Travel Journal I made

(This is taken from my travel journal I made, word for word as I wrote it. The real thing has pictures and things. I can’t draw these on the internet. And sometimes, oh clever me, I added emphasis with a turn of a page! You will not get this here. If you want to see the real thing please buy me a drink. It can be any drink. At all. I warn you now the book was 78 pages (albeit including Chennai). So make sure you’re really bored before reading. K?).

 

Thursday 18^th December

 15:36 – And we’re off! Though not really, I’ve been off for two hours already, most of which I’ve spent listening to the (awesome) Lush discography while standing at the open train door with the world flashing past. I could quite happily do this until the sun sets, everything is so intriguing; the landscape, the agriculture, the blurred towns, the straw homes. I love it.

 We (I) left Hyderabad (well, Secunderabad Junction, its twin city) at 13:30. We’re due in at 07:10 tomorrow, Mumbai Central. It’s possibly/definitely the longest journey ever ever ever. I’m not sure why it’s going to take SO long. The other Mumbai trains don’t take this long at all. They are maybe 12 hours… I don’t know. Maybe this is like the London to Brighton stopper train. Except instead of Redhill and Horley we stop at Dadar and Umri. And instead of cap clad young mothers and walking sports catalogues we have begging transsexuals and ragged men selling samosa.

Speaking of which, so far I have had a 4/10 veg biryani  (bland but thankfully filling), 2 cup of chai (8/10, inevitably), which sandwiched some slightly shifty samosas (5/10 – could reduce depending on my later toilet status).

 I have packed 9 underwear, 6 t shirts and 1 toothbrush. I have toilet roll. I don’t have a razor. This is deliberate. I look like this right now:

 

(picture)

 I am listening to ‘Subtle Strains’ by Jonquil. This is the song I listened to as I trudged home at 2AM up the A38(M) from Simone’s after she broke up with me. It was cold and wet and my eyes were wet and I hid in my hoody. It’s hard to imagine a more different scene than now…

 Onward!

 

17:54 – The begging transsexuals attacked me!!! There I was, innocently watching the sunset over the Maharastra horizon out of the door, when along they come (obviously spotting easy prey) clapping and shouting, and on repetition of ‘Ne, ne!’ from me the lead girl* started grabbing my penis! Now my penis hasn’t been grabbed for a good few months now, but even still it retreated as far as it ever has as those long fingers cupped and probed. It was at that point that she* lifted up her* skirt, which was about the point I buckled and handed over 10 Rupees (which was tucked quickly with a toss of the head into the saree ‘cleavage’ if you will next to her* coarse skin. I didn’t look down. One presumes for not much more you’d be dragged into the toilet. This makes me feel a little sick.

 But overall I found the experience highly amusing. I fear, however, for my future companion Swiss Simon. Yes, I found a companion! I’m not sure I want one, mind, for being alone for the whole trip was very exciting, but curse my rum mouth I told him about it and now he’s following me to Mumbai, tomorrow. Swiss Simon is simultaneously completely lovely and infuriating. He is a picture of vulnerability. Professor glasses usually sit a little crooked on his face and there’s something in his eyes that makes it look like he has a lazy eye, but he doesn’t. He is usually slightly hunched and has an irritating habit of getting way to close to you in conversation. You’re not having a conversation with Swiss Simon, you’re having a conversation with Swiss Simon’s face. It’s not a comfortable situation for a ‘don’t touch me’ introvert like yours truly.

 Anyway, these things (along with his ever pale skin) make him very exploitable in India. I am worried Swiss Simon will get raped by these women*. We’ll see, I guess.

 

20:53 – For some reason it is more difficult to write up here on my upper berth – horizontal -. Maybe this book is telling me to shut up and stop wasting paper on mere journeys. Save it for the Ganges, the Taj. But the book is wrong. It is ALL about the journeys.

 We’ve had quite the scene here in seats 64-72 of coach S6. I got talking to two children, who said I had ‘Indian face, white skin’ (YES!), and then their parents, and then the nice elderly lady next to me, all of whom had more than acceptable English. My new friend then started practicing his ‘magic’ tricks to me as three policemen sat in the lower side berth laughing on with their big sticks and big moustaches. At some point (well, many points), a child came round selling ‘Wartar Bartle!’ The family bought one.

 It didn’t really sink in that this child, the same age (10-12?) as my new friend, must have ENTIRELY different circumstances. Where will he sleep tonight, for example?

 I’ve found I take these things for granted now. Child Labour?! It’s normal. Everyone takes it for granted. But where will he sleep tonight?

 The nice family will sleep at Ajanta, where by co-incidence I was at 3 weeks back. They will alight at Aurangabad. I will probably still be on this train when they wake at home next morning.

 I am quite tired and uninspired. The prostitutes have turned into screaming children. The policemen’s radios cackle. We are hurtling through space.

