On meeting Shiva, Jesus and a drug dealer

Firstly I owe an apology to my family who widely regarded me to be dead for a while due to lack of contact. While I can see that this would be somewhat distressing, this abandonment of any commitment was due to a wholesome opium addiction which I found to be quite time consuming. This worthwhile pursuit was both enlightening and allowed me to lose quite a lot of weight. So, you know...every cloud.

Anyway, I decided post Darjeeling to make the trip to Nepal largely due to the fact that it was in the way of where I wanted to go next. So after trying to drunkenly liberate a red panda (see below) from the local zoo on my birthday I set off over the border to the next stop on my well trodden voyage - Pokhora.

A beautiful, scenic and serene settlement by a sprawling lake, it seemed to have all the required facets for pursuing idleness, until it became clear that this settlement was perforated with my old enemies, the ones they call hippies. Moving only their withered wrists to signal for more herbal tea, they lounged around the cafes and bars filling the air with their faux philosophical tripe. On interacting with this strange species a pattern once again began to emerge....

Hippie: "so, like, where are you from man?"   

Eduardo (our hero): "England. You?"
Hippie: "I'm from my mother's womb"
E: "no, I meant what country"
Psychedelic troglodyte: "I'm a citizen of the world, brother. So you like, finished Uni?"
E: ".......yeah."
Dreadlocked oxygen thief: "yeah man, I couldn't hack it. working for the man just isn't for everyone you know? So what course did you do?"
E: "half politics, half -"
Jesus Christ, superdouche [cuts in]: "Oh right on brother. I'm an anarchic communist"

[the hippie looks at our hero. expectant silence]

E: "Good for you"
The missing link: ".....That's such a fascist thing to say"
E: "I'll see you later."

And so on and so forth. But my bemusement regarding these creatures of psy-trance continued to grow, mainly due to a chance interaction with the man who seemed to be widely regarded as king of this colony of hippie hoppie mole rats.

I had heard a little about this deity, known as Shiva in the local community. A Frenchman by birth (but obviously not nationality), he walked briskly from bar to bar with cries of "allo brozzer! How ar you?" to all that laid eyes on his enlightened being. I saw him a few days before I was introduced to him, strolling down the lake side. A tall man with gaunt features and a whispy beard, it was fair to say that he had more than heard of drugs. There was not an ounce of fat on him. He wore a turban of sorts and a sarong, with the glazed look of a being who was concerned with more than mortal issues. There was an entourage of stray dogs following him at all times, which I guess could be interpreted as his congregation - they would enter a bar half a minute before he got there and lie in muted expectation, as ominous as cows sitting down before the rain. It was this warning that I should have heeded when sitting one morning drinking my chai in a post scrambled eggs coma - the arrival of the dogs in my cafe heralded the arrival of their master, Not dissimilar to the way that tremours can preceed a major earthquake. A tsunami of religion was headed my way.

Above - the closest thing the internet can muster.

So there I was, drinking the aforementioned chai, when I turned my head to find a withered face 2 feet from mine, staring me straight in the eyes with unerring confidence.
"Allo brozzer" said Shiva.
"...Hello?"
"Ow ar you?"
"Very well, thank you. Shiva, right?" He beamed at this recognition.
"Aaaah yes! My reputazion prezeedez me! But ziz is only natural"
"Why is that?"
"Why? But of courze! I am God! I am Shiva! I am Jesus! Reincarnated!" Ah. Ok. didn't know those deities intertwined that much.
"Um...How?" forgive me the ignorant questions Shiva, I am but a mere mortal on your spectral plain.
"How? Brozzer, I know! you take my birth name, you add zee letters, you divide ziz by ze number of Shiva, you subtract ze number of cobras in exziztence...(forgive me, I lost him and thus got a bit interpretive here)...multiply ze number Hindu gods and square ze year of my birth! Thus, I am Shiva!" The math, I'm sure, is very sound.
"Oh. Ok. I thought there would be more....ceremony surrounding your return" I said, meekly.
"But brozzer, why must zeir be? Do unto ozzers as you would yourzelf! Be true! I am Shiva!"
"Sure. So...when did you realize this?"
"Well brozzer, I was at ze birthplace of Shiva, and ziz baba, he lookz at me, comes to me on all fourz, and kizzez my feet. And He sayz to me, 'Shiva!' And ziz was when I knew!" Shiva was warming to his topic. I, on the other hand, was really warming to theory that LSD does long term damage to regular users.
"So...what happens when you die?"
"Everyone diez!" Whoa whoa whoa. Back up Shiva.
"What?!"
"On ze day of my death, ze apocalypze commence!" This seems to be something he should advertise more.
"Hold on...how old are you?"
"in ze earth yearz, 65!" So with your lifestyle we've got 10 years, tops? Selfish is the word that springs to mind. I gestured for the bill. Whilst interesting, Shiva is the most intense roller coaster a mortal being can ride.
"Ok. Well Shiva, for my sake I wish you a long and prosperous life, haha...." No smile. Nothing.
"Yes brozzer, ziz iz in your interestz. Ar you finished with your breakfazt?" He started rifling through the remains of my scrambled eggs without waiting for a response.
"....Yes. Ok. Well, take care Shiva, for all our sakes." I started to make my way onto the street.
"Wait! Brozzer! one more thing!" He waved for me to come closer. I walked back and bent down to his level. Shiva looked me dead in the eyes, and simply said the six most unexpected words I ever expected to emerge from a figurehead of 2 major religions....

