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There are too many things to blog.

Ok so my plan was to just keep blogging as I go about every insane thing that I see. The problem is, it's all insane. So much so I can't write things down fast enough, it's so crazy half of the people I tell either won't believe me or will think I'm exaggerating but I promise you all of this is true. Indians reading this (hi Marcus) will probably find it funny how baffled I am by all of this. So here some things that are just.. crazy though the eyes of an Englishman. People on the roads here WANT to die, it would appear. - People are very.. creative with how they find these fastest routes. Whether it's driving on the pavement or even the wrong side of the road, they'll find it. - Stay alert because you'll find anything in the middle of the road, including motorways. Some of these items include: a stray tire, a sleeping dog, a sleeping person, someone selling anything from coconuts to a foot massager, a rickshaw being repaired, a goat, pretty much anything you can think of. - Motorbikers have the biggest death-wishes of all. They ride helmet-less, as fast as possible and weaving though traffic like they're in The Matrix. Strangely with a helmet hanging off the handlebars! - How to cross the road as a pedestrian: Step out blindly into the traffic. Seeing as this is what everyone does, the drivers have got a lot of practice at avoiding people and as they will never let you out, you just step out and they avoid you. Trains are even crazier than the roads. - People, as you will have seen on TV, hang out of the train doors while in transit. - People jump on and off of the trains while it's still moving. Moving at such speeds a lot of people have to have a running stop and there are regular occurrences of people hitting poles and today I read about someone dying from it. But hey, got to shave off those few extra seconds I guess! - People walk around on the tracks, including children. - People live on the tracks. When on the train you go past entire communities, all living in between trains hurtling past. - People have farms on the tracks. Yes, farms. There are small areas, that appear to be crops, in any long gap where no one is living beside the tracks. - The trains are optimum "stare at the foreigner" time. I have people sit on the seat opposite me, a mere few feet away, and just stare. Not even slyly. I was on a train for at least half an hour and I'm sure they guy sat opposite me didn't even blink the whole journey. - Tickets cost 5 pence! 30 pence is you're a first-class snob. People who don't understand English, understand English with an Indian accent. Seriously, it sounds like a borderline racist joke but it's absolutely true. In my work I have to do 'media follow-ups', meaning I call various journalists to see if they will carry the press releases we send them. I called one guy, started talking and got interrupted with "ummm, sorry.. I.. umm.. no understand.. the.. umm.. English.". So I clearly and slowly told him my colleague who spoke Hindi would call back. She calls and speaks only English, and quickly, but with her strong Indian accent. He understood perfectly and the conversation lasted a good 10 minutes IN ENGLISH. This worked with a rickshaw driver too. I was requesting he took me to "Bandra, Hill Road.". I must have said it 4 times to only receive a shrug, I thought "sod it" and asked in the most stereotypical Indian accent I could and sure enough, he knew exactly where I meant. There is ALWAYS a celebration of some sort happening. You'll always be late for work because there was 100 people walking behind a sculpture on a float singling and waving flags. In fact just this morning, to my absolute delight (notice the sarcasm), I was awoken at 6.30am by what must have been 1000 people and 50 horses, walking down the road right outside my window, singing though a megaphone, setting off the loudest fireworks possible and shaking a couple hundred tambourines because apparently, and I'm quoting this, "they were marrying a young girl to some basil". There are people playing cricket absolutely everywhere. There are kids playing cricket in every street, using anything from bricks to buckets for a wicket, playing cricket from dusk till dawn. It's nice to see because they're having fun but I can't help but laugh just because it's so stereotypical.

India is the worst country to be ill in.

Sorry India, I’m having a great time and all but I had to blog this. (Granny, don’t read this)

So I was ill at work a few days ago, I won’t go into the gruesome details but the end of this story is me in bed, sweaty and feeling vomity at about 4pm. The office obviously could tell I was ill and I was sent home. I was at that point of sickness where standing up too fast or walking too far would almost certainly end with me having a second look at the incredibly spicy curry I had for lunch. So if I’m honest, going home was probably not the best option as it involved either getting in a death-defying rickshaw and being thrown across town over bumps, around sharp corners and dodging head-on traffic.. or a 20 minute walk home though the Mumbai heat. Seeing as my stomach decided time was against me, I vouched for the rickshaw of doom. That is if one would pick me up!