 

Friday 19^th December

 

07:05 – I just woke up and no-one’s on the train!!! Momentary panic as it leaves A station, thankfully not Mumbai Central. I think I’m in Mumbai though. AWESOME. TOTES! Sleep = 6/10. Rudely awakened at 3AM by the sudden appearance of a million people in the carriage.

 

10:01 – PHEW! My train pulled in at 07:20 and the next 3 hours, my first in this bewildering city, have been a disorientated mash up. Due to the above ‘OMG we’re here already’ waking up experience I had no time to plan hotel or anything really. Firstly I stumbled about gaping at the CST (Victoria) terminus which is like a beautiful English/Mughal/Hindi Palace has decided to have a few trains in it. In my semi-daze I didn’t realise it was this station at all, got confused and spent 50R on an elaborate circle in a taxi to Churchgate and then BACK to Victoria. I then went to Colaba and got scared of all the white people, looked in a few shit hotels, declined, had Idly (my favourite – 8/10) for breakfast (it’s like rice dumpling maybe), got frustrated and AGAIN came back to Victoria Station to find the City Palace Hotel opposite, where I sit now. All the while I have been transfixed by the architecture, it’s like fucking LONDON here! They don’t allow autorickshaws in the centre of Mumbai so you can cross the roads and everything. And every corner you turn you see something that reminds you of Victorian London, or the centre of Oxford even, but BIGGER. Incredible. This place is SO different to Hyderabad.

 I am waiting to go to my real room. They will call me, then I may sleep, shower, and plan a bit. And hit this city.

 

19:02 – I feel like Leon in ‘Leon,’ staying in all these small hotel rooms with small windows. All I need is a plant, some guns and a young female accomplice who I may or may not be in love with.

 Room 606 is on the top floor of Hotel City Palace in the far corner, and the small window currently overlooks the CST/Victoria Terminus sucking thousands of people in. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people going in one direction. On the way home from watching day turn to night on Chowpatty beach I experimented by trying to walk in the opposite direction to the masses on the thoroughfare. I failed.

 EXPERIMENTATION! That’s what you can’t do with a companion so much. Imagine trying to explain why I wanted to do that to Swiss Simon!! No way. I couldn’t have ambled around markets and bazaars like I did around lunchtime. “Where are we going?” “Anywhere.” Cue look of despair. But it SHOULD be anywhere. I found so much more today by mistake than I ever would with that cursed Lonely Planet in hand and common sense in mind. I noted down a couple of places from it and departed with my own scrap map of Mumbai, ol’ LP sat ashamedly on the bed. My policy was pretty much: that arch looks exciting, let’s go under it! This tiny street takes me deeper in, let’s take it! The bazaars are incredible, just reams of hive-esque community. At some point, at the bottom of Malarbar Hill, I popped out of a semi-slum to find the Arabian Sea laid out before me. From the Bay of Bengal to here in 6 days. Wicked.

 HOWEVER, I am actually looking forward to Simon coming more than I am making apparent. As aforementioned he is lovely, and the faults are none of his own making, I know. He is also quite a good friend. And when he is here we can go to pubs and things and talk girls and things. India is slowly making him more assertive as well, which is key. It should be fun. We can do the tourist clichés tomorrow. I hope he’s not being raped as I write. Good luck Swiss Simon!

 In other news, I bought some rum. I think this was with the vague pretext of giving me some courage to go to a white people bar in Colaba. And sit alone. Maybe I’ll read my book and the girl of my dreams will have read it and is also travelling alone and I will buy her a drink or four.

 ”Every time I close my eyes…”

 

22:54 – WELL, I flirted with Colaba after a long walk around the deserted harbour backstreets, but ended up round the corner in a ‘Naval’ restaurant where I had fish massala curry (6/10 – though maybe would have been more if it weren’t for the Bhel Puri snacks I had on Chowpatty beach earlier (which were 8/10, for the record)) and a pepsi and ice cream. It had just started raining when I met Joseph again, perched on a slab under the arch of the old colonial buildings in the semi-darkness.

 I had met Joseph this morning in my dazed original walk to Colaba. We had a brief conversation and I seem to remember thinking he was trying to sell me drugs but maybe I misheard him. ANYWAY, 12 hours later, and not far from that spot, he called me over: “You don’t remember me?” “Of course Joseph!” I smiled back and perched next to him.

 Joseph is a 5″8 Kenyan with a thin frame and a big smile. We talked for at least half an hour in the shadows as Mumbai walked past on the lit road beyond; turns out he’d been in the city 7 years and was a ship builder with no ship to build. As we traded tales about various things it became increasingly apparent that Joseph would probably sleep tonight on this very slab. Several other human shapes lay in various other arches beyond, which is not abnormal at all for India.

 I said I had to leave. And then came the words I always dread to hear in such situations: “Perhaps you could do me a favour…”

 The story, or the truth, was that he needed to contact his sister in Tanzania but needed some money for phone credit. Earlier he had said he had lost his phone. And he hiccupped every 5 seconds.