"You want to buy some 'ash?"

I had been offered weed by a religious deity. Never let it be said that Christianity isn't progressive.
"No, thank you Shiva, I'm fine." I made to leave again.
"What about some pollen? very good, itz very nize!" The new new Testament, Chapter one, verse one - 'and God said unto man, 'oy bruv, you want some quality grade yea? It'z real good shit'.
"No thank you Shiva. I've got to shoot off, take care." And with that I made my hasty retreat out into the street, under the watchful gaze of his collected canine congregation.

Shiva without a doubt goes down as the most abstract character I have met so far. It is genuinely impossible to put into words the theories behind his enlightenment that he entrusted me with due to the language barrier and the machine gun pace at which he spoke, but I hope that this written encounter does some justice to his personality. So, as Shiva's flock, you must take one thing from this: live life to the full, because the amount of methamphetamines consumed by 'Shivus' leaves us roughly 3-4 years before the four horsemen ride forth from the blazing sky to collect our souls. But take comfort in the fact that when you meet your Savior in the next life, he will be high as balls.

And on that note....wait, wait. Sorry to disappoint the rumour mill, I haven't developed an opiate problem - It was 'une blague' to make you read this. Ha. On a different note, Kashmiri's have educated me in some of the finer points in bestiality....but that is another story. Peace.

The Major

Varanasi is one of the strangest places I have ever been or will ever go. Languishing along the banks of the Ganges, it sprawls down stepped ghats into the river itself, spewing out a constant stream of pilgrims, hippies, and the dead, who all arrive in the water for different reasons. It's noisy, polluted, and constantly hectic, with temperatures hitting 45-50 degrees, making it impossible to move. The streets are tiny and often blocked by cows, a problem to which the only solution is to find another way around. 

As a result of these factors, my travels around this holy city were mainly restricted to the evenings. I once tried to walk along the river during the day and collapsed near one of the open crematoriums (burning Ghats) with heat stroke, only to have the wind change and gain a mouthful of fleshy smoke. This was not an experience that I was keen to replicate, and as such I would wait until the sun went down to tackle the long walk into town. Due to my constant pursuit of mental inactivity I would generally do what I was told by any westerners that I was spending time with, resulting in a number of diverse experiences. These ranged from getting food poisoning AGAIN from homemade sangria to meeting a Special Forces Major in the Indian army, and everything in between. The first incident, while certainly more time consuming in terms of bowel movements and crying, has already been covered, and as such I will move on to my meeting with the unpredictable, fearless headcase and his lovely wife who took me out to dinner one night.

Again, not exactly this, but similar.

I was introduced to 'the Major' by some Swedish girls that I met. They had recently arrived in Varanasi and had met him on their train journey, during which he was apparently ever present in the interest of safety and chivalry. From what I was told he practically beat away any Indians who came near them, taking any sort of interest in the Swedes as some type of personal affront. "He pushed a man from the train" one of the girls had told me. 

"While it was still moving?!" I asked, not entirely sure how I felt about meeting a recent murderer.

"No, it was stopped, but he still fell over. The Major laughed and said 'FOLLOW MY WIFE!' before running off down the train." From this first hand account of my soon to be new acquaintance I a little apprehensive of what to expect from this compound of lethal training and teenage humour.

Around 8 o'clock that evening I found out that my apprehension was well founded. Through the entrance to my guest house came a plump Indian woman in a sari followed closely by the man I had heard so much about. He was nothing like I expected. Early 30's and standing at about 5 ft 8 inches he was a slight man, with short cropped black hair and a mustache that would have put Tom Selleck to shame. His eyes were small and dark, constantly flicking around the room as if looking for some unknown threat to take down, while his eyebrows were essentially carbon copies of his magnificent mustache, giving him the appearance of a potato being eaten by 3 huge black caterpillars. Dressed in an Indian Special Forces t-shirt (just so none of us forgot) and shorts pulled up above the belly button he frankly looked hilarious, but I tried my best to give the appearance of a humble private rather than an amused tourist.

"HI" he boomed on our introduction, crushing my hand in a surprisingly vice-like grip. I greeted him cordially and said my name, while trying to stopper the whimper that was forcing it's way from my broken hand to my mouth.

"Where are you from?" he asked.

"England."

"England? Fantastic, HAHAHA!" he shouted. His volume control was more than a little eclectic, a theme that was ever present throughout our meeting.

"Where did you have in mind for dinner?" asked one of the Swedes.

"My wife knows a lubbely restaurant near here, let us go there. FOLLOW MY WIFE!" His spouse took this as a signal to 'lead on', and bustled out into the street with the surprising speed of a bumblebee, while the Swedes and I did our best to pursue the couple through the narrow streets. 

It soon turned out that the conviction of 'the wife' in the location of this restaurant had been a little unfounded, as frequently the couple would turn out of sight round a corner only to re-emerge just as we got there, with yells of 'this way, FOLLOW MY WIFE!' leading us in a completely different direction. This was a regular occurrence and often lead to 'the wife' barreling into one of us, before scurrying past us with the pace of a light aircraft. Often even the Major would lose her and we would stand in the street, lost, until she sheepishly poked her head around a corner and beckoned for us to follow. However we did eventually reach the establishment, which advertised air conditioning, 'good fun', and Chinese/Indian/English/German/Hobbit cuisine, with a sign promising excellent cleanliness. What a treat. There was only one drawback, in that the table we were given was right next to a fan the size of a small jet engine, making it impossible to hear without shouting or avoid the insects that were occasionally thrust into my mouth by the gusts. However, as you have the idea about the noise level of the Major, I'll write in lower case to spare myself writing in capitals.