Due to only living a 5 minute rickshaw ride away, half the rickshaws won’t pick me up because of the small fare. This seemed to be the day the entire 50% of ‘no’ rickshaws were in Andheri. I stumbled around in the dusty heat, asking each driver “Locandwala complex?” to get an immediate head shake (not a wobble, don’t be confused), except one driver that offered me a lift for 100 rupees. This is the same as asking £100 for a £20 taxi ride. Ok, it’s £1 instead of 20p, but he lost the sale due to his smug grin. May I add that whilst I was arguing with extortionist rickshaw drivers over the endless beeping horns and shouting people, various diseased beggar kids were tugging at my shirt, touching my hands, touching my arms and just generally getting even more illness on me. I gave up and went for the walk option, maybe a bad move.

After stepping on a sleeping dog and nearly being bitten by said dog on my first day in Mumbai, I’ve learnt to look down when walking. In ascending order of annoyance, here are the things you will find under your feet on a normal walk through Mumbai: - Various amounts of litter - Various amounts of rotting plants and food - A stray dog - Human urine - Dog crap - A roadside fire - A massive hole in the ground big enough to disappear into

After the half hour of almost drunkenly stumbling in between all of these, crossing the bridge over the river than smells like a sewer, passing the toilet waste disposal truck 100 yards away from the river pumping their contents straight into the roadside drain (I think we all know where that’s going), dodging more diseased children, choking from more roadside fires I was finally home where I hid in my cave. My cave full of toilet paper (a rare god-send in India when you need it), spice-less food, AC, football and movies; sure to set any sick Brit back on track.

Don’t worry Mum (if you’ve made it this far though this post), I’m back to normal now. After half my bodyweight in drugs, water and the last of your home-made biscuits I’ve been carefully rationing, I’m back to waving away beggar kids, arguing with rickshaw drivers and bartering 20p down to 15p for something I’d pay a fiver for.

Rant over. Sorry India.