 HOWEVER, he had her card from Tanzania. But maybe he pulled this trick every time. He had seemed completely genuine and lovely.

 I hate this world that makes me suspect Joseph.

I hate this world that makes people lie and exploit, even if Joseph himself is not lying or exploiting.

I hate this world that puts good people in shit and shit people in good.

 Joseph forgot to ask again for the phone credit, other than asking where to meet tomorrow. I semi-lied “about here maybe 3-4PM?” It could happen, I guess.

 I hate this world that makes me suspect Joseph so I lie to him.

 Goodnight.

 

Saturday 20^th December

 

10:09 – Crows are crowing from their next in my window. I dreamt of birds. And eggs. And flying. And at some point I was Lewis Hamilton flying one of those planes from the beginning of The Aviator and then the engine cut out and I landed in a tree. But by then it wasn’t me, because I could see Lewis, in the tree. Mother wasn’t pleased. Later a girl from my extreme past who I hadn’t thought of for years would offer herself to me very sweetly. I mumbled and took too long and she ended up with her nephew.

 SO THERE YOU HAVE IT!

 Swiss Simon still hasn’t called me. Mumbai sounds excited today. I’m excited!

 

19:06 – I am laying on my bed drinking rum and coke. I bought two coke bottles so the combination ratio of rum:coke would be just right. It is just right.

 Swiss Simon has moved to the room opposite me and is in the shower. I wonder if he’ll notice if I finish the bottle of rum in the time he takes in the bathroom. Actually, as regular fanboy readers will know, Swiss Simon often takes a few millennia in the toilet, so perhaps I will sober up by then.

 In other news, my feet are falling to pieces. I am putting these pieces in the bin.

 Also my beard is in puberty. I look like this:

 (picture)

 ’Where’s your nose?’ you cry. Fuckoff. I wish my beard would exit puberty and be a real beard. It itches and makes me irritable.

 Anywho, SS has been an ace companion so far. Suck on that, former self! We’ve laughed a lot at how different Mumbai is to Hyd. Like how there are PAVEMENTS. And the taxi drivers don’t CHEAT you. And how there is less BEEPING.

 Track # 3 – PAVEMENTS CHEAT BEEPING

 Tonight we are going to hit the town and make sweet love to some beautiful women. READ: We are going to sit in the corner of a bar gazing absent-mindedly at beautiful women. It will be fun.

 I didn’t see Joseph again. Please let us beat Doncaster. Please…

 

23:59 – 5 minutes ago I changed my Indian sim card to my UK one.

 I LOVE YOU NEILL COLLINS! <3

 Simon and I had a most enjoyable evening! We ate lush seafood at Mahesh Lunch Home and then drank cocktails and talked girls at Leopold’s on Colaba, which I was reliably informed had been bombed those 3 weeks previous.

 I am watching WHU vs. Villa LIVE in my hotel room. Efan Ekoku Is commentating! Efan Ekoku! Bring out Marcus Gayle!

 I LOVE YOU NEILL COLLINS! <3

 I had long island iced tea. It turns out Simon likes pretty girl # 1 the most, which is no surprise because she is also Swiss and (IMO) she is the sweetest and prettiest of them all. We devised ways to dispose of her boyfriend.

 I LOVE YOU NEILL COLLINS! <3

 There was a cute girl sitting alone a few tables away but, as I explained to SS, I would never have the guts to go to speak to her. Which must be fate, far I am now in love with Neill Collins.

 I LOVE YOU NEILL COLLINS! <3 <3 <3

 (if you are quite dim, Neill Collins is an oft-ridiculed Wolves centre-half, who perhaps scored a very important winner today).

 Tomorrow I leave this town for Jodhpur. I will miss Mumbai. As a guildy would say “Good times mate, good times.” I will be alone for this, for Simon goes straight to Agra, where I will meet him on Monday.

 I LOVE YOU NEILL COLLINS! <3 <3 <3 <3 <3!

(I HATE YOU CRAIG BELLAMY)

Goodnight!

 

Sunday 21^st December

 

14:28 – We have just left the outer suburbs of Mumbai. Slum after slum after slum after slum after slum. We are hurtling. I’ve paid off the prostitutes in advance (10R). I got a stroke on the chin for my troubles.

 I am quite irritable today. It is probably a good thing I am alone, for SS, or anyone for that matter, would probably ignorantly infuriate this selfish rut I find myself in. The nice man opposite helped; we discussed Sachin Tendulkar and Jodhpur at length.

 I don’t know if it’s rum withdrawal. Or sugar withdrawal. I don’t know why I get these ruts. I wish I knew.

