for ever!  Not that it was bad - quite the opposite.

A 'normal' evening in Rasta Baby commenced.  The rather over-hasty announcement that we were having the 'special' resulted in a swift change of tone and a trip, we suspected, on the part of the staff into the jungle to dig up the goods.  Or maybe that's something I've made up since.

The omelette was served with due ceremony and we slathered it in tomato ketchup in the expectation that it was going to taste appalling.  Not that you'd know.  Thanks to the ketchup.  And nothing happened.  We paid the bill and went for a walk.

And then.  The most extraordinary evening/night ensued.  A star-filled dome of sky became the most fantastical thing.  A cat came and joined us on the beach and then came and sat on my table whilst we chatted and hooted.  There were parts of the beach that were eerily desolate and other parts where you could run your fingers through the sand for hours on end - it seemed.  No hippy-speak nonsense about the meaning of the world - just fireworks and fun.

We finally settled back on the balcony - MamaSan was stalking back and forth with a typical scowl on her face.  Something about the generator.  We failed to roll up successfully and thought seriously about getting the kiwis up to do so for us.  I had a shower and upset Jacquie by spraying her with mossy spray.  I slept, at two in the morning, the best sleep I'd had for a long time.

And of course the morning was similarly blissful.  Continued but enhanced relaxation ensued with a vague thought or two that I'd need to leave some time.

And leave I did - after two weeks, the naive exchange of addresses and the clumsy hug or two. It was day 70 and I needed to be in Jakata on day 83.  Not too much of a stretch but a considerable distance by land.   At 5.30am in the morning, I was off, not to return to Koh Samui for another three years or so, under entirely different personal circumstances.

Koh Samui Part 1

The return to BKK was pretty uneventful by the sounds of things.  My disdain at other travellers appears to have increased in magnitude - notably around their somewhat clean and well-kept appearances.  So - it was off to Koh Samui - with big ideas about meditation and thai chi in my mind.

My departure was of an afternoon/evening and was punctuated by a 'drive past' by the royal family - something that required all present at the bus stop to be upstanding.  The bus itself was, we subsequently found out, an 'upgrade' and actually allowed a little bit of sleep.  Lots of couples on board and lots of clubbers heading for the delights of Chaweng Beach.

The longest part of the journey, as I remember it, was the boat across to the island.  Maybe I was a touch seasick but I remember thinking 'is that it' and 'maybe that's it'.

The arrival brought me into contact with some 'greasy Italians' and Jacquie.  On the back of a pickup heading for the North of the island.  'Boguns' she called them.  And off we got at MaeNam Villas.  A complex of buildings that surprised and delighted me.  A little balcony, a chair and table and a double bed.  And a bat.  My other memory - which doesn't seem to be noted in my diary is of a shower without a head and a loo without a seat.

Jacquie and I hit it off particularly quickly.  Our first bonding was over a 'green tea' down at Rasta Baby - something that resulted in me passing out in my seat on her balcony.  Rasta Baby was to become a particularly regular haunt.  A Danish girl and her thai boyfriend who would put the grass on your bill and subtly encourage you in the direction of the Special Omelette.  Many an evening was spent there - racking up a huge bill and watching the crazies dance.

Some kiwis next door also became friendly - a couple with a toddler called Joe - on their way back to NZ from Tottenham.  He (the father, not Joe) became our guiena pig for the special omelette - but he was considerably larger than me - not that that held me back - more on that anon.

Motorbikes were another delight.  The first fifteen minutes were notable for ending up in a ditch on my side (memories of that fete and my parents having to administer St John's finest).  But we soon got the hang of it - until a small selection of bikes were impounded by the police for parking offences - an episode that resulted in a new phase of bartering...

Muesli seems to feature large at this time - as do late breakfasts and late lunches.  The occasional bout of homesickness and paranoia and interesting hints about 'out of control daydreaming' that I enjoyed just as much as I was disturbed by.....

And my birthday.  A birthday in Koh Samui punctuated by a phonecall home and the news that Mum was in hospital.  'It's my birthday', I said to my rather distracted father.  'Is that the only reason you called' said he.

A bridge from Kanchanaburi

The journey to Kanchanaburi was particularly marked by an Israeli girl arguing for a 'no aircon journey' which seemed to irritate me particularly.

But on arriving all irritation slipped away with the realisation that I was going to be staying in an idyllic bamboo hut right by the river.  The nights were cool, the accompanying restaurant was populated by charming staff and interesting people - as well as taxi soup, pancakes and newspapers - and I decided to take it particularly slow.