Goa

I was very excited about going to Goa. Since the second I landed in Mumbai there hasn't been more than 1 minute without hearing at least one horn, someone shout, a dog bark or a motorbike roar past so the idea of lying on a beach, under some palm trees, beer in hand with the waves crashing sounded like heaven.. but then I went to Baga beach. Which as you'll see from the above photo, is basically still Mumbai but with a few less buildings and a few more palm trees. It was still gorgeous (away from the main strip), it still had a blazing sun and still had a lot of beer and for cheap but it was far from easing my constant India headache. But still, I had an awesome time and I'm definitely going back, hopefully for new year. So I guess I should start with the journey, a 13 hour coach ride which obviously ended up being longer because it's India. The journey began by being on a very comfortable bus, AC keeping me cool, two girls from work handing me constant food and no one behind me therefore a fully reclined seat. But of course within half an hour I had an incredibly fat guy next to me taking up all of his seat and half of mine, a family behind me with a kid touching my hair and what seemed to be a family of 30 talking incredibly loudly and quickly about god knows what. Thank god I was already so tired I managed to actually fall asleep. I was then abruptly yanked from my world of Victoria Secret models and supercars to the most insane service station (definitely can't call it that) I've ever seen. A small restaurant (don't think I can call that that either), beside a huge power plant, filled to the brim with bustling life of people eating, dogs barking at coaches, coaches beeping at dogs, people washing, tiny stores selling anything and everything, a toilet busier than a beehive and of course, a random group of men just leaning and staring at me like I've just got off a UFO. This place is a few hours from any civilisation and it's about 2am so I'm not surprised they found me fascinating, just like the other 95% of India do. All of this would be daunting to me any time of day but seeing as I'd literally woken up about 30 seconds ago, I'd be dropping in this madness and just stumbled through looking like a confused, probably on drugs zombie. But after a quick fill of rice and curry sauce (avoiding meat in places like this), paying the bill of about 70p and holding my breath for a quick toilet stop I was back on the coach, snuggled up to the fat guy and the crying kid and was back asleep almost all the way to Goa. I've technically been to Goa twice now because the next time I was awoken it was daylight and a woman was on the bus holding approximately 1,000 mini bananas shouting something, presumably selling them for about a penny each and thinking she's managed to rip me off. We were at the border to Goa waiting for them to let us in. I got off to stretch my legs, saw the border guarded by a man also selling bananas and thought I'd go check out Goa. I wondered across to border, shouted "Goa!!" back across into Maharashtra and then wondered back across. Good old India being so unsecured. After arriving in the most hectic part of Goa, eating something that was apparently chicken and then bartering with a, strangely a Liverpool fan, rickshaw driver to get us to Baga beach all I wanted was a nice cold beer. So we arrived, dumped our bags and got back out to the nearest bar. But there was a problem. For about 5/6 days a year there are 'dry days' in India, it's things like National Day, Gandhi Day or Independence Day (and no I don't know if any of those are correct) but whatever day it was, this day was one of them and it meant you couldn't get alcohol anywhere. Every bar said boards saying "no alcohol", every shop had signs saying "no alcohol", even dodgily asking waiters didn't work, we couldn't get a single drop of booze. Apparently even having alcohol on you is illegal, the police will confiscate it or pour it away. As a Brit on a weekend in Goa, this didn't sit well. So we spoke to the guy who sorted our hotel room, who was just about dodgy enough to know how to get some beer. A long conversation with him and some very specific instructions later and we were on our adventure for beer. We had to go a particular guest house near where we were staying, walk down a path just behind the garage, walk around the back past the windows of weird men in vests watching strangle Bollywood movies, find a white staircase, go up one and a half floors to find a fridge stood alone halfway up a staircase. On the fridge were post-it notes saying "Budweiser Rs60", "Kingfisher Rs50", "Tuborg Rs40" and "Take as much as you like". Feeling like Indiana Jones finding the Holy Grail, we filled out backpack and scuttled back to the room, met the guy, paid him and then got on the beers. We hit town, danced to Indian music (which by the way I'm useless at dancing to), counted down the minutes to midnight so we could get a round of Tequila and continue to party into the night. Other than the DJ playing a song called "London Tumacitar" (probably spelt wrong) that translates to "The London Shake" because yes, I was English and in his club, it was a good night. And so was the next night when these exact steps were followed again but this time with legal beers. Walking through Baga Beach at night is another experience in itself. The most amusing are the "drug whisperers" as I like to call them. Basically the small time drug dealers of Goa that presume because I'm a 'firungee' I want drugs so as I walk past they put the mouth right up next to my ear and whisper "marijuana, coke, LSD, ketamine, hash, mandy.." and so on at an impressively high speed! The obstacle course of drug whisperers, stray dogs, guys selling sunglasses, hats, belts and anything knock off you could need proves for an exciting walk down any street. Panjim, the capital, was fantastic. It wasn't too busy but not empty, people rarely beeped their horns (a very much appreciated characteristic), only a few people were trying to sell you things, it was clean and there was more than enough to see. After a quick wonder and lunch in Panjim we headed for the bus station to get a bus to our train. Then upon seeing the mayhem that was the bus station we opted for a taxi. We did however make one fatal error, we didn't take into account the fact that we were in India. We gave an hour and a half for a 45 minute journey and still missed our train.. the only train.. until tomorrow evening. So THAT was an experience. But all was well, after a very long barter with the a coach driver to manage to secure 3 places on the AC coach the next afternoon we headed to Esther's house, out in a far away, tiny village in Goa. It was heaven. No cars, no people, no horns, no selling, no drug whisperers, no staring people, no crowds, just trees, lakes and birds. We spent the night in Esther's house where her Dad lives and seeing as that would make two girls and two guys, I shared a bed with her Dad. A proposal that initially made me laugh until I realised they were serious. So for the night I bunked with Mr Thottan and admittedly slept like a baby in their small but cosy house in the middle of the Goan wilderness all the way through till 2.30pm the next day. As I said, heaven. Work wasn't brilliant on the Monday seeing as we had had to get the overnight coach on the Sunday night to arrive in Mumbai on Monday morning, get put in a rickshaw at 7am, rush home, shower, shit, shave and get back out the door to a full day but I survived. The 12 hour spooning session with Mr Thottan must have fully topped up my snoozing needs.

