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

Drinking Hot Beer and Trying Not to Stare At The Guy Having a Crap in The Corner.

Tuesday, 17 May 2005, 11:51am

hey everyone, it's been a long and hectic week here in In'ja but with plenty of cool happenings and the types of stories only a third world country could ever provide you with, this may become an extensive e-mail...

First off, on Wednesday Ben and I went to a Hindu wedding. It was really strange and seemed completely rushed and almost mechanized. It took about ten minutes for us to be hurried from the meal to the ceremony and then home; chop-chop-chop. It was really colorful though and interesting, especially as Dr John seemed to be the guest of honor and as such we were pretty high on the honor role as well. I suppose it was quite an honor to taken along and fed etc. Oh, also the bride was a total munter. It really outlined the evils of arranged marriages...the poor groom stuck with a hound for the rest of his life- throwing sticks, scratching her behind the ear...countless cans of dog food…trips to the vet. There really should be a “try before you buy” policy, because she’s probably just going to end up either in a dog pound, as a stray on the streets or worse…they might just put her down like so many other unwanted dogs.

On Wednesday afternoon (and I’m rushing through things here) TPA turned up with another volunteer to take Ben and I to the Leprosy clinic. If I had been getting touchy about my height (something I didn't have a problem with until I met 6ft 5 Ben and was dubbed "small Ben" by the hilarious Dr John who, I might add, is a total short-arse) it was nothing compared to how I felt when I met Aurnouldt the Dutchman, who was a circus attraction sized 6ft 7. Seriously; call the Natural History Museum because I’ve found bigfoot and he’s a grumpy gap year student from the Hague. He seems pretty sound though.

The first night at the hospital was incredibly hot and we had nothing to do, no TV and the beginnings of Cabin Fever. I was sure Ben was staring at me when I wasn’t looking, and I knew they’d been talking about me…plotting…skeaming. Either we had to go out, or I’d have to get to them first…get them with my knife…

Luckily, (for them) we eventually decided to head on down to the bright lights of the nearby town- Manumadurai- for a night on the tiles. I was hoping for 18-30s style Brits Abroad debauchery, if only for one night. Unfortunately Manumadurai is a small collection of shaky buildings, some very suspect street lights and very little else. There was no bar, no air conditioning, and pretty much no bright lights. In fact there was nothing much at all; the main attraction seemed to be a big pile of shit, that may or may not have been the actual town itself. After asking a few people for "King Fisher! KIIING-FIIIISHER!" in that wonderfully respectful way us English have when on the hunt for alcohol, we were eventually led down a back alley to a little sand floored court yard behind a wine shop. The court yard had maybe three or four old and rickety metal chairs, a concrete Bench and a man having a shit in the corner. Disclaimer: This is not a joke. There was actually a man, actually defecating in the actual corner of the court yard. What I suppose you may call the “waiter” brought us out three “Zegringer Strong Beers” in large dark brown bottles. The beer was about (and I shit you not) 35^oC and hot in our mouths. The err…”waiter” (and I’m really not comfortable calling him this, because it’s being generous beyond merit) then tried to sell us some very boney and under-cooked chicken (and/or rat and/or dog, and/or pigeon), which I was literally terrified of. It didn’t help that he was one of the greasiest people I have ever seen, or that he kept describing the plate of bloody, undercooked mystery meat as “magnifique”. We left pretty quickly and made our way back to the little bungalow on the hospital grounds that we’d been left in charge of.

Back at the oven-hot leper clinic we still had nothing to do, and as we hadn’t managed to dull our boredom with alcohol or murder, we were reduced to plan C: throwing mangos and toilet paper at the ceiling fan and making an incredibly rock and roll mess (although not that rock and/or roll because we cleaned it up in the morning). I cannot recommend doing this enough. It is truly incredible the damage that a ceiling fan on full will do to a ripe mango. Seriously, those things will tear a mango open like a baby’s skull in a lawn mower.

