My Triumphant Return From The Colonies

Monday 27th June 2005, 12.03 pm

Dear all,

this is the last of Benji's fantastic e-mails (unless I get bored in Mumbai) so enjoy, savor and cherish it. You could print it off if you like...maybe frame it, sleep with it under your pillow, or use it to dry your tears during the long lonely nights? The nights are the hardest for you aren’t they? I understand…Benji always understands…come in for a hug…there, much better right?

So here I am at the end of my travels, the end of my gap year and on the brink of the start of real life again. From dusty and almost entirely rubbish Karaikudi, through laid back and empty Portuguese Goa, through Victorian Mumbai and into sweltering Delhi, India has been an amazing experience. There’ve been highs, there've been lows, there's been diarrhea and there's been constipation, there’ve been dry days and wet days and India has seemed like a hundred different countries all at the same time, with different foods, clothes, languages and varying ranges of appalling service and undercooked poultry. At times I’ve hated it, at times I’ve loved it, but I’ve rarely been bored. Except for that week in Goa when all I seemed to do was go to the cinema and help Ben look for his pipe and slippers or read to him from Reader’s Digest (he has problems with the small print, and since he left his magnifying glass at the Bingo, I had to read it for him). Seriously, fuck that guy.

Someone asked me the other day on MSN if India had changed me and this got me thinking; what a stupid fucking new age piece of bullshit to say to someone. The answer was a definite no. No wait…er, I mean a definite yes…like, I appreciate spirituality and eastern mysticism and shit now. Also, I’ve developed a deep mistrust of foreigners that drives me to whole new levels of sarcasm and cynicism (“oh gee, I’m so glad you’ve brought me this plate of undercooked and almost certainly diseased bones and skin!”).

On an average day I will doubt someone’s intentions at least 5 or 9 times which has turned me into a John Nash style paranoid delusionist (like a magician, except I’m convinced other people are constantly pulling ticks); in Mumbai I was crapped on by a bird outside the Library, and a passing Indian business man stopped, opened his briefcase and used a piece of what looked like his paper work to clean the shit off my shoulder. I tried to stop him, because I thought he was going to ask for money, but when my shirt was clean, he just closed his briefcase and walked away. That is what traveling has done to me; I assume everyone is out to fleece me, trying to get my money by hook or by crook. It’s a shame really, and there’s an obvious lesson to be learned there- don’t stand directly under a bird, or you will get shit all over you. Oh, and something about people…er, intentions…er…judging? Whatever.

Secondly, I’ve started to really appreciate some of the things we take for granted in the west. Here is a list, in no order:

Cornflakes

Solid shits

Decent TV

Beer on tap

Nice crisps

Readily available internet pornography

Boring weather.

Normal chocolate (I don’t know what they’ve done to their chocolate here, but it is just all wrong)

Pavements

Cooked meat

Oh and all that being rich and not dying at 40 of TB...that’s pretty cool as well I s’pose.

India has also taught me the value of friends. Oh actually I mean the value of the pound, which is kind of like my main friend anyways. It's really cool how rich I am out here! These silly people, their money’s not worth the paper I wipe my arse with (though sometimes, the two have been one in the same). I’ve also learnt, as you might remember, to suppress my gag reflex and eat anything that's put in front of me, and since traveling with Ben for a month and sharing a room with him, I’ve become adept at taking every opportunity for a little...ahem..."Benji time", that I can get. He also tried to teach me how to knit and how to organise his various tablets so that he knows when to take them. These are just some of the very important life skills I’ve developed. That’s several new points on my CV, and at just several hundred pounds each, cheap at twice the price! At least, that’s what I’m telling my mother.

So what's changed since my last e-mail? Well firstly, and as only some of you remembered this may come as news to you, I had my first sub-continental birthday. That right, I am now a whole year older. Well Indian birthdays suck anyway, so I suppose you're all forgiven, plus I’ve never really enjoyed birthdays but I do feel it’s my prerogative to moan at you for not remembering, so hang you heads in shame. I also went to Agra to see the Taj Mahal. It was pretty good, no Durham cathedral (but then what is?) but still good for something a nation who produced Bollywood Cinema could come up with. No to be honest, it was the single most impressive thing I’ve ever seen (except this girl on the bus I used to get to school, who could fart on demand...now that's a life skill) (sorry, I just can’t stay serious for that long). I doubt if any of the photos i took of it could ever do it justice, it was just far too amazing. I really was very impressed. The rest of Agra was a real hole though...you'd think they'd sort that out maybe?

Anyway, that's about all. I leave Delhi on Wednesday and get a train journey almost as long as the flight Nathan and Joe are getting back from Ozz...TWENTY THREE HOURS, on my own too, so that'll be a whole lotta fun. Then I spend the rest of Thursday, and Friday in Mumbai on my own, before flying back to the waiting arms of my beloved England...with its infrastructure and clean running water (I think I may cream myself). Hope you're all ok, and don't worry it won’t be long until I’m back.

keep the home fires burning or something poetic.

Happy Birthday What's Your Name!

