June

Fort Kochi. There have been several times on this trip where we have turned up in a place with expectations of how it will look only to be hugely disappointed: Port Blair, described in the book as a cosmopolitan little town with sea front promenades; Ooty, a fresh, lush hill station steeped in colonial heritage. With both I had forgotten that this was still India and therefore envisaged quaint little market towns with winding streets and rows of beautiful old buildings. Ok there were winding streets but also open sewers filled to the brim with stinking sludge, litter absolutely everywhere, the omnipresent whiff of wee and the colonial buildings, all but a few were left to crumble and disintegrate into ruin. Needless to say I had learnt my lesson and tried to have no expectations for Fort Cochin. It was GLORIOUS.

Previously a colony of the Portuguese where the Dutch had some input of sorts (I am a little fuzzy with the details -Graham is much better on the history stuff than me), this is a truly beautiful place where its historical buildings and streets are looked after lovingly. Pretty much most of our time was spent supping cold fresh lime and sodas whilst sat on the sea front promenades watching the men on the Chinese fishing nets catch next to nothing (not sure why they're called Chinese, and given their size, weight and number of people needed to use them seem less effective at catching fish than Graham. It seems just because a method is thousands of years old doesn't mean it's any good). We also meandered over to Jew Town (that is its name) to have a look at the spice markets and the lanes of treasures and beautiful Indian antiques. Apparently it is one of the oldest Jewish populations in the world outside the Holy land, although there was evidently less Bear skins on show here than on a sunny summer Saturday in Stamford Hill.

The pace of things here was very much at the relaxed end of a scale which is a good as our bursting bellies would not allow us to do anything other than mooch... slowly. You see the accommodation here is either fancy pants hotelsor taking a room in someone's house -we obviously took the latter and that someone's house was Beena and her family. A super lovely lady with a husband who could cook up a veritable feast of deliciousness, but they were definitely feeders. Being British and therefore driven by the need to be polite, when presented with enough food to feed half the Indian Army we put in a jolly good effort to finish off as many of the

dishes as we could manage (Graham clearly taking up most of the slack). Our sense of triumph for succeeding in finishing the food was only momentary as the bowls disappeared in to the kitchen only to be returned refilled to the brim. All the weight I managed to lose in 5 days of not eating in Kolkata was back after our first breakfast. The combination of Beena and her feeder friendly homestay and Fort Kochi were so wonderful that we plan to make a return visit before we head back to the frost coated UK winter in December.

Reluctantly we left the sun soaked Fort Kochi for the much heralded Alleppey the gateway to the backwaters. Ridiculed by Beena for thinking the train was the best way to travel we took her advice and headed to the bus stop to wait for the super fast bus that would get us there in under 2 hours. First obvious problem, all the bus signs were in Malalayam so totally and utterly useless. We stood for a while watching buses for unknown destinations whizz by until eventually we had to ask for some help. We were pointed in the direction of a battered red and yellow bus that had just pulled up which had the words 'speed bus' painted on the side and seemed to be going the right way so we battled on, squashing pushy men with our 40 kilos worth of baggage in order to get a seat (there is no such thing as chivalry in India). We found a free spot right at the front behind the driver and settled in for the journey. Let me tell you they are not joking around when they call it a speed bus. It seems that the best way to maintain a constant speed of at least 60 miles per hour (fast on an Indian road) was to drive on the wrong side of the road with your hand on the horn. It is the responsibility of the on-coming traffic to get out of the way, unless it was another speed bus or vehicle of similar or bigger size, this bus was stopping for nothing or no one. I half expected Keanu Reeves to jump on at some point and proclaim that there was a bomb on the bus and we had to keep above 50 to avoid blowing up. He didn't and we got there a little wind-blown (no windows you see) but in one piece.

Now I have never been to Venice but I'm guessing it would be a little bit pissed off to hear that Alleppey was being likened to it. Pretty much the only thing they have in common is the fact there are some canals and that's it and really most of the canals are actually outside the town. Romance, beautiful architecture, great food? Not so much. No matter, the backwaters were what we there for and they did not disappoint. We hired ourselves a little two man houseboat for the very specific 22 hour trip complete with captain, cook and engineer (in case it broke down) and set off out into the peace and quiet.