Eventually the fun came to an end though and after about an hour of trying and failing to fall asleep I dragged my mattress up the stairs onto the roof to sleep there. Out in the open I was soon set upon by swarms of bird sized mosquitoes, so was forced to surround myself with enough mosquito coils to give an elephant Alzheimer’s, which kind of ruined the ambiance of sleeping outdoors. Especially when I started to convulse and lost consciousness, though I suppose I did get an awesome night’s sleep.

The next day we were taken round the villages to see some lepers, and as I hoped, maybe even get some autographs! The hospital is basically a privately run charity, and they spend most of their money fighting the stigmas attached to Leprosy; providing education, giving sufferers loans to buy or build their own houses (land lords will often evict lepers because they are bastards like that), send their children to school, and to increase awareness so that people come forward during the early stages when it is easily treatable. A lot of medicine in India is based on education and prevention, as due to limited resources they just can’t treat illnesses in the same way as we can in the west and also because so many easily preventable disease are rife through general ignorance.

After the Lepers (we deserted after less than a day because it was so hot and boring) we went to Kanyakomeri or somewhere with an equally stupid name, for the TPA weekend. It was great. there was a bar in the hotel and the drinking started at about 5 and continued through 'till about 1, before we all went down to the beach for a swim (stopping off to stroke a cow, which was cool). It was nice to have some disrespectful teenage fun and to spend some time with some other volunteers. We swam about in the very calm bay late into the night, and almost managed to blag ourselves into certain death aboard an Indian fishing boat. Luckily they tried to charge 20 quid per person and we decided this was too much to pay for the privilege of a watery and anonymous grave. I was a little annoyed at the time, but looking back it was an incredibly stupid idea, seeing as the boats were barely more than canoes and out at sea we would have been at the mercy of the Indian ocean and some total strangers. I think we were pretty close to becoming a dodgy story in the Reader’s Digest.

On Saturday we did some other shit, including a rubbish temple, a filthy waterfall and a typically defunct Indian bridge. The waterfall had a men’s section and a woman’s section, and it was quite interesting when it was pointed out by one of the female volunteers that the men’s half of the waterfall was far bigger than the woman’s, and had far more water cascading over it. I took her point, but then told her she should be happy just to be out the kitchen...my black eye is pretty much healed now though, so the jokes on her.

Oh, and whilst at the bridge one of the Indian TPA staff climbed up on the side to take a picture of us all, and I hilariously did the old “whoa…saved your life” jerk-towards-the-edge-joke. Except that he didn’t find it hilarious and looked genuinely shocked and quite frightened of me, though that could have been because I was laughing like a maniac. I thought it was a classic zinger and his reaction didn’t dampen my enjoyment at all. Benji 1, Totaly Innocent Stranger 0.

After our rather eventless day out, we once again headed down to the bar. we started later, but still managed to have a fantastic time. Unfortunately the bars here have a nasty habit of being almost punctual and closing at 12. The bastards! How dare they have licensing laws that don’t suite my schedual! Anyway, two of the girls and I decided to go and buy some beer form a wine shop if we could find one and so set off into the night. First we bumped into an Indian on a scooter calling himself Kirin. Kirin said he would happily take us to a wine shop on the back of his motor bike in exchange for one photo of the girls I was with. I was happy to oblige the man, and saw it as an opportunity to start my new career as a sub-continental pimp…I was even going to ask if he knew of anywhere I could buy a leopard print bath robe or a jool studded goblet. However, Kirin was lashed out of his head and was slurring his speech pretty badly which apparently was a deal breaker when accepting lifts from strangers. Even though, or especially because we were also rather drunk, we decided it probably wasn’t the best idea to have four inebriates on one scooter. Especially when two of them were angry with one of the others for trying to pimp them out.