Saturday 25 June 2005, 8:16am

Dear all

Thank you for those of you who remembered my birthday. I am shocked and appalled by how many people forgot. Of my friends, only the ones in Australia remembered (you know who you are)...the India Travel Forum website even remembered. I found a very touching electronically produced e-card from them in my junk mail (I was searching for everyone else’s e-mails...I thought maybe they'd gone astray. They had not, you shower of bastards).

Yesterday ranked very low on the birthday top 19. I would say it was better than 16 17 and 18 but only because i didn't have an exam (GCSE, AS and A2 respectively), and definitely better than my 7th when I shat my pants on the bouncy castle, but it still ranks low. I did manage to maintain a decent level of drunkenness from about four o'clock onwards, which was ok, but it wasn't unfortunately the usual type of birthday drunkenness where you're surrounded by friends and having a really good time. Instead it was the old “I’m in India, with someone I don't really like, drunkenly plotting to smother him in his sleep, and a lot of my friends obviously don't have a clue when my birthday is". I’m sure you've all had that exact drunkenness at one time or another. However it did make me feel better when I woke up this morning to find Henman had been knocked out of Wimbledon by a piece of soiled toilet paper that’d been blown onto the court...best birthday present a boy could hope for. He really is a massive dripping cunt, and I don’t like to write that word down if I can avoid it, so let it be noted how strongly I dislike the guy. Also I found some other e-mails (mainly from family) and that card you sent me Nathan. Thank you all. It wasn’t too low on the birthday charts because it was spent in India. I think that may have dragged it into the top 7 or 8 (which isn't that high, considering I can't remember any before my 6th).

In other news, we went to the Taj Mahal on Thursday which was definitely the best thing I’ve seen ever anywhere (apart from the time I used a mirror to watch myself poohing), never mind in India. It’s really one of those things that you can only ever appreciate once you've seen it firsthand, up close and personal (in that way it’s pretty similar to squatting above a mirror and watching yourself pooh actually). Staring up at the huge white dome, surrounded by screaming Indian children and Indian adults who want a picture of you (yes, that's right, even at the Taj Mahal they were still some more interested in the white men than the incredible building behind them, which made me start to think I might just be a grotesque freak and I’d just never realised it). We took Bens FHM and took some pictures of us reading it which we're going to send in when we get back (well he is). We also did a few Princes Di shots, although i don't think it was the right bench that we were sitting on looking forlorn. I think I had flu or something, so apart from that; I spent the day on pain killers, feeling a bit crappy.

Oh and I bought a 3/4 size sitar, and played a full size professional standard one. Which was very cool. I am the hippy god of luuuuurve mothafuckaz!

hope you're all well. see you next week those of you who are in the uk.

At The Zoo...all the animals are crying

Sunday 19th June 2005 3:09pm

Dear everyone,

First I’d like to I say how worried I am about you all. I heard via the internets that it's really, really hot in England and that the MET Office is worried for the well being of the average Joe Englishman. Isn’t it like, nearly 25 degrees or something there? How the hell are you all managing? Are old people dropping in the streets? Is the wide spread looting of air conditioner suppliers and ice cream vans being tipped in the streets by roaming gangs of ten year olds? How can a country cope in such sweltering heat???

Here in Delhi the summer is drawing to a close. So as you can imagine the real heat is over, and it's just...well I s'pose you could call it an "Indian Indian summer" yeah? It was "only" 44 degrees yesterday, but luckily the temperature dropped to a chilly 42 last night. The week before we arrived the temperature was as high as 47. I think that the meteorological term for that is "Shit Hot". It’s also really dry and dusty as well as we’re fairly close to a desert, and so for the first time in months I'm not wet with my own salty body juice all the time. We had a mouse in our room (which I'll come back to later) and the bread we used for bate dried up to a biscuit in about 15 minutes. It would amaze me but I’m incapable of complex thoughts since my brain is a shriveled bag of sun-dried proteins and what’s left of my electrolytes. My scrotum resembles a sun-dried apricot and my mouth is drier than a post-menopausal nun for most of the day and I’m drinking more than Judy Finnegan.

So we left moist-Mumbai on Friday, after a few days of weirdness. Basically, Mumbai is like London, but with more Indians (but it is a close run thing...), older busses and about 15 degrees warmer. Apart from that though it's uncanny. The buildings are all Victorian stile london-esque mansions, the busses are read and of the double decked variety. Even the post boxes are old red royal mail style ones and the ordered grid layout of Goa is but a memory of logic, a faint shadow of effective town planning. It’s like they want to be us or something; I’m like “hello, has anyone else noticed that they’ve totally ripped us off here? We demand royalties!”.

Mumbai was good, and fairly eventful considering we were only there four days. we went to the pet market (really disgustingly filthy. I was shocked...I thought only the people lived in shitty conditions), the zoo (like the pet market, except not for sale and with some very bored and confused looking African lions). I got all excited like a five year old about seeing some big animals; before I remembered how inconsiderate animals can be...they all just lay there doing nothing, even when I threw stones at them. That’s obviously a joke, but I was inspired to write that after seeing a kid on a school trip actually do this, right in front of his teacher, who did nothing. I was pretty angry so I told the little fuck that Tigers can read phone directories and a pretty good at Googling small boys’ addresses.