So, on sitting down the Major took it upon himself to order food and drinks for all of us, which, looking at the size of the menu, was probably for the best. 

"Hahaha! It is good to be back in the sack" The Major suddenly announced.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Well Edmooond, you see I am posting very far away in Kashmir, so I have no sex with my wife in Delhi. So we come to Varanasi for holiday, much sex!" He responded. I looked to his wife for conformation of this fact but her face remained blank at the mention of their carnal activities.

"Um...that must be nice" said one of the Swedes.

"Yes, yes it is! Waiter, picture!" shouted the Major, handing his camera to a passing Indian who had no affiliation to the restaurant. The Major lay back with his head on his wife's lap, one hand clutching her arm while the other tried in vain to reach her face, making him look like some kind of retarded Adonis. The confused Indian man who had been recruited took a few snaps and handed back the camera, before the actual waiter brought some drinks over.

"Edmooond, this is for you; it is a salt lassi. Help you put some muscle on ey?" he said, handing me a white beverage. I thanked him and tried it. It was like drinking sea water such was the salt content, and I went to put it down on the table, smiling with feigned delight.

"Hahaha no Edmooond, you must drink it all at once, like we do in the SPECIAL FORCES!" the Major yelled at me, the last two words loud enough to make clear to the rest of the restaurant what his profession was. He then started gently beating his fist on the table, staring at my lassi with a maniacal grin. The Swedes looked awkward. I felt awkward. He continued to hit the table until I started to raise the lassi to my lips.

"Ooooooh, eeeeeeeeey!" shouted the Major in a rising crescendo as I started drinking, his fist thumping the table faster and faster. The liquid was so salty there were tears starting to form in my eyes and my stomach was complaining heavily, but I finished it after what seemed an age. The Major yelled with joy before handing his camera to some unfortunate passer by and receding back into his wife's lap for another photo. I spluttered and reached for some naan to remove the taste of sea life from my mouth. Luckily after this incident everything settled down to a relatively normal state and I managed to eat my food without having to qualify myself with some act of bravado.

The rest of our meal passed without much consequence and after some heavy bartering with the waiter the Major paid for dinner. We made it out into the heat of the Varanasi night air and started walking back towards the river, where our respective guest houses lay. We had walked maybe 10 meters when the Major embraced me round the shoulder and slowed the two of us so we were a little way behind the rest of the group. 

"Give me a cigarette" he said. I obliged. "My wife doesn't like me smoking, it makes her fear for my health. How ridiculous, eh Edmooond? I have been shot 6 times, broken both my legs and my spine in a parachuting accident, and it is smoking that my wife fears for. HA!" I agreed that this was a somewhat misplaced priority.

"You've been shot 6 times?" I asked.

"Yes yes, I specialise in interogation and extraction, many times I have been injured by terrorists. 5 hit my vest, one my leg." he answered. We had now firmly lost the rest of the party in the bustle of Varanasi. "We are now brothers Edmooond." This was news to me. 

"Ok. What does that mean?" I said, half jokingly.

"If you ever need anything from me, you ask. Would you like a military escort around Kashmir?"

"Um...I'll think about it?" I responded. He gave me all of his contact details and told me to call him if I ever had any problems, ever, at any point in life. I thanked him for this generous offer.

"Well if you ever need someone to stay with I have many mistresses in Kashmir, please ask me when you get there." I had no idea to respond to this. It's not often that someone trusts you with knowledge of their marital infidelity so soon after meeting them, let alone a man so bat shit insane your main priority is to avoid being the victim of a homicide. I kept quiet and we continued on our journey. 

We walked for another 20 minutes along the waterfront, during which time the Major never once let go of my arm or shoulder, even when he was aiming kicks at passing stray dogs. He seemed to make it a priority that I understand him as a fearless individual, particularly regarding animals, as throughout our journey he would often feint a punch or kick towards some goat, cow or child, all the time holding my arm. Despite this strange behaviour we reached the massive flight of steps that led up to my guest house, where we stopped.

"Well, I'm up here, thanks for walking me home" I said, feeling like I was on the wrong side of a bad date.

"No no Edmooond, it is necessary for me to walk you to your door. I will race you up the STEPS!" he shouted, setting off at a sprint up the Ghat in front of us. I followed at a light jog, arriving at the top half a minute after him.

"HAHAHA" he bellowed, arms raised like the final scene of some Rocky montage, "you fat westerners are so slow!" I was so out of breath I sat down on the top step without response, panting. He laughed happily, dancing around me in the manner of an irritating Indian leprechaun, before bodily picking me up and resuming our travel by putting my arm around his shoulder. Much to my relief we were soon at my guest house, where he finally let go of my arm outside the front entrance. 

"Thank you for dinner, I'll call you if I have any trouble" I said. This definitely had the feel of prostitution.

"You are most welcome Edmooond, please do call my sister in West Bengal when you head to Darjeeling." he answered, slapping my face gently about 10 times. I thanked him and withdrew into the guest house slowly, in the manner of a man retreating from a pissed off bear, and closed the door behind me. I heard him laugh heartily and run off into the night. 

Varanasi is a beautiful, religious, and overwhelming city. From the babas to the eunuchs, there are many strange and bemusing aspects that I have failed to touch on here in my monologue of self interest. 