My 17p taxi's every morning.

The crossroads I have to brave everyday and a lineup of traffic waiting for the light, no lanes in sight, just a wall of revving and beeping traffic.

In infamous batman shirt for 'twin day' with Joylin.

The night out. With Joylin and Parul.

My First Week in Mumbai

So it’s been about a week since I arrived in Mumbai and I haven’t written a thing in my diary, so this is going to be a long chapter. But I promise it will have plenty of interesting stories to keep you entertained.

I might as well start from the beginning, the son of the family I’m staying with took my out to buy some good old western breakfast the shop around the corner. This shop is on the edge of the highstreet, the most insane highstreet I’ve ever seen and by far the least insane in Mumbai. Whether it’s 7am, 1pm or 11pm, this street is packed! There are rickshaws and buses back to back all the way down beeping constantly, dogs asleep on the pavements, large groups of shouting people randomly around, shops selling everything from knock-off Armani clothing to medicine, there’s even a McDonalds. Walking down the street I was so busy staring at everything I actually stepped on a sleeping stray dog! It jumped up a definitely looked like it was going to bite, unlucky for the dog I was busy getting the hell out of there so it didn’t get a chance. After grabbing a box of Crunchy Nut, Rahul lead me back through the mayhem to the flat. This is less than 100 yards from home and my mind is already blown, I can’t imagine what I’ll find when I venture deeper into Mumbai.

The next day is my first day at work, seeing as I have no idea where I’m going I obviously get a rickshaw to my building. Before I went everyone was so worried that I was going to get ripped off by the driver because I was foreign. They all said “He will go a longer route to charge you more!”. Seeing as I didn’t know the route I wouldn’t be able to stop him if he did but there was nothing I could do. So Sanjiv (the father) came down with me to shout some Hindi at the driver and hopefully send me in the right direction. The driver probably did take a bad route as it did feel quite long but when we arrived the meter was on a grand total of.. (drumroll).. 17 rupees. Also known as, 17 pence! If this is being ripped off then fine, rip away drivers!

I guess this ridiculously low price is due to the constant fear of being attacked by beggars? Usually they just linger outside the rickshaw with their hand in saying gibberish in Hindi, to which I just say “no” over and over until they give up.. but not today. Today I had an exceptionally moody one who wasn’t patient enough to sit through 30 no’s, instead after just one “no” she suddenly pinched me on the arm and immediately disappeared! I was so shocked I didn’t even realise what was happening until she was long gone! Ok it wasn’t very hard but still, what the fuck?! I of course vigorously washed my arm as soon as I was home.

The next manic mode of transport I’ve taken is the famous Indian train. And yes, it is like you see in the pictures; a stupid number of people trying to horde onto a train that is obviously not big enough, getting on and off when the train hasn’t even stopped. Still, tickets cost 3 rupees, yes, 3 pence! So two of the girls from the office and myself decided to get a train to Bandra to get to a market. Before we even entered the station the girls had already lifted my arms in front of me and had said “Miles you need to push ok? Push before you get pushed!”. I laughed, they were serious. Thank god we were going in the opposite direction to the rush hour crowds, it was still a fight to get onto the train but nothing to the train going the other direction. Imagine the scenes in that Brad Pitt film, World War Z, where the zombies are trying to climb walls and are basically just throwing themselves at the wall and piling on top of each other. That is what the other train looked like. So I was happy with our train, even if after sitting down there was at least 50 people staring at me and as if I hadn’t noticed the girls said to me, “Miles, you are getting a lot of attention.. and not just from the girls!”. I’m already used to it, absolutely everywhere I go there is always at least a few people just staring at me. They aren’t even sly either! I look back at them, usually expecting them to unslyly glance away but some of them just keep staring because they just don’t care.