The walk into town and the bridge itself was short and untaxing.  There were a number of museums commemorating the war and the bridge itself - one, notably, had a temporary exhibition on Miss Thailand for some reason.  I was particularly struck by the war graves and the fact that many of those who fell were little older than me - cue lots of meaningful poetry writing.  

The second day saw me somewhat unpreparedly join a trip to some waterfalls.  I, of course, thought that this would be a somewhat sedate affair - sitting at the bottom reading the odd book or two.  It was, in fact, a full-scale climb up the waterfall itself - in flipflops.  Danes, Irish and Israelis abounded and we arrived back at the guesthouse exhausted but happy.

It seems I was reading DH Lawrence followed by 'Love in the Time of Cholera' at the time - I have no memory of the former and little of the latter.  'Disco Boats' went past my bamboo hut whilst I wrote diary entries and poems about 'falling in love with who you fall in love with' (!) and my neighbour (who had been keeping me awake at night by merely rolling over in bed) decided to go back to BKK because it was too cold here.

The restaurant staff did, it seems, think I was particularly lazy with my 1030 breakfasts and not going out exploring until 1.  But it sounds like I was finally on holiday!  My final night included a drunk old american guy who wanted me to believe that he was CIA and a descendent of Roosevelt - he'd been infiltrating the Burmese border for years and sending intelligence back.  You do wonder how these people ended up here and if/how they ever got 'home'.

Headed back to BKK - to the Merry V.  Laundry and a shave a preparations for Koh Samui.  I'd already decided that I was 'above' the party-seekers and that a quiet spot was just waiting for me.

BKK KSR

So - onwards.  The departure from Bombay was, of course, fraught with negotiations with over-enthusiastic Sikh taxi drivers and their brothers and the airport wait was supplemented with my remains 50 Rps.  But that was it - India done.

There was something of a relapse from the very first flight of the trip with paranoia about crashing and paranoia about everyone else on the plane being more friendly to each other than they were to me.

But the change once touching down in BKK could not have been more marked.   Got a taxi from the airport to town with a couple and a chap called Michael.  The couple had come from Thailand to India and back again - had only lasted a couple of weeks before the dirt got the better of them.  And Michael - a lone traveller who was gradually trying to get his motorbike home.  

And The Khao San Road - that famous backpackers Mecca of banana pancakes, street food and drinks over a pirate copy of Back to the Future II.  We naturally chose a spot off of the road, at the far end - just to prove our 'distance' from 'them'.  But I couldn't have been happier - a comfortable bed that was the location of my first siestas of the trip and a sense that this place was going to be considerably easier than the last five weeks.

Temple hunting is, of course, a must in BKK but these, as you'll know, redefine the word 'breath-taking'.  My natural propensity for not having prepared myself properly resulted in my being taken entirely by surprise as to the beauty and the meditative glory of these places.  The sitting, reclining or standing buddhas - every single one was a source of delight and wonder.

Even the 'last day of the gem sale' hawkers were worth a chat.  Even the 'getting lost looking for a meditation centre' was stress free.  Michael and I hung out (occasionally with others, mostly alone), celebrated his birthday (33), went to the weekend market, went to see 'True Lies' and lay in the guesthouse room, reading (where he had the rather unedifying habit of playing with himself whilst doing so).

It seems I was rather preoccupied with looking out for those girls from Hampi whilst tucking into my latest banana pancake with condensed milk and chocolate.  But to no avail.  I was overwhelmed with wonder at the ease of arranging my next 'leg' and that was it - onto the River Kwai!

Back in f***in' Bombay Boys!

So.  Yes.  The famous 52 hour train ride.  My 'window bearth' was too short for me and I have this abiding memory of having to get up every hour or so to stretch my legs - day and night.  The memory that remains is that I did so in the corridor, looking out the window, smoking those awful 'Gold Spot' cigarattes.  Or was 'Gold Spot' their version of Tango?  Anyway.

And, for some reason, no food.  My cullinary discovery for this journey seemed to be orange cream biscuits and that's it.  The 'train food' had to be ordered in advance - something that I'd failed to do, resulting in only having two small, paper-wrapped meals in the whole 2.5 days.  Being put with other Westerners (a trend) was a pain (unwelcome company) and a mercy (he gave me a banana).