However, if you do manage to make the trip, don't bloody eat with any crazy Indian psychopaths who have a penchant for brotherhood and a virulent hatred of animals. I'm currently in Nepal and I'm still convinced I see him watching from rooftops and in the reflections of windows. I recently met a man here who's convinced he's God, Shiva, and Buddha all rolled into one, maybe he can shed some light on the situation. Either way I need counselling. Peace.     

Hippies and Trip Advisor Prostitution

Realistically, I am yet to undergo any sort of life changing realisation on my travels. There was a degree of assumption that I would wake up every morning, scream something like 'Copernicus was wrong!', and spend the next week reproving the theory that everything orbits the earth, with great success. Sadly, this is not the case. The only developments of character that I can really describe is spiking levels of intollerance for certain demographics of the travelling community. Most notably,  I have started to actively hate the trustafarian oxygen thieving ignoramuses who call themselves Hippies. Allow me to digress why.

So I arrived in Udaipur after a 17 hour journey on a government bus, with just the chicken on my lap for company. Despite my wish to maintain contact with the measured and cynical fowl after such stimulating conversation, the owner took it to a nearby stall where it's head was neatly lopped off, marking the end of our short relationship. Morose and alone, I managed to stumble to a nearby guesthouse to mourn the passing of my recent acquaintance, which luckily had both an excellent view and delicious chicken curry.

It was here that I came upon a group of dread locked UK residents playing the pan pipes. This is the closest stock image I could find. Like this but much less awesome.

Using my now bulletproof pickup line ('Can I have a cigarette?') I sat down and joined the collective. It quickly became clear that the group weren't familiar with each other despite their similar appearances, and as such were rattling through the usual small talk until we got to the (apparently contentious) topic of what everyone was reading at the moment. 

"War and Peace man, I really connect with the like, spirituality of the battle of, you know, war and peace" stated one of the 'Brad Pitt in True Romance' lookalikes.

"Ugh, another one of those", came the retort from across the table. This one was short and rotund, wearing baggy cotton trousers that were just a little too small for him, allowing his fairly considerable stomach to bulge through the gap between his jodhpurs and 'natural fibres' t-shirt. His douchey goatee made him look like Gimli's less popular brother.

"whaddaya mean, man?" said a third.

"I'm like, fed up with everyone talking about Tolstoy and Kafka", said the pretentious fatty. "I read Anna Karenina before, like, everyone was talking about it." So before you were born or the book published. 
"I'm not gonna read W&P until all the fuss dies down, and I can like, enjoy it without fakers interpreting it wrong". Really? EVERYONE'S talking about a writer dead for the past 100 years? Yeah, I can't open the Hindustan Times without seeing an Editorial debating the merits of a dead bearded Russian, I thought. I tried to lighten the tone.

"Haha yeah, any of you guys read Game of Thrones?" This was deemed too lowbrow a literary topic to draw an answer from any of them. "Harry Potter, or....". No answer. I decided to keep schtum. 

"Anyway, I'm only gonna read it in Hebrew, because it's the language it was designed to be read in, man" he continued. This seemed to have a pungent whiff of bullshit about it, but again I kept out of it on the basis that I, like everyone else there, knew nothing about Tolstoy.

Following this 'profound' point the issue of literature was considered closed by the other members of the group, which somehow led the topic of conversation onto evolution, specifically, the lack of existence of said theory.

"I see it like this man", spake the prophetic hobbit, tucking into some chicken drumsticks. "Now I'm not like, religious, but if you really interpret the Old Testament like it's meant to be read, you can prove that evolution is phoney". I asked him what he meant by this. He blustered out some bollocks and changed tack. "Riddle me this, man. How come we have fish, and like, people, but no fish people?" He spread his arms in a triumphant and final gesture. Ironic that such a point should be made by the missing link I thought, but nothing witty came out of my mouth. I honestly had no answer. Sensing his advantage, the man who would be Jesus stood up and made to leave, bestowing on us one final piece of wisdom. "The tide comes in and the tide goes out. You can't explain that, man". There was an awkward silence for a couple of seconds. True Romance hippie was the first to break the peace. 

"Um, isn't that, um, the effect of the gravity of the moon?" There were some consensual mutterings among the group. The human bowling ball stopped his flight towards the stairs, turned and surveyed the group.

"But what is the moon other than the Earth's daughter?" The arms raised again in victory and he half turned to leave.

"Kudos man, Kudos" said True Romance. What the hell? WHAT? The very fact that these people are allowed to roam free without some sort of selective breeding system to cull their numbers is something I have given some thought to. 

Anyway, as much as I would like to write about the need for a 'no hippie left behind' re-education program, the regular power cuts here mean I must press on, or lose my rant to another lightning strike.

I left Udaipur for Pushkar, the birthplace of 'the creator' of Hinduism. It was as amazing and beautiful as was to be expected, but once again nothing particularly strange happened during my visit, leaving me little to write about. So as is becoming a theme, here are some sweet photos, followed by another monologue of western bewilderment.

This guy was practicing his Napoleon Dynamite-esque bow staff skills, and dropped the stick every time he flamboyantly threw it skywards. Such as right after this photo. Profound, man.

So following this enlightening sunset I took the train to Agra in order to tick off the Taj Mahal from the list of monuments everyone must get photos in front of, with some success. 

However, it wasn't until my sightseeing was done that utter bemusement once again found me, manifesting itself in the form of compulsory trip advisor reviews. 