Once we arrived in Bandra we jumped straight into a rickshaw and wizzed to the nearest real authentic Indian shop.. Marks and Spencer. I have no idea why the girls took me there, I guess they thought “He’s English, he’ll want to go to an English shop.”. No! I want to get waist deep in some loud, manic, bartering frenzy, full of goats, cows, knock-off brands, snakes, monkies, knives and potentially humans Indian market! It wasn’t even cheaper than the ones in the UK! So I quickly told them no, I wanted somewhere much cheaper. So they lead me through some more manic streets in the Mumbai monsoon season rain to a little shirt shop that was selling shirts for about £2/3 each, that’s more like it. After trying on a shirt that was the right size but the shoulders were tiny, and then a shirt that was a parachute but the shoulders fit, I walked out with a couple shirts that didn’t fit my western shoulders and had barely spent what it costs to get a bus in the UK.

Next on the shopping list was a batman shirt, for a reason I will explain in a minute but just go with it. We found a small novelty stall in a market that was selling what we wanted. After one look at me the man immediately whipped out an XXL size top, offended at first I then realised I was an India where everyone seems to be tiny! So I asked for just an XL and he lead me to his changing room.. that must have been smaller than a cupboard. Getting out of my, now wet from the rain, shirt in a room I couldn’t even have my elbows fully out in was a challenge in itself. Must have sounded like I was having a seizure outside because only after 5/6 elbowings of the walls I was changed. Fitted, but it’ll do. Not a bad top for about £3.

Next is the night out, nothing too crazy but still a pretty crazy night and with pretty crazy people. This was a night organised by Joylin from work, she’d invited two of her friends. Firstly is Rahul, who goes by Billu as his “pet name” given to him by the girls. I didn’t ask but I assume it’s because of his resemblance to Baloo from the jungle book, if not.. sorry Billu. He’s a character, slight plump, gold necklace, a real Asian dodgy dealer type but an incredibly nice guy and only drinks whisky, so I liked him already. The second friend was Parul (pronounced like peril with an Indian accent), Billu’s childhood best friend and Joylin’s friend from working together previously. She was very confident and always got her way though her sharp witt and picky complaining to any waiter than brought her a drink or food that wasn’t quite right. Not in a rude way, although if she did it in the UK, she would have a lot of spit in her drinks. The night basically consisted of ordering some very spicy food and then drinking as much as we could in the allotted time.

We were in a small bar called “The Little Door”, names because the front entrance was one of those old doors that has a smaller door in a big door but they only open the small one. So you have to slouch (or at least I did) to get in through this tiny door but once you’re in its a very cosy but still energetic bar, the roof made of intertwined branches and the lights made of bulbs in multi-coloured bottles hanging from the roof. It was a good night, we left in a bit of a panic because apparently I was getting a large amount of attention from girls (it’s a hard life) and they were literally crowding around our table. So we moved on to Amed’s flat, the brother of Parul who owns the flat known the group as “the party flat”. After hearing this I expected a high budget, fancy area, modern building. Instead we arrived at a dodgy, back alley, dimly lit block. As we horded into a pretty untrustworthy elevator I wondered if I’d make it out alive. When we arrived at the flat I realised why it was called the party flat, regardless of the awful exterior, the interior was awesome. It was a modern, air conditioned, TV in every room, epic view balconied bachelor pad. It was here where Parul made her legendary shisha, we ordered some beers and chilled out until 2/3am. All night Billu and Hunnar (Zoish from work’s boyfriend) taught me every swearword under the sun in Hindi. My favourites roughly translating to “your mother’s penis” and just “pussy fuck”, neither make sense but apparently they’re a very good this to say to someone “getting smart with you”.