 

17:12 – We are approaching our first stop from Mumbai; ‘Surat,’ where my new acquaintance Nikesh will alight. He seems very proud of Surat; “World famous for cloth and diamond!” he smiles. And indeed one can see the huge mills spread out to the horizon, fuming smoke against the reddening sky. “500 workers in each mill!” he boasts. Nikesh is in the cloth business. Where will they sleep tonight? I wonder.

 But oh dear reader, how easy it is for yours truly to judge and criticise from his loft. And is it not just as bad, or worse, even, to do nothing in knowledge?

 ’Welcome to Airtel Gujarat’ beeps my phone.

 I’ve lightened up a bit, I think. I’ve ‘chilled out.’ This is perhaps due to a combination of time, sugar, music and reading my wonderful novel The Cider House Rules by John Irving. I yearn to be affected by characters in novels, and I love these ones very much. I will be sad to leave them in text when I finish.

 We are crossing a HUGE river! I think the ocean is over there. Many things have been flashing past; jungles, buffalo, heron, lakes, mountains, golden fields, patchwork skies. There sure is a lot of India to get through.

 

21:45 – We are stopped in Ahmedabad, changing engines. Rakol and I ate lush omelette sandwiches on the platform made by a man who can only be described as an omelette MACHINE. I also had Idly, which was shit. Note to self – Idly gets shit up north.

 Anyway, Rakol is a nice non-moustached man of 26, studying at Pune (Maharashtra). But he lives in Jodhpur. In fact, dear reader, he is the one whose conversation cheered me earlier. I have since learnt of his Anna Kournikova fascination and seen him dance on his phone. Yep. He is not in the cloth business.

 In other news, my omelette sandwich is sloshing about all over the place in my stomach. This is because I now have a shit berth. I have a shit berth because I 2 parts unselfishly and 8 parts ignorantly sacrificed my nice berth I WOULD FIT IN to the sareed beached whale who currently occupies it. I’m not bitter AT ALL. I don’t fit and my head bumps the wood marked FUSES with a consistency that would make Kevin Foley jealous.

 I am v much looking forward to Jodhpur. Ol’ LP tells “Yes it is the place Jodhpurs come from!” OH FANX LP 4 YR FUN FACTZ! GIVE MORE ANECDOTES, SPOUT MORE CLICHES! HOW ABOUT RELINQUISHING YOUR MONOPOLY ON WORLD TOURISM EH? When I am a linesman I will shoot every curly blonde haired, short wearing, shades sporting, necklace yearning cunt, their Lonely Planet perched atop their heads like William Tell. I will shoot them between the eyes.

 I am the tourist who hates tourism.

I am the hypocrite.

 

“but you’re the apple of my eye anyway…”

 

Monday 22^nd December

 

06:50 – I am sat in a tiny café opposite Jodhpur station, waiting for the sun to rise whilst warming myself up with sweet sweet chai. But it’s 15 degrees! This is not cold? What’s wrong with me?! (note to self – buy long sleeve t shirt).

 Sleep = 3/10. Rudely awakened by the aforementioned bewilderingly (and sorry for continuous use of this word, dear reader, but so many things here ARE bewildering) rude family of the beached whale (who is the grandmother). They started shouting and light onning circa 5AM. My towel (which acts as a pillow come night) fell to the floor from my top bunk. The sea mammal looked at me, then the towel, then me again, and did NOTHING. Fetch me my harpoon, Jodhpur needs some blubber. 

 

08:09 – Oh my, Jodhpur is beautiful! I am sat alone in the Mishrilal Hotel (café), my 3^rd of the day. Since my last entry I have been all the way up to the amazing fort in the centre of this city and seen the most gorgeous sunrise ever, whilst looking out over the ‘blue city’ below. It is indeed blue. It is indeed amazing. It doesn’t open until 9.30 I think but I’m sure glad I insisted to the auto driver, for being alone on top of a world, as the sun rises… beautiful. Really.

 I have also seen lots of camels and the autorickshaws have pillars! Pillars!

 I am drinking Sweet Lassi. It is INCREDIBLY good. 9/10. Like drinking custard milkshake a bit but better than that. With bananas. ACE!

 

14:04 – Couples, couples, couples everywhere in dear Jodhpur it seems. White couples I mean. Not that this bothers me as such, it’s just a bit odd. I got talking to a pretty French girl (yes, really!) who also had boyfriend. He looked the grumpy sort and didn’t say hi. “He’s here for photography for a year.” OK! I got talking to her sat on a plastic stool of the LP recommended “Omelette Shop.” Yes, I buckled. The hypocrite! Anyway, underneath the sign to “The Omelette Shop” I later realised was its LP entry IN FULL, blown up and as good as framed. “Recommended by Lonely Planet” cry three posters in harmony with the shop owner, who hands me a ‘visitor book’ full of (no doubt blonde curly haired short wearing shade donning) Ozzies with entries such as “Eggscellent! Jim (Oz, Melbourne).” I hate you, Jim. I wrote (after much insistence) “As good as a Sylvain Ebanks-Blake screamer into the top corner,” but it was a lie. Nothing is that good. (My Massala Omelette WAS good though, 8/10). I hope at least one Wolves fan reads it, though it’s unlikely what with so many people (everyone) signing it it must have a high turnover rate. What do they do with the old ones, I wonder? Do they have an underground library with volumes and volumes, in a shelf full of every Lonely Planet edition ever next to the sofas and the old socks and tissues?