On returning to the guest house in Agra, it had occurred to me that the staff were being slightly over friendly. Wherever I moved, there they were, asking me if I needed anything, providing bottles of water without request, and knocking on my door just to check that my stay was satisfactory. It seemed a little strange, but I was one of three people staying there at the time, so I figured they were just bored. But the reason for this constant interference became clear the next morning over breakfast.

There I was, enjoying my omelette alone in the restaurant without a care in the world, when through the kitchen door emerged the entire staff of the establishment. Organised in a formation rarely seen outside of West Side Story, they walked slowly towards me with fixed and determined grins, as though this moment would be the piece de resistance of my stay. The receptionist led the group, bearing a laptop, which he gently but firmly placed in front of me. Trip advisor was open on the screen. Suddenly the over familiarity made sense - it had all been a Machiavellian ploy to make me sing their praises to anyone on the internet that would listen. 

"I don't have a trip advisor account" I explained, hoping this would be enough to deter the grinning wolverines. However, all this seemed to cause some discontent among the group. After some discussion the receptionist, clearly the kingpin of this cyber gang, confronted the issue head on.

"You....create account?" This was met by agreement and much head bobbing. I really didn't see any way out of this, so an account was created for the very purpose of extolling their virtues, essentially against my will. The five pairs of eyes were glued to the screen as I typed my name and address. Every aspect of this process would be meticulously scrutinized. On the account's creation, my hand was gently but firmly removed from the keyboard, and the hotel was typed in. 

"You enjoy stay? Please, you write review" said the leader.
I didn't know what to say. I hadn't even showered yet, let alone mentally prepared myself for social lynching.

So with expectant faces looking on, I compromised with myself that I WOULD write the review, but would first gauge the reaction to the differing levels of review I could offer. I clicked on 2/5. Furious muttering commenced among the assembled group adamant that this was not a fair representation, and accusatory glances were thrown towards culpable members of the party. I went for 3/5. The muttering softened, but discontent was still evident. One of the waiting staff appeared to be getting blamed for the faults in my stay. 4/5. Smiles all round and the waiter was allowed back into the group. I went the whole hog: 5 out of bloody 5, the most undeserved score in the history of reviews. Muted celebration erupted; hands were shook, backs were patted, and general merriment replaced the air of uneasy anticipation that had existed just moments before. 

The group withdrew back to the kitchen door like the successful raiding party they were, leaving one 'guard' beside me to ensure that I went through with this glowing recommendation. I wrote the review to the best of my literary abilities, making sure to mention the friendly staff and the 'fantastic' omelette, before submitting this lie under the watchful gaze of my gaoler. Satisfied that his work was complete he retreated grinning to the kitchen, allowing me freedom from the restaurant at last. I was left feeling violated, like some cyber prostitute who had just been pimped out for virtual gold stars. 5 quid gets you a like, 10 quid gets you one review, and for 50 quid I'll go the whole shebang, 5 stars all round. 

Considering that my stay had realistically been pretty terrible, I rescinded the review as soon as I checked out, with the view that allowing it to stand would make me the eternal bitch of the Taj Residency, Agra. I felt that being assaulted over breakfast twice in three weeks was enough to merit some response, no matter how petty a victory. So yeah, 1-1 India, your move. With this pathetic personal triumph I boarded the train to Varanasi, which while just as strange, merits it's own post - it's not so often you see that many burning corpses in one place. So, due to time constraints and the regular lightning strikes in Darjeeling, that is where my well trodden and unoriginal tour currently ends. 

Whiskey, Deserts, and Bad Chicken

My first sleeper train was a weird. Not unpleasant, just pretty weird. I found the train after sitting at Old Delhi station for an hour, the entirety of which was spent with around 3,000 Indians staring at me at any one time. After panicking 10 minutes before departure that there was no train at the platform, I realised that it had been stationary on the platform behind me for a good hour. I sheepishly took my place next to a well dressed Indian student and we got underway. As seems to be the norm, I was bombarded with questions like 'what salary?' and 'where your girlfriend?', but after this customary grilling from the Indian John Humphrys everything settled down, and the student got out his laptop. 'Casino Royale?' he asked.
'Um....yes?' I responded, a little unsure of the connotations of this question. He beamed with joy and put on the film, which neither of us were able to hear due to the noise of the train. This did, however, put me in a slightly uncomfortable situation, as every time it looked like I wasn't paying attention or was going to sleep, he would prod me and gesture to the film with a big grin on his face. As I was tired from Delhi this happened increasingly frequently, even when I rolled over and faced the wall. There were no limits to his persistence or lack of personal boundaries, as over the next half an hour he prodded my face, ribs, and weirdly enough, the back of my knees. Luckily the film eventually ended and I was allowed some respite, finding some sleep whilst clutching my bag to my chest in a state of permanent paranoia.

I woke at around four in the morning to find a rat on my leg. My blanket had slipped off and this opportunist little bastard was sitting below my knee beard, eating something unthinkable off the floor. My shock was so absolute that I let out a silent scream and kicked as hard as I could to displace the fucker. Luckily this was something the rat was completely unprepared for and as such sailed in a neat arc onto the neighbouring top bunk, where a large Goan was sleeping. The rat, seemingly unfazed by this experience, bucked down and continued with the task at hand - eating blankets.

I arrived in Bikaner, a city out in the desert near the border of Pakistan, after limited sleep or love for Indian trains. After some searching, I managed to find some simple, downmarket accommodation that I felt was just about passable. Just kidding, it was a fucking palace.