It was after this night and the hangover food the next morning when I got my first case of ‘Delhi Belly’ and christ did I get it. It had clearly been building up since I arrived because there was a lot. It left me bed-ridden for a day and half, which I couldn’t really complain about because the only channel on my TV that isn’t something that involves Bollywood singing and is actually in English is the sports channel, showing Premier League and Champions League matches live. So after my night of pissing out my arse (sorry) I wasn’t really up for breakfast, or lunch, or anything really but Hersha was adamant I needed some sort of food in me. She was right, but the last thing I wanted was more curry. She said she was making thai green curry “not spicy”, she said. I made sure she understood by saying “no spice, no spice” and pointing at my stomach to which she nodded and said “it is ok not spicy”. It was spicy. Really spicy. Potentially the spiciest thing I’ve eaten since arriving. I’ve been polite and eaten everything she’s given me so far but this I was not eating, instead I begged for just toast. Govi (the servant) made me some buttered toast and while I enjoyed that Hersha tried to offer me some more spicy snacks which I immediately rejected. My Delhi Belly has finally passed and hopefully that’s the last I’ll see of it, all I know is that I will definitely be taking the Indian food carefully from now on. Even if it was ironically the western food that made me ill, which by the way is how I learnt not to order western food in India. Firstly, they don’t have any idea what it is. I nearly ordered a “Classic Chicken Roast Dinner”, just to feel at home before I noticed a tomato and half a poached egg floating in the gravy. So I played it safe with Lasagne. Although it wasn’t Lasagne, it was Spaghetti Bolognese with a side of Mac and Cheese, still rather that than a vindaloo at that point though.

So that’s my first week, it’s been pretty crazy, all of that has happened along with the weird and wonderful days at Eulogy. The team are fun and really nice and the walk to work every morning from where the rickshaw drops me always keeps me on my toes. Including the medicine van that definitely isn’t actually medicine, the various stray dog minefield, the game of Frogger to cross the street, the river that literally smells like shit every morning because it probably is, the endless people staring at my weird skin, weird hair, weird clothes and weird not-really-shortness and then finally my favourite, the little man that sits on a stool in the lift that pushes the buttons for your floor while playing Bollywood music out of his phone. Being quite distinctive he remembers to say “good morning” in English and that I’m on floor 6 and always gives me a happy reply to “Kai-sa ho?”, “how are you?” in Hindi.

..almost forgot, the batman shirt! The only way to explain this is by saying that everyone in India is nuts, if I haven't got this point across already. So every Friday is 'theme day', something I was told on my first day. And this theme day was 'twin day'. So me and Joylin were twins for the day and had to come in wearing the same clothes. The other pairs in the office have to do the same. It was this short notice of having to get an outfit that lead to the crazy train ride and market shopping. Being matched with a girl that was genuine concern I was going to have to come in in a dress or something but luckily we saw the batman top and apparently she had the same. So that top, some jeans and some black shoes and I sorted. And I got a cheap batman top out of it!