A combination of literary discovery (The Madness of a Seduced Woman) and reflection kept the journey occupied.  Lots of thinking about the last five weeks.  Thinking about becoming swiftly comfortable, by necessity, with travelling on one's own, but also through discovering the sort of traveller one was and the sort of traveller one wanted to spend time with.  I was dilligent to remind myself that I wanted to remain friends with J, but it was clear that were weren't compatible travellers - his incessant smoking and keenness to out do all and sundries' backpacking stories.  That was then, not now (as we know).


And back to Bombay - which I swiftly realised I hated.  I was stationed in a guesthouse out of town a little - something that involved, unlike last time, a train into the city centre.  If I cast my mind back, my first journey in with some other Brits was so packed that I lost both them and the contents of my pockets which were emptied blatantly by someone pushed up against me.  Busy, corrupt and expensive.  I seem to have spent the majority of those final four days writing letters, thinking about the play I was writing and reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being.  Such limited activity seems to have resulted in me spending a great deal of time in my hotel room rather than exploring Bombay on my last opportunity to do so.  There was a little bit of administration - confirming flights, changing money, going to the GPO, visiting the posh bookshop in the Taj Hotel - but that's about it.  No regrets - I seem quite content. 

And so to the airport.  A touch of apprehension about what this next furlong brings.  The majority of said apprehension seems to be based around the flight(s) being somewhat uneven.  But the vibes were good.  A Korean chap bought me a beer, a couple of Australians told me how they were returning to Thailand after only a short trip to India because Thailand was so much nicer.  And a shared taxi into town to share a room with a beardy English chap in the 'New Merry V'.

Goodbye India - it's late October 1994.  Over twenty years ago.  I'd return to India, but it wouldn't  be until 2007 at the age of 35.

Keralan Moodswings

 

It's interesting that after questioning, many years later, whether I was happy and enjoying myself at this point, that's exactly the question I asked myself, then, on turning the page.

Arriving in Kerala, Ernakulam, I spent the usual day orientating myself and arranging the next departure - something that, as ever, takes an entire day.  The usual spate on ripoff rickshaws to trainstations where no-one gives you a straight answer.  The incredibly cheap room (hutch) that I've selected is clearly getting me down too - the walls don't meet the ceiling and the bed's too short for my 6'1''.  I've also made a particularly distraught note about my radio chewing up a Tracy Chapman tape - oh the woes.
 
My mood changes significantly on a number of counts.

Firstly I have a haircut and shave - always a treat in India and transformative in every respect.

Secondly - although I don't talk about it at the time, my health is clearly improving.  I'm eating a lot and talking about 'taste sensations'.  Everything from omlette, to toast, to 'dosa stops' to egg birianis get a mention.  Ice Cream gets a particular shout-out.  Twice.  All good signs.

I've also taken a particular interest in sightseeing.  Vasco de Gamma's last resting place.  The famous Chinese Fishing Nets.  Walks along the harbour and to Cochin Island for the fort and palace.  And Kathlkali dancing is a particular find.  I maintain that I saw this form of Indian dance long before it 'toured' to places like the Edinburgh Festival and the Queens Elizabeth Hall.  I particularly remember the eye-rolling, the preshow makeup, the watering pattering on the roof and the 'master of ceremonies' telling us about the significance of the dance and the relgious connotations throughout.  I got a rickshaw back to the homestay after dropping off a chap at a rather fancy hotel.

In a matter of six days I would be well on my way to Bangkok - something that filled me with a certain degree of trepidation.  I spent many an evening thinking about the journey, smoking the rest of my stash, reading Arthur Miller (All My Sons) and fantasising wildly.  There was a small matter of a 52 hour journey back to Bombay to content with first - and with a seat rather than a sleeper bearth.  That was all to come.

 

i predict a riot

So - Madurai is famous for its fantastically painted temples. Little was said of it's 50/50 racial mix - Hindu/Muslim and what happens if one side suffers an assasination the day that I arrive in town.

I'd arrived early in the morning and watched the sun rise over a station concourse that was littered with people, all wrapped up in grey cloths and blankets.

 

The temples are, indeed, spectacular. There's a great deal of prostrating oneself and walking around pillars numerous times.   I have one particular memory of a algae-infested water tank in one.  I might be wrong.

The Temple Market is also tremendously famous, lined, as it is, by tailors and other cloth-sellers.


I'm still profoundly deaf and think little of it when I find myself walking at the centre of a rather determined crowd, flying black flags and banners.  I quickly catch on when a police van flies through the centre of the crown and dispenses a large number of baton-wielding policemen.  Everyone runs in the opposite direction, including myself. 