 I am struggling over Dad’s Christmas present (as is usual on the 22^nd December). Rules: Indian, unique, not disposable. But it’s not like I can get him a Pashmina. Soon I will leave my 5^th café of the day and head back into the crooked lanes of the bazaar. 5^th café because I’m tired and keep collapsing into them every few hours. Until then…

 

20:18 – Bye bye bye Jodhpur. You’ve been great. I hope to see you again one day, with pretty girl in tow and a wallet full of Rupees. Farewell.

 There is a man from the army to my left who is staring at this hand holding this pen. I cannot think when he stares. He stares. I cannot think. I cannot write. I cannot think. FUCK OFF.

 I don’t know why every time I have an ‘India Yes!’ day I end up at the barber shop, but sure enough I ended up there again today. My ‘India Yes!’ days mean being EXTRA positive about EVERYTHING: having conversations with everyone who says ‘hello’ (everyone), going into every shop I’m called into (‘genuine local items!’) and accepting every invitation I get. It was in this manner, following a chain of events that just would not have happened had I kept me head down all day, that I ended up buying ALL my Christmas presents and having a full facial in the same afternoon. Yep.

 And then Rakol took me to the palace and for dinner! We discussed girls and arranged marriages and hips at length. I watched the sunset with the great fort on the horizon prom the Palace as I had watched the sunrise with the Palace on the horizon from the great fort. Beautiful. We agreed to keep in touch. I have known him for approx 26 hours. Indian hospitality knows no bounds.

 A great day, full of sun and sugar and tiny cramped streets that reminded me of Europe. “They call it the Venice of India” told Rakol. Well there you go then! Rakol, 26, will have an arranged marriage when he finishes his studies, by the way.

 Yet I am slightly sad because I have just finished The Cider House Rules and will never know these characters again. This is ever so slightly devastating. I might embark on my new novel tonight. Or not. I think it’s kind of political.

 The army man has gone. He has been replaced by 2 cockroach. I am grateful for my upper berth tonight. No sea life in sight.

 ’What of Swiss Simon?!’ you cry! ‘Where is he on his voyage, how does he fare?’ WELL, despite my warnings that it was V confusing to find the correct station at Mumbai, AND to leave PLENTY of time, ol’ SS MISSED his train to Agra. In India, where long-distance reserved tickets (well in advance) are EVERYTHING, this is a problem. Only Simon… anyway he managed to get on some train or other and will be in Agra, quote, “some time this night time.” Good luck, Swiss Simon.

 We are hurtling through space.

 ”Right,” said Homer Wells.

 

Tuesday 23^rd December

 

6 (maybe) – Maybe because I have no phone charge left apart from the little to call SS when I arrive in Agra. In Agra to see the Taj Mahal. The Taj Mahal. That’s only really just sinking in.

 It’s dark so I can’t write. There were mice but they’re gone, presumably due to the extreme COLD conditions that have struck our carriage. The North is cold at night. I’m glad I brought my socks, even though they make me a sock wearing sandal wearer. But fuck it, perhaps I should adorn such clichés, it will be like a double bluff! Ha! I am so wise!

 

21:35 – Who’d have thought it! We’ve all seen it a thousand times, the internet, television, whatever. But now, in my infinite patronising wisdom, I believe you’ve never really seen it until you’ve seen it. The Taj Mahal was incredible. It seems to be unforgettable sunrise after unforgettable sunrise on this journey; I met Simon in the 6:50 queue and we caught the sun glinting against the marble from orange to yellow to white. Truly the most beautiful non-female thing I’ve ever seen.

 Now I’m exhausted, hurtling through space towards Varanasi, Shiva’s city. Goddess of destruction and, as such, new life indeed. Excited.

 I had much more spiralling round that I meant to write. But it’s OK. Its time will come.

 ’Winter In Chingeltei’ is sitting pretty on my ears. Log mix.

 Why am I writing? Why? This entry is over. It’s short, it’s shit, but it’s over. STOP.

 ”YOU GO TO ST CLOUD’S, YOU ASK FOR THE ORPHANAGE”

 

Wednesday 24^th December

 

08:55 – “Shake baby shake, I know I can fit you in my arms…”

 We are indeed shaking, and it’s Christmas Eve! In about 5.5 hours people back home will start doing REAL Christmas stuff, enough of the pretending of commercialisation, this is IT!