Arrival

So i've arrived. And as I'm sure any of you could have told me, it's bat shit crazy. EVERYONE drives like a maniac. Rickshaws seem to fit into the most ridiculous gaps, cars are trying to kill everyone, bikers have a death wish and buses are so over crowded they wouldn't be able to stop even if an elephant was in the road! When I first landed I was met upon arrival by the most Indian man you can image. He was tiny, skinny, had glasses and a moustache. He gave me a "Yes hello sir", a little wobble of the head and we're off. I started off trying to write down all of the crazy things I was seeing but within 2 minutes I gave up. There I was on my phone franticly typing; Dog lying in middle of road Ten foot high yet two foot wide car Woman casually walking through a sea of motorbikes hurtling past her Two guys setting up a stall of about 1000 aubergines in the middle of a cross-roads Truck that said "horn ok please" along the back The two meter square clock store that must have had a good few hundred clocks inside My confidence in my driver was not boosted when he circled the same area twice, pulled over and shouted to some man on a banana stall who came striding up the window not saying a word. My driver asks about my address to the man who simply shakes his head and strides away, still never saying a word and still repairing what appeared to be a mobile regardless of working on a banana stall. We eventually found the place, after multiple calls to my landlord who eventually rocked up 20 minutes later than we did and we were the late ones! He was so casual too as he waved away my screaming driver. Now i'd arrived I thought I'd get 5 minutes to breathe but after a hurried introduction to Mrs Javeri and her servant who brought me some filtered water on a tiny tray (exactly what I required though), a really quick SSS and then straight back out the door I found myself in another vehicle of doom on my way to meet the Eulogy team. An Indian-Brit called Jonathan, who strangely went to school in Bournemouth, led me through what seemed to be the entire of Andheri West as he struggled to find the office. After going into a mall to buy a cheap mobile and then going inside probably four separate buildings to find the office we finally found the one, alas. An office full of women, there are worse places to be. All ranging between probably twenty and thirty too so I definitely can't complain! It was however, very awkward. They all said hello, told me their names that were so elaborate I may as well have not listened at all as there was no way I'd remember them all right off the bat, pulled me up a chair, sat around me and waited. What was I supposed to say? We were buying time till the boss, Cyrus, was off the phone. Even then, after the long uncomfortable silences broken by a few bits of small talk about flights and Mumbai traffic he arrived. Even then, it was pretty awkward as he basically just joined my audience! I played the tired card and got out of there pretty pronto, hopefully tomorrow goes better. It was then when Jonathan plopped me into a rickshaw, said a bunch of Hindi stuff to the driver and metaphorically slapped the arse of the wild horse. Once my life had finished flashing before my eyes I was back at Mrs Javeri's flat. The rickshaw was 21 Ruppees, so 21 pence. I only had a 100 note so gave him that, got a few coins back and got out of there! I think through some sort of communication error I ended up paying closer to 80 ruppees but whatever, it's an extra 60p, he can have it. The final stage to this mayhem of a day (and it still isn't over) is a late lunch. After letting Hersha (Mrs Javeri) know I was just out to go grab some food she insisted on making me something. "You like cheese on toast yes?", "Yeah please that would be incredible! I don't mind making though I don't want to make you make it", "I will call me servant, he will be 10 minutes!". Brilliant, a servant of a servant! The cheese toasties were good, they had a bit of tomato and onion inside for a bit of extra flavour and of course Hersha whipped out the ketchup. How did she know? As I sat there trying to explain PR to her, which I'm pretty sure she didn't understand a word of because she just kept saying "yes" to everything and then five minutes later asked how long I'd been selling TV's, the servant (still no idea what his name is but I know he's only 17 yet makes a damn good cheese toastie) was bring toastie after toastie. Apparently putting you hands up in a 'stop' gesture and saying "no thanks" means "keep them coming, kid!". I probably had about 4 by the end of it! So here I am, lying like a python that's just swallowed a horse, on my bed trying not to fall asleep to fully break in my body clock, just hoping dinner is only one course and not something mistakenly western like chips in tea or beef and hob nobs. Oh yeah and these's no toilet paper. Just a hose.. a powerful one.

It begins...

I've just taken off. I have absolutely no idea what I have in store for me over the next 4 months but one thing I do know is it's going to be very far outside of my comfort zone. Yes I'm well travelled, which I owe entirely to my parents, but not like this. Not to somewhere so remote and insane and more importantly, not alone. I still haven't really come to terms with what's happening. That feeling of anticipation and excitement that everyone gets before a holiday, before their first day of university or before any big change in their life is still absent. Some people are telling me that's good so I'm not panicking, maybe they're right. Either way, onwards we go. So here I am, on this 9 hour flight about to begin the most incredible journey of my life. I'll be writing in this diary as often as I can and hopefully I'll be writing something good. I can't promise it'll be exciting, cultured and definitely not well written but if you're reading this because you've heard something about my trip or because you just thought it seemed interesting then it can't be half bad. Welcome. So far the only thing to report is myself being a typical grumpy Brit. Something that will hopefully be washed away in the forgiving, friendly and calm culture of the Indians. I've waited in an absurdly slow que to check in, then waited in an absurdly slow que to get through security, then once I was in and buying the essentials: the latest Wired and a bottle of strawberry Ribena, I was once again forced to wait in a yes.. absurdly slow que. Does everything at Heathrow move incredibly slowly for some reason known to the entire world but me? I doubt it but it does seem that way sometimes. The flight however has diffused all of that pent-up, impatient Croft (thanks Dad) stress by being very comfortable, providing a free pillow and blanket and having an entertainment system good enough to wipe out my iPad which by the way includes endless games, movies and music. No wait, sorry, that stress has all come flooding back as soon as the bastard in front of me decided to fully recline his bastard chair! What a bastard. Not in nice, polite Britain anymore! However, my mum always tell me "love is the natural in between" so I will actually sympathise with the bastard.. sorry, the guy. Sympathise with the fact he's going to be so angry when the young man behind him keeps "accidentally" whacking into his chair every time the he gets his magazine, stands up, changes the channel, drinks some water or even blinks. Poor bastard.