 

Madurai goes into a degree of shutdown.  You can find yourself sitting in a bar/cafe, happily eating an onion dosa when the shutters rattle down to fend off a marrauding crowd of 'the other side'.

I'm also profoundly constipated, by the way.

What to do but checkout and head to Kerala.  A bus seems like a good idea.  If your idea of a good bus journey is a broken seat in front of you, a leaking roof and an endless array of indians wanting to sit next to you and make friends as you make your way over the Keralan mountains with the skies darkening and the temperature dropping.  Kumily (the famous hill station) passes in the torrential night and I arrive to a boxroom in Ernakulam, battered.

Am I enjoying myself?  From reading all of this, I'm really not quite sure.

MahabaliMamalapuram

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.

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.

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.

Hampi or bust

 

Hampi remains, many years later, one of the best experiences of my life. 

We stayed one night in Hospet - not the most inspiring of towns - mainly a stopping-off point for Hampi - as demonstrated by a couple who were daytripping to Hampi every day.

My diary refers to it, over and over, as 'Indiana Jones-like'.  The enormous boulders, strewn across the landscape.  The thirteenth century temples, Elephant Stables, Queen's Bath and singing stones.  The 'main drag' of a few shops and stalls with an enormous temple and town 'water tank' at the far end.  And Gopis - our hangout of choice.  And the cheapest room I've stayed in in my life - RajSingh's (or something).  A small cafe and a few bare rooms.  20 rps a night.  Monkeys everywhere.  But at least the place had hot water which you threw over yourself with a bucket.

J amused himself somewhat with some British Girls  that we'd met.  One, he maintained, was the spitting image of Patsy Kensit.  Lots of 'caram' in the cafe and bikerides out into the desert.

We both had 'daytrips' into Hospet for trouser-making, ticket booking and money-changing.  Mine was dominated by a chap called Vittl who insisted on escorting me everywhere, pissing in the street, ordering double for lunch and insisting that I came to his house for dinner.  J displayed his usual supportive charms by saying that he'd have happily let me go alone whilst he feigned illness.

 

I'd imagine that Hampi is a bit more touristified these days.  Then it was the last stop saloon.  Fights in the street between hammered indians and stoned hippy travellers.  Waves of dog barking in the streets, heralding the approach or departure of a visitor.  Monkeys coming into your room to steal things.  An ever-increasing entourage of visitors, every morning, from Shankar the massage and chillum guy through to the bread/pie/cake guy.  And every day marked with breakfast at RS's, chillin' in the room, climbing up to the temple and dinner at Gopis.



We'd spend hours, sitting on the side of a mountain, talking nonsense, writing postcards and poems, smoking and drinking 'bang lassis'. 

My diary shows signs of irritation on both sides.  J's womanising, 'go it alone' attitude and miserliness might have, in fact, caused problems further down the line - but it didn't because we were only together for 18 days. 

But all in all - a remarkable week - fondly remembered.

And indeed - after a quick trip to Mysore and the now-famous Bangalore, he was gone.  I was on my own.

PostScript.  I've just discovered, in looking for pictures online, that Hampi Bazaar is gone - bulldozed in 2011 as part of a government order to 'protect' the historic site.  The pictures online are truly sad and shocking.  All gone.  Never to return.

Back Packed

I kept closely-scribed diaries for the totality of my backpacking.  I never intended to transcribe them and I won't start now.  They remain intensely embarrassing reading but an interesting insight into Me Then.

I arrived in Bombay airport around, I think, seven hours early.  This was before the days of email and text messaging and my arrangement with J to meet was therefore seven hours out of date.


So there I was, mulling over a tricky and painful goodbye with U, an extraordinary Summer, a flight filled with paranoid dreams of spending the next five months on my own whilst everyone else paired off and had the most wonderful of times and doggedly refusing to drink any water - in Bombay airport.  Each fly that landed on me filled me with malarial dread and I moved from plastic seat to plastic seat, ploughing my way through Erica Jong's "How to Save your Own Life".

And then J turned up three hours early, announcing that he'd been here all night.....

And so the adventure began.  J had already been in the country for a few weeks and, seeing that this was his second visit, he was the expert.  Expert in haggling with an Indian accent, smoking weed and planning the next leg of the trip, three days in advance, at knock-down pricing.

Bombay was utterly ghastly.  The slums, the con-artists, the crowds, the drunks and dope-fiends.  Very little to see or do (apart from an art gallery dedicated, rather, to Rajiv Ghandi and a Dhobi Ghat not worth the hour's drive) and very little opportunity for escape as our first bus tickets out of town were double-booked. 