After checking in to my room (at a rate of a princely 2.50 a night) I decided to enter my first Indian town, and headed down to the old Bazaar.

Bikaner is known for it's spices, and they were everywhere. Every shop was selling an array of colours and crazy smells, which were frequently thrust into my unsuspecting mouth and eyes. Some kid threw masala in my face which wasn't massively helpful, but it meant that I can now say that it was a sight for sore eyes (heh).

Wherever I went, everybody was talking about Holi. 'You play Holi?' They would ask, and when I claimed ignorance of this apparently massive festival they would chuckle deeply and say something unhelpful, like 'be careful' or 'no white skin much longer ehhhhh?' or 'CHEMICAL BURN' (this last one was joyously shouted by all three of these kids in unison, which was weird).

This did fill me with a slight sense of foreboding, and as it got dark I headed back to my hotel to buckle down for the ensuing shitstorm that it seemed the next day would produce. I was not disappointed.

On waking I headed down for breakfast in the main courtyard. It was around 8 in the morning and with the exception of the incessant droning of the call to prayer, seemed pretty peaceful. 'huh' I thought to myself, 'what a load of bollocks'. It was as this sentence was mentally uttered that two things happened: my Chai tea arrived, and the war drums of the Mines of Moria started up. Out of these two occurrences  I found the latter to be of more concern. The beating sounded relatively far away but was definitely getting closer with speed, and with it's increasing proximity seemed to gather ritualistic chanting. 'It's probably fine. They won't come into the hotel. Just finish your tea, then head out - They almost definitely don't kill westerners as a human sacrifice' I reasoned with myself. But in they came.

Strutting round the corner came a Pablo Escobar lookalike wearing aviators and a military looking uniform. On initial assessment I thought this was of little threat, he had one small bag of paint and was approaching me with an easy smile. 'See? He doesn't have a ritualistic dagger. It's just a chilled out drug lord'. However, 20 of his friends rounded the corner armed with super soakers and spray paint. Shit got real.

They covered everyone and everything in paint with massive smiles and slurred cries of 'Happy Holi!' and it became clear that everything about this festival was as good natured as it gets. There was one exception to this rule, which was the amount of whiskey drinking that was systematically enforced on everyone and everything - even the hotel dog was given liquor in his bowl.  Everyone was singing this one song that I got the hang of due to the fact that the only word was Holi, and by ten o'clock the collected assembly was hammered. I was frequently made to dance on a table like a performing monkey while everyone else sprayed me with paint. This was an experience I'm unlikely to forget (or share with my kids), but one that was pretty awesome regardless of the fact that I could no longer see and looked like the yellow Power Ranger.

We were then whisked out into the Bazaar where carnage ensued for the next 12 hours in much the same vein - colours, whiskey, and shit loads of drunk Indians on scooters. Everything in Bikaner smelled of alcoholic sweat and seedy fat dudes, but it seemed that nothing could stop this tirade of irresponsible fun. But as with all good things it wound down and came to an end, so after the conclusion of this bizarre event I headed off to catch my rat filled sleeper train to Jaisalmer, the next stop in my trip through the desert, a journey which I spent the entirety of drunkenly taking pictures of my own face.

Jaisalmer was very relaxed. It had some amazing views, great food, and an impossible city plan that Daedalus would have been proud of. However, very little of note happened in Jaisalmer until I hopped on a camel and got out into the desert, so I'll skip to that part with the exception of a few sweet pictures.

Anyway. Having given some money to some dude as is the custom, I found myself in a jeep on the way to meet a man about a camel. After driving about 40k outside of the city we came into a small village, one that probably had been tribal in nature at some point but was now saturated with tourism. I met my guide for the next 30 odd hours - a nine year old child called Mithal, and his camel, Pipi Longstocking. How a Swedish children's character reached the Thar desert I don't know, but Pipi was his name.

And he was one chilled out mothereffin' camel.

Having met said boy and boarded said camel we headed off into the unknown. Only intrepid explorers and 200,000 odd tourists annually had ever trodden the ground that Pipi Longstocking was treading now, leading me to get pretty overexcited about the whole thing.

After regaining my composure briefly I promptly lost it again, making the assembly of people gathered for the sunset take 'hilarious' photos of me and the sun.

When the overwhelming nature of the sunset had passed, we headed a little further out to make camp for the night. It at this point that my stomach let off it's first warning shot, a low rumbling that signified nothing good. At this point I really should have heeded the signs and asked to be taken back to base, but everyone else was camping in the desert and I didn't want to look like a pussy, so I stayed. After laying down our mattresses our group sat and chatted under moonlight so bright it was like God had left the fridge open. The moon was so luminous that it was possible to see everything that you could during daytime, to the extent that I could make out the contours of my neighbour's face at 10 meters. Little to my knowledge this level of light would become a source of serious embarrassment to me in the space of a couple of hours. But at the time I thought little of it, put my head down, and attempted to sleep.

The stomach fired warning shot number two.

'That neither sounds nor smells good', I thought, and popped two Imodium as a precautionary measure. With what I assumed to now be a firm case of cork bum, I hit the hay, safe in the knowledge that a problem blocked is a problem that can wait until morning. This was not, however, the case, and at 4am in the glaring light of the moon the stomach fired warning shot number three, only with one small difference:

warning shot number three was not a warning shot. It was a live fire exercise.