After the Zoo, and once I’d stopped crying about the depressing site of an emaciated and bored looking tiger, we went to the general market (rubbish...which is ironic because I think that's all they sold) and the Dhobie Ghats where all the washermen wash all of Mumbai’s skiddied underwear in 5000 basins. 10 000 (TEN THOUSAND!) people work there, which is more than the working population of Liverpool, washing a metric shit load of clothes. They start at 4:30 in the morning and work right through 'till sunset. We managed to arrange an illegal tour with the government foreman who ran the whole soapy operation. It was really interesting and I took a few cool pictures.

It's amazing how easy it is to bribe people out here. it only cost us 50 Rps to bribe an actual government dude. That’s 62.5 pence (that's quick math) to get this guy to risk his job and stick it to The Man, even though he kinda was The Man. it would only have been like 150 Rp fine if we were busted though so it doesn't matter really. Bling Bling!

We also managed to hit a few bars in Mumbai (well, three) which were quite good. Three litre pitchers are about 3 or 4 pounds, which is nice. The weird thing about Mumbai is that there are loads of men on the street who try to take you to see some guy called Charlie. They come up to you and say "do you wan' see Charlie? dye wan' Charlie brother". I tried to explain to one of them that I didn't know who Charlie was, but Ben recons the guy was selling Charlie. I wasn't sure if Charlie was a rent boy or some kind of man slave, but it seemed stupid to buy him as it’d just be another mouth to feed, so I said "Ben, lets run away" and that's what we did.

there was this other guy who was trying to sell us weed, which we didn't want either, having already shoveled the best part of a kilo of coke up our arses (it absorbs it better...) so we just pretended and we asked him how much. He said 500 RP, so we were like “er, 10 Rp?”. He countered with 400Rp, so we said “er, 10Rp?” (this is how you barter in India...or how we do any way). Eventually we got this guy down to 15 RP which we found really funny and totally ridiculous. Especially when he'd been jogging to keep up with us for about a km before we told him we didn't want anything, even if he was willing to pay us for it. That’s right, we’re so extreme that we get our kicks from winding drug dealers up.

It worries me how many drug related anecdotes I have from Mumbai. There’s a lot of everything knocking about there.

So we left Mumbai by train, first class, which was more than sweet. There were people waiting hand and foot on us, and they brought us free orange juice, chocolates, tea and coffee. They even helped me with my cross word, which was useful because the clues were in broken English and made no sense, as well as having little bearing on the actual answer. And no, it’s not because I’m just crap at crosswords.

So finally, the mouse...

There was a tiny (and I mean TINY) little baby mouse in our room at the hotel, and 6ft 5 Ben nearly shat the bed. I swear to god, I’ve never seen anyone so terrified of a mouse. I told him they like to climb into bed with people and bite their toes and that they like to lay their eggs in peoples urethras and for the rest of the night he was really paranoid. It nearly killed me. then when the mouse trap finally went off he wouldn't get out of bed to turn the light on or anything, and got really angry when I brought it over to show him and did the old "woops...nearly lost it there" gag. definitely a highlight of India.

hope you're all well

Goa, Goa, Gone

Wednesday 15th June 2005, 8:07am

Ok, so now...I'm in The City Formerly Known as Bombay, home of The Bombay Bad-Boy Pot Noodle, Bombay Mix, Bombay Sapphire Gin and I think they make a few films here too. Incidentally, out here those pot noodles are just called Bad Boys, and Bombay Mix is just "mix". It’s totally CRAZY! Oh, and also Bombay is called Mumbai…apparently they didn’t like our name much, so they changed it very, very slightly.

“Yeah! How d’you like dem apples England? You imperialist bastards! And we’ll call India…er…Mindier? Yeah! Mumbai, capital of Mindier! YEAH!”

We left Goa on Monday after a pretty crappy week and a half if I’m honest. Ben is a really boring old man sometimes and was far happier to go to bed early so that he could get up early to go and watch a special showing of the bloody Lion King (this ACTUALLY happened) rather than going out and finding a bar, or a club, or even a dog eating a dead crow...anything would have been better than an early night. So anyway, that's pretty much sets the mood of my travels with Grandpa Ben these days. Goa was a little lame at best, but with him, it was like a SAGA holiday, except with really boring old people who'd rather go to bed early so they can watch a special showing of Singing In The Rain, than stay up 'till 10 to play bingo. Eugh.

so Goa was a bit of a loss, but the beaches were alright, and I even managed to escape Ben for a day and go to one on my own. I spent a whole day drinking ice cold Kingfisher and catching crabs (no not that kind...) on the beach like some kind of feral cave-child. Oh and there was the one good day when I played football with some real feral children (although someone said they were just local school kids, they were just too dirty to be proper people). I got a little drunk before hand though and ended up chopping one of the kids down in the surf in what would have been a straight red card and a three match ban if we hadn’t been playing on beach in a third world country. Even through my alcohol induced haze I felt pretty guilty, especially as he was too weak to struggle against the rip tide and was just sort of…carried off. Apart from that, it was the cinema and hotel cable that kept me sane. Don't go to Goa in June, especially not with someone who likes his rest and 90s Disney films.