 As for me, I’m sat on my vibrating upper berth in this cold cold carriage, and we should be in Varanasi by now. The fields look more like English fields, more maize, less paddy. The air certainly feels more like English air. More biting.

 WILL ANYBODY EVER BE ABLE TO READ THIS?!!

 But I’m not looking for sympathy, dear reader, oh no! For I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be hurtling right now. Hurtling away.

 SS is in berth 41 to my 12 here in S3. I should probably go and check he’s still there, what with his penchant for bad luck with trains.

 (03:55 – Desire Lines – OH MY GOD)

 Sleep = 6/10. Pretty good, rudely awakened by COLD.

 

13:43 – I awoke from my daydreaming shower in terror as I imagined Swiss Simon reading this… whatever it is. It was OK, he was studiously pouring over ‘India After Ghandi,’ which is a HUGE book to be carrying around India. Or maybe he did read it and is currently tearing a knife up his main arteries as I write. Maybe I am thinking about this too much.

 We are in Varanasi! Four hours late, mind, but we found a good hotel with surprising ease and are just freshening up before going to get some food and sights. SS is in the bathroom. I am sat on THE anti sleeper train bed; it is LUSH.

Dark shapes keep flashing past the window. I opened it, absurdly nervous, to find tens of monkeys on all the roofs around, red faced and curious. Do you think Swiss Simon will be angry if I feed his Lonely Planet to the monkeys? Or will he ever know?

 ”I just opened the door and they took it and ran!”

 Yesterday at Agra Fort I saw a monkey decimate a Fanta bottle. It viciously punctured the plastic before shaking it apart, the orange liquid and foam going everywhere.  I would rather hope the same thing would happen to the Lonely Planet guide except instead of Fanta pouring out, the blood of its writers would leak onto the cobbled path below. Back in England, or whichever town in the world they are decimating to a single guided route, its writers will look a little pale and ask to sit down.

 SS’s mildly irritating traits are coming to the fore a bit I must admit, and often I do miss being alone again, but he is still being a good companion in the main. For example, last night we (I) found a bar/restaurant where we ate chicken and drank strong beers and I had a rum and it was most enjoyable. SS is best when he releases and stops fretting and worrying, which he does almost all the time with a re-adjustment of those crooked glasses. He rejected a 2^nd drink, though, whilst I had my rum, and I cannot imagine any of you reading this doing as such. Indeed many of you may say “why not make it 2?” I miss that.

 Swiss Simon is still in the bathroom. I’m starving. GTFOOTBSS.

 Oh, he’s out. He hasn’t slit his wrists.

 Bye!

 

22:08 – OMG THEY PLAYED MKIPR ON BBC WM TO MICHAEL KIGHTLY AND HE LIKED IT OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG

 

more laterOMG

 

22:44 – In room. Bottle of rum and 2 large Kingfisher later. Had butter chicken on hotel roof. Lush. Rakesh tried to steal beer money but I was wise to him. Oh, how I was wise! There were some Americans on the roof, speaking to a Spaniard. I now hate all Americans (‘cept Malika) and Spaniards, the condescending patronising cunts. Oh you’re society is so much better, with its extreme racism which is OK ’cause you’re Western. Now FUCK OFF.

 But in better news I have been texting my good friend Charles about MKIPR and it has made me most happy. I texted English Simon the news and he txt me back in a sweet but slightly condescending manner, like I was a lost orphan or something. But innocently I’m sure.

 OMG MKIPR!!!

 

Saturno it’s THURSDAY 25^TH DECEMBER!

 06:14 – We are going on a boat trip. I dreamt it was raining and the world decided to turn 90 degrees and everyone fell and fell and smashed into shop windows and spiralled off corners a bit like that scene in Titanic when people are jumping/falling off the rear of the ship and hitting the propellers. But it was quite fun actually. Lots of bad people from school were also falling and it was great to see them smash into glass.

 Must go! Happy Christmas!

 

08:25 – I feel I should apologise for the inebriated post of 22:44, 24/12/08, and, in reflection, for continuous use of the ‘c’ word. I will now replace the ‘c’ word with the word ‘vegetable’ if the need arises again.

 Also I do NOT hate all Americans, or Spaniards for that matter. I hate the latent and active racism in their countries, countries that are deemed ‘Western’ and as such ‘1^st World’ or even ‘ideal.’ I hate this contradiction. I hate people who disregard someone or something or a culture because they don’t understand it, and so they mock it, condescend it, rise above.

 That is the vague ideological rant that manifested itself in my post of 22:44, 24/12/08. I hope this is clarified, OK. This is my Christmas message. It seems to have a lot of hate in it.