I rose from my mattress and sprinted over the sand dunes at top speed in order to get to a safe distance from the blissfully sleeping encampment. After about 40 meters (which when day broke it became clear was not far enough) the pressure increased to dangerous levels leading the inevitable to happen, and with a frenzied acceptance of this fact I made my den in the crater of a sand dune, where I squatted for about half an hour, relatively close to tears.

Having buried my soiled trousers in the desert I now found myself naked from the waist down and pondering the enormity of the situation. I hadn't been wearing pants, and the only other clothing I had was a silk scarf back at camp. I reasoned that the only thing left for me to do was to fashion some sort of rudimentary diaper from this item, so I wearily approached camp in order to make this intention a reality.

At this time it became clear that Ian, a burly painter from Shoreditch, was a very light sleeper. As I reached my mattress he sat up and looked at me with a foggy, confused look. A moment passed. Another. Jim broke the silence first. 'You get a bit hot?' He asked, as this seemed to be the most logical explanation.
'.......Yes.' I responded after a moment. The light of the moon was uncompromisingly bright.
'Oh, ok.' I wrapped the scarf around myself.
'Jim, this is going to sound weird, but have you got any clothes I can buy off you?'
'Um....what?' His look was a little more suspicious now.
'I'll be honest, I just got food poisoning on a relatively serious scale. Can I buy some shorts off you?' Jim sat pondering this with an amused look. After a while he understandingly agreed to my proposition but wanted no money. I only realized later how much of a lifesaver this encounter was - if it had got to morning and all I had was a silk diaper on, the group may have been less understanding than Jim was on his own. So after a sunrise that I was completely unable to enjoy, we headed back to base.

However, Jim said nothing to anyone as far as I could tell, and after popping 4 Imodium to be on the safe side we made it back to Jaisalmer the next morning without further incident. After buying Jim some new shorts I parted ways with the group to head to Jodhpur, where I sit writing this in recovery mode.

I feel like I'm at an airport during heavy snow - grounded and a little miffed at being unable to move anywhere else. However with luck this will pass at some stage and I can go back to eating something other than plain rice. But, things could be worse, my view while writing this is far from crappy (heh) and it looks like my health is on the up.

But, for the time being, Adios.

breasts vs hard drugs: the age old debate

So having arrived at Delhi airport I made my way to the taxi rank, tired and a little drunk, in anticipation of being ripped off by one of the many savvy taxi drivers. They came at me like truffle hounds after a mushroom , offering promises of the best price and worldly pleasures. After beating them away with my forehead (maybe a touch of artistic licence there) I climbed on board with the tallest among them; why I chose that criteria I don't know. 'Where you go?' he shouted.
'Main Bazaar please my good man' I said in my best colonial accent.
'wha?' he replied.
'Delhi. Tourist Delhi'
'aaaaah ok' he said with a wry smile. And off we went.

'You come here before?' he asked.
'Many times', I lied.
'Where you stay before?' For some reason, this was a question I was not ready for.
'Ajax' I said, a Dutch football team being the first thing to come into my head. He gave me a quizzical sideways glance.
'Wha?' he asked. I didn't know what to say. I gave him a cigarette as a response and we said no more of it. And on that note he hurtled me to the hostel district of Delhi, weaving lanes at a top speed of 30mph, occasionally avoiding the homeless sleeping in the road. We made it to the main Bazaar where he unceremoniously deposited me outside what I assumed would be my hostel. Despite communication issues with the concierge, I was given a room where I lay until 7am, unable to sleep.

After rousing myself from my fitful slumber at around 12, I wandered out into the streets of Delhi. Little prepared me for the absolute mind fuck that greeted me. Marking me out as a tourist from my white skin, shorts, and white striped shirt, the touts descended like, well, touts to a tourist. I was offered pretty much everything through a diverse range of tactics, from opening with friendly advice ('put bag on front, very dangerous') to the less subtle compliments ('HEY YOU LOOK LIKE BODY BUILDER!!!). After once again using my sizable forehead as an offensive weapon (again, A.L) I managed to separate myself from the main body of them and walk down the Bazaar.

After booking some train tickets to Rajahstan and drinking many cups of Chai with people trying to sell me their travel/shoes/children, I sat down in a cafe to settle the bodily shaking that had set in as a result. And it was here that I met my first 'Real Traveler'.

After settling the bodily shaking from frantic to noticeable, I assessed the cafe. Out of the clientele there, only one was sitting on his own. I targeted this individual for my approach. He looked late 20's early 30's and facially could easily have been John Malkovich's younger brother; close set eyes with a shaved head and a t-shirt bearing some slogan that seemed to hold relevance only to those that had found themselves. He was tall and wiry and had the laid back appearance of a man who simply didn't give a shit. So, after pretending to read for about 10 minutes I stood up, walked over, and said 'can I have a cigarette?'
'Sorry?' he replied
'Can I have a cigarette?' I appeared to have lost control of volume.
'Sure' he said, slightly taken aback by my shouting. 'Would you like to sit down?'
'Yeah' I said, like it was no big thing. 'Good job, now play it cool' said my brain.
'What's your name?' he asked.
'Ed'
'Nice to meet you Adam'. I let it go. 'I'm Johan'.

Johan told me that he had been travelling India for the last 20 years and was just on his way home, to Scandanavia. We chatted about various aspects of where I should go and what to see, what he had done...travel stuff. After about an hour of this an Indian gem salesman turned up and greeted Johan. His name was Ravi, and he stated that we should both go upstairs and drink whiskey with him. So we did.