And now?

We arrived in "Mumbai" in the early hours of Tuesday morning and checked into our hotel which is right at the top of a four floor building with three other hotels in it on each of the other stories. It's a very strange set up...like a dream or something. Very surreal. Plus there was no lift, which made it very difficult to lug our bags all the way up. I think. I don’t know…the bell boy did it. It certainly wasn’t pleasant to watch, especially when he got a nose bleed. Some of it got on my bag when he passed out, so no tip for him. Honestly, you just can’t get good service.

Yesterday we went to Elephanta Island (I thought it was a new soft drink) where some clown with too much time on his hands had carved a massive warren of caves into the mountain with some impressive statues and wall carvings. It was all carved straight into the rock face and was pretty cool. no one really knows who did it (apparently it was like years ago...like 25 or something. long before I was born, and no one thought that maybe they should keep a record, or ask the guy carving chunks out the mountain who the hell he was). Unfortunately the Portuguese came in and they damaged it pretty badly, probably by missing their piñatas and hitting the cave walls and statues instead. Bloody South Americans...

So the caves were, all joking aside, pretty impressive, but costly to get in and sadly in a pretty bad state. There were sections where reinforced steel concrete had been used to repair damage, but had eroded leaving ugly steel girders and cable visible, which is a real pity.

After that we headed back to the strange hotel and then went out to dinner and off to search out a bar or a club or something to do in the evening (I was keeping an eye out for a dog and a dead crow still). We went to one sports bar, had one drink and then Ben announced he was too tired to do anything else and went back to the hotel and to bed. Probably to…I don’t know…fulfill some old person stereotype. Wet the bed? Break a hip? Be slightly racist? Whatever. What a dufus. So I wandered around Mumbai on my own for a while (which was really cool) because it was only nine o'clock and I didn’t come all the way to India so that I could get a good night’s sleep.

I was on the lookout for some cheapo sunglasses, but was offered instead just about every drug you can imagine with people shouting "brother d'you wan' some Cokaaaaine??!" at me. Needless to say I was totally coked off my tits by the time I got back, and had brought a hooker with me to liven things up. A super night was had by all!

Or really: I just walked round the stalls, bought some sunglasses, politely declined the various drugs in my incredibly English way (“gee, er…no thank you sir, but thank you for the lovely offer. Next time I want to snort some mystery white powder I’ve bought from a decidedly unhygienic Mumbai street dealer, I’ll come straight to you”) then went back to find Ben still awake and watching…wait, you might want to sit down for this. I don’t know why you’re standing to read this e-mail, but sit down. I got back and he was watching…Sex and The god-damn City...for real. The real reason for his "tiredness" turned out to be that he was just so fatigued to find out what was happening in that Horsey Faced bitches love life. He didn’t even pretend to be flipping through the channels. He was just lying there, in bed, watching Sex and The City. He was a scented candle and some massage oils away from really scaring the shit out of me.

so that's about all that's happened recently. Not much to tell really. I look forward to getting back to Durham where people are a little bit more up for fun and games and I’m not constantly being offered drugs. Only 14 more days with Ben, and only just over two weeks left before I make my triumphant return.

see you spoon (oh lol)

The eternal debate: Sand Penis, Sandpenis or Sand-Penis?

Wednesday, 1st June 2005 8:53am

Hello all

firstly, can I start by saying how disappointed I am in you all. I haven’t e-mailed for god knows how long, and when I finally get to my inbox all I have is four very agitated e-mails from my mother, a news letter and some adverts for something called “V1AGRA”. I could have been dead in a ditch…or worse! But did any of you care? Did any of you phone the home office, make appeals on Channel 4 news or start a campaign? NO! You make me sick. You’re all in deep trouble.

Anyway, on a lighter note, I’m now into the home stretch. I’ve left my little hospital and am now on the open road...just me, my backpack and my guitar. Oh and Ben. Who I now hate. With a passion. And, I suspect he may feel the same about me by now because we’ve spent pretty much every waking moment with each other for 2 months.

We left Karaikudi on Thursday and got a sleeper train from Madurai which left at 11pm and arrived at 8 the next morning. It was like nothing I’ve ever seen before and gave a whole new meaning to the phrase "Cattle Class". I think India bought its trains from Germany in 1946 because they suddenly had a surplus of public transport for some reason. Apparently they were used to take people to special camps to improve their concentration or something, and now India’s using them for long distance public transport. The conditions are pretty grim. I slept on a wooden shelf with no padding and was woken up at about 4am, which is apparently what time Indian men get up when they want to annoy people...I think I may have bought a Sadomasochist Apex ticket by mistake. The guy below me was meditating. Actually bloody meditating, at 4am like he was Mr. Miyagi or something. For some reason he did this by loudly mooing like a cow.