The eventual bus journey to Goa was doubly ghastly.  It took, my diary reminds me, three hours to get out of Bombay ('If making money is a sin, welcome to hell').  The roads were so bad that your head would hit the ceiling when you went over a bump.  I was starting to seriously regret my decision to come to India and to chose J as my travelling companion.

 

Things picked up a little in Goa.  J, it transpired, was something of a backpacker lethario.  And Goa was full of similar types and overly tanned women.  Excessive drinking and smoking was done at a place on the beach called 'Pasta Hut' and the recovery was one in a concrete hut on a street upon which fish dried in the sun.  The mosquito net would glower down on you during the night and the travellers tales were recounted, for good and bad, into the night.  The famous 'ear cleaners' prowled the beaches and I reminded myself that I didn't want to come back from my travels hating my travelling companion, like my brother did.  I started to relax a little and accept J's ways and India's many many ways.

Eight days in.

Interlude 2

I guess I have fewer regrets about the period since the last Interlude.  The mistakes I made resulted in learnings that I grew from.  I still had many discoveries to make but I had fewer regrets.  There are things that I would have done differently.  But knowing that made me stronger.

The smallest regret was my educational achivement.  I had excelled at school and achieved outstanding results.  At university I excelled in other ways.  I made friends where I expected to find none.  I stretched myself in trying new things and many gave me experience that I draw upon today.  I continued to develop my particular brand of loyalty and friendship and my own brand of me.

No regrets.

The final blow-out

So - that's it?  Over?  Well - not quite.

The final hurrah of University life was a trip to Edinburgh for the festival.  Those final few terms were spent in the company of budding theatricals, as we know.  This was the greatest of opportunities to not say goodbye.  We cajoled the Union into giving us some underwriting and a minibus and I cajoled a foundation into giving us some money and rehearsals commenced for 'Cuckoo'.



Casting was controversial.  Previous favourites were overlooked and newbies ended up in leading roles as Indians and Nurses (work it out).

I moved digs, continued a relentless programme of garlic cooking, smoking, drinking and rehearsing and we were off.  I was the first driver....

The extent of C's resistance to roadtravel was not fully apparent to me.  She had been in a serious car crash on her gap year and has remained a nervous traveller since.  She sat in the seat behind the driver's steadily drinking.  And singing.  I, in the meantime, couldn't find the fullbeam of the headlights and the night was closing in.

It's extraordinary to me that a bunch of students can work out how to book venues, marketing and accomodation in another city, let alone pack a roofrack on a minibus.  But we made it in one piece, driving through the night, and arriving for a tech rehearsal at a converted leisure centre, early in the morning.

The show itself was a triumph - uncharacteristically sold out for a student show in Edinburgh.  As memorable as all that was, the trip was memorable for so many other reasons.

Scampi and Chips after every show, with a lot of drinking.  Starting at about 230pm.

Everyone coming up to see the show from home.   Sleeping in the corridor, in cupboards and, of course, in other people's beds.

Nurse Ratched's endless shagging of her boyfriend.  Endless.

The teriffic reviews that decided to single out our Billy for sole criticism - resulting in a meltdown (and a pickup) that last through until 5 minutes before the next performance.

My brother and his girlfriend even came.  Cue a very nice dinner (and the discovery of warm brie salad) and a very raucous evening at the Fringe Club (lots of shouting down free mike standups - to the extent that we got told off by another patron).

Lots and lots of inhaling.

A trip to Roslyn Chapel long before Da Vinci Code.

Stubbing a cigarette out in C's eye.  A trip to hospital and a lifetime of recrimination ensued.

Getting slagged off by the show that was after us - for our pretentious warmups and our postshow rounds of self-congratulation.  Their criticism was justified.

The stars in the Gilded Balloon Bar.  Bill went one step too far and got lambasted by Mark Lamarr.

The ceiling falling in on our digs.

The constant harranging of the cast to 'do some flyering'.  They must have done because we sold out!

The discovery of Fecund Theatre, Ertha Kitt doing James Joyce and, more important than anything, "The Night that Larry Kramer Kissed Me".

And the long drive home.  Dropping people off as we went.  Overshooting my own home for a final night or two in my now ex University Town.  A final drink or two at the pub where I'd developed the most shocking of habits (pints, cockles and drunkenly telling the barmaid all my problems).  A round of words-lite goodbyes.  A taxi arrival.  And gone.