It was great. No honking, no smell of wee, not too much litter. Just peace, quiet, nature and lovely views of the still waters. As the monsoon was pretty much upon us there were the occasional bursts of end of the world style rain showers but these did not last long and it kept the temperature down and so it was perfect. Those 22 hours (and they were, for once unfortunately on time) were definitely up there with the best so far in India a definite must do if you are in the area. One thing to look out for, and was a source of amazement/hilarity are the giant a/c house boats for the Indian family groups. They are big enough to rival the titanic and are fully equipped with huge flat screen tv's and loud sound systems. Some in fact enclose the entire viewing deck in glass so you can watch tv and listen to music without the worries of the fresh air and the quiet sounds of nature to bother you. Baffling.

We were heading for Kovalam the most popular beach destination for tourists. It was nice... but if you expect to find blue flag standard beaches then you may be a bit disappointed. First of all the sand is black not golden or white (this maybe a new phenomena thanks perhaps to one of the many giant tankers that sail past in the distance), secondly the two beaches are quite small so any sunbathing will be very much overlooked and finally and the sea was ferocious and battered the beach as if it had somehow wronged it's mother. To be honest though, none of these issues were really major problems as by this point the

monsoon had fully established itself so it hosed it down every day and our main reason for being there was to see Jaydeep. To say we were excited to see him was an understatement, Graham even spent the morning creating an artistic multicoloured welcome placard complete with an accurate portrait of Jaydeep and some fine needlework (he didn't have a green pen for the flag of India so raided my sewing threads). The taxi drivers on pick-up duty at the airport looked very jealous. It was great seeing a familiar face and it almost felt like we were back in London, albeit eating dosas next to the roaring waves. Unfortunately in all the excitement, I forgot that we were not in London and that I had not really drunk alcohol for almost 4 months. Jaydeep treated us to some cocktails at the fancy pants hotel on the hill and after 2 long island ice teas and some Mcdonells premium rum back at our less fancy but still nice hotel, the evening is a little less than clear, especially as we were up until 5am. Waving Jaydeep off hurt, not just because the time had flown by and it seemed he was leaving only minutes after he had arrived but also I was in a horrible state. Still very drunk but with a stinking hangover - my first as a thirty year old and it was a stonker. Thankfully our hotel room and bathroom was the best of the trip as I spent much of the day either curled up in the foetal position round the toilet or with my head in the bowl. Very dignified and made worse by the fact that Graham had no hangover at all. Thanks Jaydeep.

Kalimpong was ok - a lesser, uglier sister of Darjeeling in our eyes but nice to see none the less. We stayed in a place with a beautiful garden, swinging chairs and pots of tea so we were happy to pass the time there before heading back to NJP for our train back to Kolkata. There was a small run in with a giant spider (giant as in a good 15cm across) during a power cut which ran across Graham's leg twice. What followed was a scene that the Benny Hill music would have been appropriate for - a lot of jumping, running about and screaming and that was just Graham, I was going nuts. Graham, in true scout leader style fashioned a catching net out of a plastic jug folder (notice jug not glass here for scale) and I held the torch at a safe distance across the room. The spider was rudely ejected from the room and all potential gaps were blocked with clothes, towels etc to prevent a reappearance. But where there is one there could be more - well that was the though running through our minds so after Graham spent the next hour googling 'poisonous spiders in West Bengal' we fell into a less than restful sleep.

And so to the train station but not before one final trip in a jeep. This time we were ready and bought 3 seats instead of just 2 so the experience was positively luxurious compared with previous journeys. The drive through the mountains was slow, winding and rainy but for once the driver was relatively careful. A puncture and a woman chanting constantly in the back seat were notable annoyances but the heavy traffic was a welcome deterrent to wild overtaking and speeding so that was a happy relief. That is, until we left the mountains. In West Bengal you are either in the mountains or you are not - there is no gradual change. You go from sea level to 2300 meters in 2 hours so when you leave you basically turn a corner and you are out on open flat land. This inspires something that can only be described as a real life re-enactment of Wacky Races. Lanes become irrelevant and oncoming traffic is a mere annoyance that needs to get out of the way if it doesn't want to get hit. We had three very near misses and almost witnessed two crashes that would not have had happy endings had the approaching vehicle not driven off the road. It felt that all that was missing was Muttley's wheezing laugh - there was certainly some wheezing but that was more panic induced than hilarity. Anyway, that was the last of the jeeps and the end of our jaunt in the north. Back to Kolkata, the airport and on to Bangalore in Karnataka.

Just as Darjeeling = tea, Bangalore = food. And it is good. It seems that in Bangalore the cows are not so sacred because let me tell you, the beef tastes good. We were only in the city for 1 days but we made the most of it with different culinary feasts from Greece, England, Italy and of course India. I also enjoyed my first glass of wine in almost 4 months. It was wonderful - pink, cold and crisp and the smell made me think of chatting with friends back at home (does that make me sound like an alcoholic?). It was so good in fact that I had another one.