Since last I wrote, absolutely bugger all has happened, until this weekend. The last two weeks at el-hopital were shit; the new volunteers were lame and things just weren’t as fun without our group. This weekend however, we went down to another TPA weekend which was good because it meant I could get away from Ben, who apparently really needs his sleep these days, and so was in bed by 12 evey night. Everyone else stayed on the beech 'till sunrise, playing guitar and jumping round in the surf (though there was a little too much male nudity for my liking; bloody public school boys). I also met up with Steve and Lizzy, a couple I befriended two weeks earlier on the other TPA thing, which was cool. Steve and I made a huge sand-penis (is “sand penis” one word, or is it hyphenated? I’m never sure…) on the beach. I have photographic evidence and it is epic. It’s modeled on my own, except smaller obviously. It was a little embarrassing when half way through a middle aged English woman came to see what we were making. She stopped about ten feet short once she had realised what we were doing; "oh...I see...how...er, fun" and walked away while we threw sand at her and did whirly-birds with our cocks out, Lord of The Flies style.

The weekend was really good fun, laregley spent drinking cocktails on the beach, watching pirated DVDs and playing in the surf. I’m going to meet up with Steve and Lizzy in Mumbai/Bombay at the end of the month, which is the only thing getting me through 24 hour Ben exposure (“Bensposure”?).

We bought our train tickets on Monday for our entire trip as well, which came to about 80 pounds. That was mainly because we had to get first class sleeper tickets from Goa to Mumbai (2200 km) which came to about 40 quid. Not bad considering you get your own room, meals and its how all the ministers supposedly travel. Anyway, this time next week i'll be in Goa, in two weeks in Mumbai, three weeks time I’ll be in Delhi or Agra and in about a month I’ll be home and wishing it was a month ago.

hope all is well and that exams are going well...haha...only joking! I don't give a shit, I'm off to the beach!

I have a joke for you...What do you mean? Of course it's suitable!

Dear brothers

This morning we were waiting for the doctor and talking to the latest female volunteer. she's "an indian, from America" and not a native Indian or apparently "a red Indian". in fact she got quite annoyed and told me that term was offensive. "especially when you make that whoooowhoooowhooooo noise and tap your hand over your mouth...and they only dance round like that during ceremonies! it's that kind of attitude that's holding the world back yadda-yadda-yadda". she's obviously never seen a Clint Eastwood film...that’s what they dooooooo! She doesn’t even own a casino…psssht.

Anyways wes were talking to the American-Indian-from-India-not-America, and Ben was making up stories again .He does this...even if I was there at the time, he'll still exaggerate madly and it’s not even in the hilarious way I do it; it’s more like “jeepers, I’m really awesome…did I mention how awesome I am?”. Anyway, I had a sudden impulse to poke him in the eye with my nail clippers, or in fact anything else sharp that I could get my hands on; I think our two month honeymoon period is over and I’m going to really struggle being on the road for a month with him. By the way I recently read American Psycho, in which the guy is constantly having murderous urges. I’m not sure if that’s where I got it from, or if Ben just has the type of face you want to stab with vanity utensils. Feel my tweezery pain bitch!

So today is my last day in Karaikudi, and my last day at the hospital. I doubt whether I’ll get the chance to see a proper birth now...although you did make is sound like a charming little show; blood spraying-skin-splitting-vomit-inducing-entertainment at its best. Maybe though, I might still see one if I hang around the shanty towns enough in Deli; I doubt they have many cesareans round there.

It’s a pity that Coldplay are losing the battle against that tiny cocked frog (have you seen the quite frankly offensive advert?). I agree about chavs clearly having too much disposable income. That’s why I’ve been campaigning to increase taxes on the lower income groups, thus no one could afford to go to Malaga, Le Coque Sportif, the companies that make cheap white cider and whoever it is that makes wet look hair gel would go out of business and the demand for velour tracksuits and mah-hoooosive gold earings would plummet. I think Elizabeth Duke of argos jewelry fame (by the way, isn't that where you got your engagement ring for Miranda Tim? or is she not supposed to know that?) would be made homeless. Not to mention the affect it would have on the music charts; no more Crazy Frog and no more RnB or trance. Ah, I can but dream...

The London eye does sound cool, but someone would have to pay for me, and seeing as though your new nickname Tim, is Povertim and you chose your engagement ring from the Additions Catalogue, and Emlyn you're earning less than the average Indian sand farmer, I think the two of you may have to pimp lisa and Beatrice out. Or maybe Sheep...I bet he'd be a nice little cash cow...or should I say "cash sheep"! Chortle-chortle...

By the way tim, I had another one of those moments where I made a joke that got a slightly icy response (except for one or two who loved it...er me being one. There wasn’t really another). The joke was (and I may have told it to you already):

Q: Why does Rupert The Bear wear red and yellow checkered trousers?

A: Because he's a cunt.