 ”this water is different, take heart and embark…”

 

17:00 – Off we hurtle again friends, this time one hour into our journey to Bhopal, baby screaming, mice scuttling and the young males from the family around staring at me at random intervals. Also in the family is a beautiful girl, possibly their sister (probably), who is incidentally sitting in my seat (this is OK though, sleeper train unwritten laws are quite relaxed UNTIL ’sleep time, at which point everything gets very serious). Anyway, because she is beautiful I took a few wholly innocent glances, as one does, and then returned to normal dreaming position to find the brothers glaring at me. Possibly glaring, possibly just staring, you never quite know. Anyway, almost because of this, I have almost a tic to look at her now, which is always replaced by a glare or at least a ’stern look’ from my right. For example, I just caught her eye, randomly(ish), and then looked down quickly (of course) and saw the look flashed at me.

 There is a distinct possibility this is all in my head.

 Perhaps not surprisingly it doesn’t really feel like Christmas Day. The boat trip was ace. I’ve been spoilt for sunrises of late, and the red glow rising up over the Ganges was no different. Also on our boat was a Stuttgartian known as Marcus, who was (and presumably IS, unless he has met an unfortunate demise in the last 6 hours) an everso Aryan cross between Bobby Davro and Timmy Mallet. He is travelling for 6 weeks before going back to make chainsaws in Stuttgart, we were told.

 We then went to the Buddhist ruins at Sarnath, interesting but time pushed, and had our Christmas lunch. Swiss Simon had sweet and sour chicken, me chilli chicken. Suffice to say it was the spiciest Christmas lunch I’ve ever had. Simon’s was nicer than mine but I pretended it wasn’t and that my eyes weren’t watering and my mouth on fire. Green Hut café BTW, 6/10.

 And a crazed share auto later (complete with acrobatic child actually pushing people into the auto, despite the fact they had no desire to go anywhere. A man hit him in the head with a newspaper and the child raised his arms and shouted something very offensive that I wished I remembered, before grinning on his way again. Will be a good crook in the future I’m sure) we got to the station and boarded the train. S Simon thought he’d been upgraded to 3^rd class but his half hour taste of it (they gave you BEDDING!) was cruelly taken away by the ticket master.

And I’m sat here ducking gazes and occasionally reading my new novel – ‘We the Living’ by Ayn Rand. So far it’s been beautiful in a grey solemn way, which bodes well.

 There was a bit of a cloud over me at points today. I don’t really know why. SS was a bit more… feckless (as my father would say) today and needed fathering, which is irritating, also you may or may not have noticed as I just have that such clouds gather the day after rum. But perhaps I’m trying to ignore such things. Perhaps SS, people, ‘irratants,’ are always the same, it is just my mental condition that is varying up and down. I guess everything is constantly changing. What the fuck am I talking about.

 You’ll have woken up for Christmas by now, You’ll have maybe opened some presents, had a lush breakfast, began helping for dinner. You’ll maybe be listening to All I Want For Christmas Is You, the Mariah Carey version, for the thousandth time since November. You will be everso slightly sick of it, but it’s OK, it’s Christmas! after all. You will have a tree with spirals of lights and the heating will be up high and cosy. Someone will be telling stories, cheer, smiles. Dinner will be amazing. You can’t really be bothered to clear up so you help a bit then sneak down to gulp some of the Christmas whiskey on a ‘drinks round.’ It will make everything a bit better, later, what with the cider as well. You’ll sleep well and full of chocolate. Soon it’s 2009. Soon it’s 2009. Soon it’s 2009.

 

23:09 – It’s a Christmas miracle! Approx 2 hours ago, a few minutes after I had tentatively offered them some of my samosa, the beautiful girl started talking to me and her family ended up sharing dinner with us! Naturally I was quite lookingatfeetshy to start with, for beautiful girls usually do quite the opposite, but eventually after I got over myself we talked and laughed and it turned out all those ‘glares’ WERE in my head and her brothers were all lovely if mega enthusiastic! Her name is possibly Savvi, I wish I had taken more care to remember it. She’s incredibly sweet and beautiful. Imran tried to add to my limited Hindi. I told him to tell me how to say “your mother is a very good cook” in Hindi as a bit of a lame ‘thank you.’

 They bode us good night and Savvi said that they were our families for tonight, what with ours being thousands of miles away.

 Sometimes somethings, or people, can completely re-affirm ones faith in humanity.

 

Friday 26^th December

 

08:45 – It’s a beautiful morning in Madhya Pradesh, not a cloud in the sky, and whilst my feet are still freezing, two cups of chai and the constant hurtling through hills and forests and greenery England would be proud of has certainly made up for it.

 I am sat cross legged on Simon’s ‘vertical’ lower berth at the window as the sun pours in. We will be in Bhopal soon, but one sleeper train away from dear Hyderabad. Ol’ LP doesn’t think much of Bhopal, and indeed when I mention it to people they immediately refer to ‘The World’s worst ecological disaster’ of 1984, but we shall see.

 Swiss Simon asked what I was writing. I told him. I told him it was pretty much in code because no-one could possibly endure my sprawl for seventy pages (truth) and that I probably won’t show it to anyone (no idea, yet) (probably will).