Now lunchtime drinking makes you sleepy at the best of times but when you have a rock bottom alcohol tolerance and its 35*c out there the afternoon is a certain write off so we quickly admitted defeat and headed to the city's pretty if a little strange, botanical gardens to digest our full bellies. Turns out we are apparently more interesting than the array of colourful flowers and slightly odd statues as it seemed that everyone wanted their picture taken with us. This is not out of the ordinary in India - completely bizarre for us - but we have had to pose alongside a whole host of unsmiling randoms in every town and city. Bangalore surprised us both with its cleanliness and fancy pantsness - we walked passed a Jimmy Choo and Mulberry store (or rather Graham dragged me away) and there is clearly a huge amount of wealth in the city. This was our fourth major Indian city so far and it was totally different to anything we had seen so far. We are stopping there next week on our journey back to the project for a final fill of tasty beef and because Chennai (the other stop option) is an armpit of despair in comparison. Further updates of delicious food to follow then.

Next stop Mysore, a simple 2 ½ hour train journey away. Ahh Mysore. It's so clean (comparatively), not so smelly and there are trees and a big fancy pants palace right in the centre. There is also a market that specializes in brightly coloured pigment and beautifully fragranced oils so I was snap happy with the camera and a little overzealous with the rupees at the perfume counter but that's all part of the fun. We also visited the palace during the day and also night when it was lit up like Harrods on Knightsbridge. The day visit didn't start so well with me shouting at a woman who was employing the bar method to the queuing system i.e. as I stepped out the way to let the person in front leave (like a fool) she pushed in and shoved her money in the ticket man's face. She got an earful of some very choice words that made her step back although wisely not far enough to allow the person behind her to push in.

 At this point we discovered that the tourist price was ten times that of the local Indian price, a phenomenon that we are used to in India but let me tell you it never gets less annoying. Muttering furiously things that I won't repeat in writing we entered the palace with a cartoon style a dark cloud of angry doom hanging above our heads in an otherwise clear blue sunny sky. The palace was rammed with tourists all happily ignoring the no camera/no photography signs. As I had been forced to hand in my camera this did little to heighten my mood, however there was some beautiful tiling and colours on show that Graham and I enjoyed imagining in our bathroom/kitchen so I was momentarily pacified. We returned again in the evening to see the palace lit up like a Christmas tree which was a lovely way to start the evening before setting off for our favourite restaurant. This was no gourmet restaurant and the decor was definitely naff however it was a hop skip and a jump from our hotel, they did good 'finger chips' and you could sit on the balcony sipping a beverage of your choice watching the IPL play out on big flat screen TVs. Not classy perhaps but a great way to spend an evening. Throw in a trip to a Hindu temple on top of a hill, a few cheeky monkeys posing for snaps and a walk around the old part of town and our trip to Mysore was over all too quickly.

The next place on the trip list was the much heralded Ooty, 'Queen of the Hill stations' with a lovely climate. Mmmm not so much. Getting to Ooty involved a 6 hour bus journey (once it actually turned up) up some more windy roads which were PG rated in comparison to the horror show that were the Darjeeling roads. However it seemed the passengers here were less well prepared for the task so it was 6 hours hoping that you weren't going to get vomited on. This anxiety was not help by the human balloon experiment that was going on alongside us on the back row of the bus. The basic components for the experiment;1 very small child, 7 or 8 packets of crisps (lost count), a bottle of water, a small rice feast and a totally restricted view of the road ahead. The test, to see how and when it popped. Graham was in direct line of fire if anything kicked off, however, amazingly - the child kept it all down. Actually he was very well behaved under the circumstances and slept quietly most of the way - we both suspect might have been some sort of crisp induced coma. All other vomiting seemed to be confined to the front of the bus so we dodged a bullet there.

We were in Ooty. The one place everyone we had met had said, ooh nice place. A must see. Lovely climate, so perhaps our expectations were a little high. We were quickly disappointed. What Ooty lacked in charm, it made up for in rubbish and Indian tourists. There were thousands of them. All queuing to get into the botanic gardens, queuing in an Indian sense which means a fighting scrum where it is literally every man woman and child for themselves. Once in (a little battered and bruised) it was enormously disheartening to see that post flower show, the litter almost matched each flower one to one and that was kind of the theme for the rest of Ooty.