I’m not sure why people didn't laugh. Whether it was because they were all massive Rupert fans, secretly owned red and yellow checkered trousers, or just didn't appreciate jokes about fictional bares, I'm not sure...I s'pose I’ll never know. Sometimes I just don’t understand other people.

We're going to be traveling pretty nonstop for the next week until we get to Goa. Tim, I did some research into the bungee jumping place in goa, and apparently it has a perfect safety record and is run by an American company. I think, having seen the way some things are run out here, I was worried they'd forget to tie both ends of the rope, or use regular non-stretch electrical cord or something. I’m still in two minds.

Anyhow, I have to go for lunch so I’ll cut this short. I can guarantee lunch’ll be rice and this nasty watery stew thing called Samba (I like to sing that song when the mother brings it to the table "samba…de janeiro! Deh-deh-deh-deh-deh-deh-deh-deh-deh…" Admitadely it’s not very funny, but still; it took Ben about two weeks to get the joke. *sigh*). Anyway I can guarantee this because we've had 24 lunches, and for 24 lunches we've had rice and samba. Sometimes with razor sharp boney fish (maybe 3 times) and even once or twice with chunks of choke- sized chicken bone with tiny pieces of meat clinging to it. All chicken is like this in Southern India...which makes me wonder what they do with the good bits, or whether chickens are just boney little piles of feather and gristle down here.

Anyway, 'nuff said. And so this is the end of my karaikudi experience, and leaves me with only 4 more weeks in India, which i'm sure will fllllllllllly by.

I’ll be in touch the next time I can be.

love Benji

Realisations

Tuesday May 25th 2005

Hey Tim,

I’m definitely not coming home in early June, as that’s only about a week’s time (I think it's the same in England, but I still haven’t quite got to grips on the time difference). I should be back in July, although I'm not sure when. I'm probably going to stay one night with Emlyn (whether he likes it or not) to see his new house, and maybe to take in some more of London town; marvel at it's drainage system, refuse collection and basic sanitation. I'm so excited!

I made a similar joke the other day to the one you made about Emlyn dying and you advising me to move on with my life (that was a joke wasn't it...?) when one of the girls was really sick. I suggested we cut our losses and get over her, maybe even get a tomb stone cut. "Hell...I’m totally over Nickie" I said, to an incredibly icy reception. It was only her in the room at the time I suppose, but jeez, you think she could take a joke, ‘m I right?

Another joke I regret now is the one about kicking and/or punching necks. So many people didn't get that and I think people have become concerned. Two of my friends bumped into one another and they both decided that my e-mails were too violent and I think Mom's believes I'm on a one man GBH rampage across Asia. Since then I’ve left out my stories about standing on throats, poking eyes and stamping livers. Even when they've been true...

Ben is a bit shit I've decided, and it is a shame. I think I've only realised this since I've been left with him and the boring 23 year olds and him for company. I got on much better with the old crowd and only realised my dislike because it's all concentrated Ben Time now. On the other hand, when we go on the TPA weekends I seem really fun and up for adventure in comparison, because he’s spent most of the weekends in bed and making sure he hasn't got Werther's Originals stuck in his denchers. I'm sure he is way tired of me by now as well though. We've spent pretty much every waking moment together for the last two months.

I will be safe from now on...Ben can save his own day in future.

I’ll let you know the day I’m getting back, but I t might be a Sunday I’m not sure. It depends when my flights are for

hope you're ok

love Benj

Madurai and Things Get Weird

Wednesday, April 20 2005, 9:42am

Hey everyone

Hope you’re all well. India is still cool; the many novelties are yet to wear off, which is no surprise considering I’ve been here less than 3 weeks and this country is roughly 20 times the size of the UK. I recon it’s got another 3 days though, tops.

We went to Madurai this weekend which is a regional capital I think. It was nice to go somewhere where there are proper shops and even one or two other westerners. It was really really nice not to be stared at everywhere we went, as we are in Karikudi. There were even a few groups of fat middle aged tourists with socks and sandals and back packs pulled tight to their chubby sun burnt shoulders. Despite myself, I soon started feeling a little annoyed by their lack of respect for the culture - not removing their shoes when appropriate, taking pictures of anything and everything. It’s really bad because that means I’ve become the type of “traveler” I really don’t want to be. Next I’ll be wearing sack trousers and saying things like “I really came out here to try and find myself, yah? And to really get a taste for the local way of life y’know? I hear there’s this deserted beach of the coast of Phuket that’s like totally spiritual, yah? Oh my god, we should like, so go there! I’ll see what Rupert thinks…”

Anyway, Madurai was mental, with busses, trucks, cars, rickshaws (both auto and cycle), cattle and people all competing for the limited and poor quality street space. It soon struck me that there were no pavements, no traffic lights and that most people don’t really slow down for anything smaller or less sacred than a cow. I was almost flattened by crazy moped drivers on at least three occasions. Luckily the only thing that hit me though was what I imagine was a string of Indian profanities. Jokes on them though, because I didn’t have a clue what they were saying!