 Lots of noisy people have just got on the train at a station. Might go and have a look.

 

20:20 – I’m alone again on the train to Kacheguda, Hyderabad, in the packed carriage of S7, seat 15. Simon is somewhere, somehow; his ticket didn’t get past waiting list status so he’s not strictly supposed to be on the train. I told him to pretend to be stupid and foreign and it might be OK. If he puts on his look of despair (or perhaps more accurately doesn’t take it off) then I have every confidence of seeing him in Hyderabad. But I suppose there’s a chance he’ll be thrown hurtling into the Andhra Pradesh night.

 One thing’s for sure. I’ll probably forget his bag, which is underneath me. I can barely remember myself; it wouldn’t be the first time.

 I have a top plan for tomorrow. I’m going to get all I need to get whilst seeing all the places I want to see one last time in a flash tour of the big old place. At some point I should pack, I guess, but I’ll probably forget. Sarat is taking me to dinner maybe. I should buy him some whiskey.

 I’m going to miss Hyderabad. A lot.

 

21:13 – I spent most of the day in Bhopal stumbling around in the heat whilst dreaming of fumblings with ‘Savva.’ She really had that look, you know, a look that gets inside you.

 Also we had one of our best meals of the trip thus far, nay the whole of my India time. Thali, a ‘best of’ mix kind of dish served with rice and butter roti, is usually hit or miss with no boundaries, but hats off Hotel Madan Mahdraj KA Kamal Restaurant, 9/10.

 I have an imaginary scabbard. In my imaginary scabbard is a very sharp imaginary knife. It has an imaginary double headed tiger hilt. With my imaginary knife I slit throats of every screaming ball, every laughing teen. My carriage is bathed in imaginary blood. The mice are drowning, splashing.

 I’m quite cranky this evening. Help me, John.

 

Saturday 27^th December

 

07:15 – It’s my penultimate day in India! Inexplicably a few minutes ago the theme to Red Dwarf came into my head and is now on loop. “It’s cold outside, there’s no kind of atmosphere…”

 Simon has texted me asking if there’s room for him near my seat. Still on the train then!

 But there are currently THREE people on my little berth (I am sat cross legged in blanket) and the carriage is packed. I hope he doesn’t just think I’m being (my customary) anti-social.

 Charles has texted me. ‘1-1 Blades, Wolves lacklustre, Collins 29, Beattie 30, Henn at fault but MOTM.’ Well we can’t win EVERY game until May. See how they stutter before I return. Get ready for the implode. The end is nigh.

 It’s still a while until we reach Hyderabad, but we are on the final flight path, ready for descent. The trees flashing by are golden in the new sun, which I cannot see because my window faces west >. It flashes against the white hair of the old man to my left <. It’s nearly over. We are hurtling down from space.

 

EPILOGUE

 

Sunday 28^th December

 

08:13 – This is it. I am sat at Hyderabad’s wonderful, modern, quiet, efficient airport waiting for breakfast and my flight to the renowned chaos of the Mumbai connection.

 I have said my final farewells. I must admit I had a tear in my eye when slapping Swiss Simon on the back as I realised I will miss him very much.

 Prabaka, my boss Sarat’s driver, and also good companion and terrible drinker, drove me the 20km this morning. I told of England and cold and no London is NOT a country and of my family. As I spoke I was gazing out as the sun rose on the huge city. The streets were empty, quiet, anticipating the utter chaos that hits them every morning. People tell me, and indeed ol’ LP, that Mumbai is the busiest and most crowded, tourists cry, oh my! but Mumbai is NOTHING to what hits you in fair Hyderabad.

 I realised last night, as Sarat treated me to a great dinner at the gorgeous but horrifically titled ‘Our Place,’ that there is still so much more to see of the city, indeed it seems even if you are not looking for something you will find it. I will miss it, very much.

 The breakfast, yet to arrive, is extortionate by the way. I possibly agreed to the 250R because of the cute waitress. It better be good.

 This airport is so tranquil. It is the anti-Hyderabad. Advertisement boards flick between great sights of ‘Incredible India.’ I have a better photo of the Taj Mahal than them. A few people are drifting around. It’s a beautiful clear day. Quotes are printed on glass panelling: ‘The World is a book and those who do not travel read only a page’ says St Augustine, apparently. Well not everyone CAN travel Auggy! I am very happy with the few pages I have.

 What a whimsically bollocks post! Entry! Entry!

 In other news, I went on the internet for the first time in 11 days yesterday and was completely underwhelmed. I had not missed the internet, and seemingly it has not missed me. They call the web the only place that is ‘free,’ but you are not free wired into your computer.

 The breakfast is still to come but the cute waitress is strutting around so everything is OK. Off she struts. Everything is in slow motion. Everything is OK

Everything is OK.