I sat on a table opposite an industrial oven and sipped the warm, straight whiskey that I had been given. The subject of conversation then turned to Johan's drug dealing and Ravi's love of breasts, a turn that I was not expecting or prepared for. They both fought for conversational supremacy like some Indian/Danish cold war, both detailing the benefits of their respective vices.
'Drugs', said Johan, 'are the shit. I've tried everything man, everything, and I can tell you the people I meet in those dreams surpass any in this life'. I had no answer to this.
'But I am telling you', said Ravi, 'a love of breasts is the most natural thing in a man's life'. He then came out with possibly the greatest sentence ever said.
'A breast is the first toy that a child holds. This child is denied breasts through his schooling, so why then should this man not want to play with his childhood toys?' I laughed, but Ravi was deadly serious.
'Drugs' said Johan as a response, and wandered off into the Bazaar. Probably in search of, well, drugs.

The next day after a jet-lagged and fitful sleep, I hired a driver to give me a tour of Delhi. His name was Amit and he was one of the funniest people I have ever met.

'LUBBLY JUBBLY' He would shout elatedly whenever I said I liked something, laughing hysterically at his own joke. He showed me round every major monument in the next six hours, which led me to chill with Ghandi:

Conquer the Red Fort,

see some old buried dude,

And a man making Chapattis on a lot of drugs.

However this also led to heat stroke, so after the tour I went and sat in an internet cafe and drank copious amounts of water. This was where I once again ran into Johan.
'Hey Adam. how's it going?'
'Not bad, a little tired'
'I'm just off to meet these crazy french people, they're cool. You want to come?'
'Sure, sounds good' I said, and off we went to the strangest, weirdly exclusive hostel I've ever been to.

The place itself was located down some weaving back alley of Delhi and on first impressions, seemed an absolute dump. However on ascending the stairs to the top floor I arrived at a palatial roof garden, where about 7 Frenchmen of varying ages were sat, all smoking weed.
'Bonjour. Je m'appelle Ed' I stated in my best French.
'Allo' came to collective response. They then proceeded to metaphorically rip their minds from their skulls and replace it with the effects of a chillum pipe.
'Your name's Ed?' said Johan.
'Yup'
'huh' he replied pensively.

I chatted to the French Foreign Legion for a while, and came to the realization that they were all competitors in the same business - festival promotion on a massive scale. They seemed to be involved in organizing the majority of mainland Europe's techno and house festivals, and were all returning to various parts of Europe to open the season. So, after getting a few useful names, I headed home and slept for 12 hours straight.

And this is where you find me now, sitting in an internet cafe typing quickly so I don't miss my train to Bikaner (so excuse the grammatical errors), the first stop on my tour of Rajahstan. I hear old Delhi station is mental, so if this is my last post, assume I was murdered/raped/pillaged on the train and think no more of it. Peace.

Farting on an airplane is simply not cool

So having left the parents at Heathrow in a state of emotional disarray I boarded my flight to the land of the (relative) unknown. Taking my seat next to a kindly looking Austrian lady things were looking up; she only smelled slightly of Emmental and seemed eager to make conversation, a facet of travelling which I had previously decided to embrace. She offered me a travel sweet which I obviously refused (rule no. 1: don't accept food from strangers on transport) and on that low point of our relationship the plane took flight.

Having watched two life affirming family movies about the importance of community or some shit things were taking their course - I was getting quietly drunk on free spirits and the Austrian woman was snoring away like a lion after feeding. I put on my service light in eager anticipation of more free stuff when the 'incident' took place. Little in my life could have prepared me for the miasma of mustard gas which followed.

The fart emerged from the seat of the Austrian lady with the sound that can only be recreated from the deep base of a church organ, and rose to a pitch that would have left dogs in the baggage hold howling for mercy. The cheesy Frauline was mercifully asleep and was spared the embarrasment that followed, but the 6 odd passengers around her (including the stewardess) were not; the faces of said passengers twisted into expressions of horror or amusement depending on their proximity to ground zero. I laughed with them until the enormity of her lower colon hit me with the force of a metric ton of change dropped from the eiffel tower.

It was like having your face thrust into a bag that contained the love child of a pickled herring and the chimneys of Dachau, a sensation that triggered the whiskey and buttered chicken in my stomach to fight for a return to my oesophagus. I managed to stumble to the toilet before these fuckers made it to my mouth, leading me to vomit liberally in and around the bathroom area. Having quenched my involuntary face explosion I returned to my seat to glare at the responsible party for the remainder of the flight while she slept with a soundness of a gassy new born child.

Having attempted to order everything possible from the BA stewardesses (turns out you get 16 sachets of mixed salt and pepper if you just ask) we landed in Delhi international.
'You travelling far?' asked the recently sentient culprit.
'No, just the centre' I answered.
She nodded knowingly. 'First time?'
'There's already been a few'
'Huh' she said quizzically, and made towards the exit.

The assembled flight made their way to luggage return. I walked briskly among them, mind fogged by the sensory assult I had recently endured, when my brain suddenly kicked in with what phrases it thought I should have said. 'FIRST TIME IN A GAS CHAMBER? YEAH, NOT SOMEWHERE I MAKE A HABBIT OF...I mean, first time in space? yeah think I might bypass Uranus next time...I mean....um....first time in.....er......you farted.' Having established that my cranium had nothing good to say after it's first encounter with the turd kind (heh), I moved through the airport doors to be the eager predators of the Delhi taxi rank. I fucking hate the elderly.