The other crazy thing about Madurai was the weird scam guys that everyone calls “touts”. These are people who come over and are really really friendly and charming and knowledgeable about the UK and Madurai, but only really want to get you to visit their shops. If someone came over to me like that in the UK, I’d expect them to have a bag of sweets, a van with a mattress in the back and to be offering to show me their puppy (“it’s just over here in the back of my van…no further in…in the corner. You might have to climb in and see if you can find him…*slam*”) Of course, we were sucked in by one within about 2 minutes of leaving the hotel, but as soon as he said “I’m no guide, just friendly” we realized what was going down. After getting him to lead me to a guitar shop we told him we weren’t interested and legged it through the crowded streets like frightened little girls. In hindsight there was no need to kick him in the shins before we did so, but things are never so clear in the moment. We also saw many of the fat socks ‘n sandal wearing Germans/Dutch/Brits being led around town by touts who looked like all their Christmases had come at once, and after avoiding a similar fate, had a good old laugh at their expense. That’s what traveling is really about; having a laugh at the expense of others who are less fortunate. Isn’t it…?

The temple in Madurai was amazing, but like all the other temples we’ve seen so far, was ruined by neon lights all up the side of what would otherwise have been four amazing towers. Also they let people set up market stalls inside the temple and these places sell the most amazing variety of shitty tourist tat you’ve ever seen. Jesus would never have stood for it; it really ruins the…and it hurts me to use this word…ambiance. Can you imagine Durham Cathedral with bright neon lights and people selling framed pictures of St Cuthbert with flashing fairly light frames? Actually, that sounds pretty awesome.

We also went to the Gandhi museum, which was seriously lame. It’s quiet impressive that they managed to make Gandhi’s life so skull numbingly boring, but then I hear that pretty much every town in India has a Gandhi museum with exactly the same fake relics and claims of official endorcement.

After a really fun but manic weekend in Madurai, we returned to the quiet life of Karikudi and back to the hospital. On Tuesday, after a particularly meager evening meal (they always give us tiny meals in the evening) of noodles with sugar and shredded coconut, Ben and I decided to go down to this little bar that we found for a curry and a beer.

Beer in India is generally warm and awful, but this bar serves premium King Fisher in frosty glasses with all the free bar snacks you (and your immune system) can handle. The first night that we went it was a little like stepping into a tavern from an old spaghetti-western; everyone in the place stopped what they were doing and watched us with barely hidden sense of mistrust. The bar was almost uncomfortably cold, though if it was because of the cranked air conditioning or just the general atmosphere wasn’t clear immediately. Well, it wasn’t clear until we ordered a large beer each in our English accents and were greeted like old friends by the bar man. Apparently Ben looks exactly like Andrew Flintoff, and to the patrons of this watering hole that alone is more than enough for us to be welcomed like returning heroes. Needless to say, our first trip to the bar ended with both of us seriously worse for wear, discussing cricket late into the night with an anesthetist and a local business man, before staggering back to the hospital, to be greeted by the consistently friendly, though on this occasion slightly less so, night watchman.

Anyway, last night we barely broke the seal, and got back to the clinic at about 11:00pm. It was lucky too that we weren’t half cut again, as we were hurried straight off to theatre. Some goon had fallen out of a tree and snapped himself in two. He’d broken his thigh bone in half and had done pretty much the same to one of the bones in his arm and was in a pretty bad state. It was a particularly brutal operation, with lots of hammering, pulling, poking and even some sawing. They made a big incision about half way down his thigh, one on his arse and one above his knee. Then they got out what looked like long corkscrews and started drilling into his bone going from thigh to buttocks right up the middle. Then they threaded a piece of wire through the hole they’d made and out the cut on his backside. They did the same thing going from thigh to knee and threaded the wire back down and into the bone just above his kneecap. It was really violent in places, and they seemed to be using nothing more complicated than what you’d use in GCSE wood work, and pure brute strength. I’m surprised he was on an operating table and not a Black and Decker Work Bench. After a while we got a little bored, though I did manage to take some quality videos of the doctors hammering away at the fellows leg.

Last night however was easily the STRANGEST night so far. I knew India would be weird but last night took the biscuit, chewed it up, shat it out and proceeded to rub it all over itself whilst doing expressive dancing. We were invited by our family to their son’s nursery school “function”. Apparently it was some kind of prize giving ceremony. At a nursery school. HE’S THREE YEARS OLD FOR FUCK’S SAKE! He can’t even tie his shoe laces. I couldn’t think of anything this kid can do that would warrant a prize of any sort. Most of the time he lies about winging, trying to remember not to crap himself. Anyway we went along in our best Indian attire (i.e. sarong things) to what the big sign proudly called “The First Annual day 2005”. Great English dipshits. Oh yeah, and we had to cycle there in our sarong things, which was totally indecent. I was flashing a lot of thigh to passing motorists, and of course nearly got my massive penis caught in the spokes of my bicycle wheel. Because, you know…my penis is really, really big.

So there was about 10 minutes of prizes, given out for any old shit they could think up to justify the whole travesty. Our little man, also called Ben depressingly, won 3rd place in musical chairs. “Third place” I thought, “not something to be proud of traditionally…what a failure!” To be fair, he was beaten by these two undernourished kids who looked pretty fast, and not above cheating either. We offered to break their legs after the ceremony but Bens mother’s English isn’t too good and she just laughed and tried to change the subject, which was good because it was a token gesture really, and I couldn’t be bothered. I hadn’t even brought my breaking bat anyways.

So the other prizes were all equally crappy…things like “Best at picking coloured balls” and “Chocolate Gathering”. They may as well have been giving prizes for “Not sticking your finger in the plug socket” and “staying conscious long enough to not swallow your tongue”. Why are the parents of India rewarding their children for such inane accomplishments? Let’s see one of them invent something useful, or write a concerto. Then we can give out prizes. God, little kids are so rubbish at stuff.

Anyway, after the ten minutes of prize giving (that I did actually enjoy; I even felt strangely proud of Ben, despite his blinding mediocrity) the guest speakers each gave a speech. They were all speaking Tamil, and the speeches were about half an hour each, which I thought was rude…

“er, hello!? Guests of honour who do not speak Tamil here! I’m getting very bored guy”

After two hours of Tamil speeches I was about to throw my camera at the one the crowd thought was particularly funny, when it finally stopped. Then things got strange…

First let’s get something straight. Indian schools don’t “do” plays. Not in the western sense of the word. I suppose it’s just a microcosm of how they “do” cinema. Gone is the story line, the dialogue, the direction, the acting and any sense of continuity or logic. To replace all of that they have dance numbers. Lots and lots of bizarre dance numbers. With morals. Dance numbers with morals and weird music. Like a Bollywood film crossed with a Year 9 PSE video, on acid. The first one was about mental strength being more important than physical strength, and so to illustrate this, four guys dressed all in orange came out and danced around like a pack of ‘tards. But it was worse than that. They all had one leg (the other folded up in their trousers) and were hopping about to STEPS! I swear to God, It was “5,6,7,8” and I almost shat my pants. I’ve never felt so strange in all my life. There were too many weird acts to tell you about them all (and I’m not sure I want to relive them anyway) but the other one that stuck in my mind was an all singing all dancing underwater number (the moral of which was lost on me. I think…maybe something about not swimming after lunch? Or, like…the dangers of playing on wetlands?). This one had a kid dressed as a deep sea diver, suspended from the ceiling by some ropes. Except that he was dressed like someone trying to dress like a deep sea diver, despite having never seen a deep sea diver or possibly even the sea and being brain damaged. When the music started (a remix of Mumbo Italiano for some reason) the teachers at the side of the stage started pulling on the ropes so that the poor kid was yanked back and forth and up and down, flung about like a rag doll. I was amazed that he wasn’t sick on what I presume were the star fish below him. It was one of the funniest and strangest things I’ve ever seen and luckily I caught it all on video, but I’m not sure if I should send it to You’ve Been Framed or Amnesty International…hmmm. Do Amnesty still pay £250 if it’s shown?

Any way, that’s about it. I’m off to go film myself swinging a child from a rope.

April Fools Day ~ The Journey Begins

Friday, April 1st 2005, 6:14pm

I'm going to be quick because I’m on internet cafe time, and as I’m still in London which means I’m paying premium rate. Honestly, I recon I’ll be able to hire a prostitute in India for less than I’m paying for broadband in the UK. Although the scope for long distance communication may be slightly less, at least the scope for catching an awful disease and having all my money stolen will be greater.
I've spent the last two days with my brother in London. I've only really seen him in the evenings though as he’s been working, and I've been doing speed tourism, which is like regular tourism except it involves a lot more pushing, shoving and shin kicking whilst maneuvering through crowded museums. I've managed to see pretty much all the free things that I wanted to bar any actual genuine cockneys...is anyone from London actually living in London?

I made it to Abby Road where I wrote my name along with everyone else's on the wall outside, went to the Houses of Parliament where I again wrote my name on the wall outside (fewer people taking part this time though) and looked at the permanent protest guy. I’m not sure if he means to be protesting against hygiene, but he’s making a very convincing argument for a compulsory state subsidised showers program. Is it really necessary for him to be so filthy? Why must being a revolutionary be synonymous with a rejection of basic cleanliness? It seems that social change may smell of hash and armpits. Seriously, I've seen cleaner puddles.

Then, Leicester Square where I saw nothing except an NHS walk in centre where I had to pick up some antibiotic cream. This is because Impetigo has turned my face into the sort of scabby weepy-wound you’d usually only associate with a 16th Centenary bubonic sanatorium. Also, I think I was the only person in there who wasn’t a sex worker. Or at least that's the thought I used to entertain myself whilst I waited.
Then I went to Camden, which is really cool; cool shops, cool people, cool fake band merchandise and very brazen drug dealers selling what I suspect is likely to be some of the finest cooking herbs outside of my mother’s spice rack. Finally I hit the Tate Modern for some real genuine mind wank. All fairly standard really. I fly off later today…it doesn't really feel very real though. I suspect this could all be a hoax