Eventually we found a taxi driver who would take us to a wine shop and get us some beer and who wasn’t drunk. Well, not visibly, which in India is all you can hope for really. We even managed to get him to agree that no beer, no money was the way we'd be doing things. So after some driving around the dark streets, he took us to this place and woke up some guy at what looked suspiciously like a private house and not a shop at all. It was all feeling rather clandestine, and as our new driver/bootlegger talked to his contact for a while in Tamil, I couldn’t help but feel like a total law-breaking badass. Eventually our driver came back to tell us he'd be getting the beer for 50 RP per bottle. I wanted to get out and see the beer before handing over my money though, because you know…that’s what people do in the movies when they’re buying drugs or making switches for hostages. Unfortunately for my fantasy of being Mel Gibson in Ransom, as soon as I got out the car the driver got really panicky and shouted at me to get back in. Needless to say I nearly dived through the window with fear. Apparently this really was an illegal drinking den, and it was long after licensing hours, when the police just love to arrest naïve tourists pretending to be Australian actors. Awesome! Not only this, but just down the road the coppers were sitting in their little van keeping a look out. Luckily though, they’d probably passed out or something (maybe they were drunk) and so we finally got our beer and gave the taxi driver a fat tip for putting our lives in danger so well. Thanks Sanjay!

We went back to the hotel room and carried on drinking until about 2:00am when one of the guys and I decided to go and buy some food. Of course there was nowhere to buy food at 2 in the morning...well once again, nowhere that was strictly “legal” so we just sort of stumbled around a while looking for anywhere with lights on, or trying to sniff out the smell of frying onions. After a while of this aimless meandering we found a house with some guys who had inexplicably made a two foot high pile of parota (a type of Indian flat bread) which was just lying on the floor, next to which was a huge barrel of chopped onion. we hardly had any money but did have a bottle of beer, so after talking the guy into giving us some food, we gave him 20 RP and the beer and left. It was incredibly weird, but once again was the sort of experience you can only have in India. I still have no idea why they had made all this food, or why they were willing to let us eat so much of it, or why they had just dumped it all on the floor, or indeed why we were so keen to eat the floor food. Indeed it was strange...

That’s about it (kind of) and I’m sure you're glad to hear, all I can be arsed to write.

Hope you're all ok and that the UK isn't sucking too much.

Braaains...arrg...braaaains!

Monday, 9 May 2005 11:34am

hey everyone

firstly, sorry to those of you who haven’t been getting my group e-mails. I know how you people are relying on them to distract you from the Orwellian nightmare that is your grinding daily existence. I’ll make some changes and hopefully there won’t be to many more problems...even though I’m nearly half way through my trip, I’m sure there'll be plenty more to come.

So this week I saw a guy who'd been in a motorcycle crash and had his head pealed by the pavement. No really, like an orange. His scalp was hanging off like a thick peace of tough stake. It was pretty rough really. He'd been drink-driving and was still trollied (literally...they had no spare beds) when he was brought in. They didn't even sedate him as they began cleaning his skull and forcing the stitching needle through his thick leathery head skin. It was pretty gruesome, but on the plus side (for me anyway) he did end up with a very comedy hair cut...they shaved all his hair to the skin except for his mono-brow...a great look! He was so drunk though that he wasn’t likely to notice. In fact when we first came down and saw him lying in reception on the trolley, Ben and I both thought he was a dead’ne until he started to moan slightly and move about. He stank of booze as well. I’m not sure they could do much more than stich him up, and he was sent to a larger hospital in Madurai for some head scans.

We got back from Tanjour yesterday afternoon, and so concluded the travels of our little group of volunteers, as the girls all left this morning. it wasn't the most activity packed weekend but was still eventful and lots of fun. the new girl Amy arrived on Thursday, into a hail of bitching and complaining about TPA and their handling of the theft of Emma’s money. I think we've all been here long enough and the novelty has sufficiently worn off, so Thursday was spent telling her all about how rubbish a lot of the stuff is, and warning her about the thieving family that she was going to have to stay on her own with. I think it was a bit of a negative introduction to India really, but never mind. she's 23 and she's already been to university and done grown up stuff. If anything, I think she may have been shocked to see 18 year olds and the way we behave. I for one (as most of you probably know) am not the most adult 18 year old, and none of the others are much better. Anyway, so she's a little lame, but she might get more interesting. We will have to wait and see.

On Friday we arrived in Tanjour, which is by all accounts is a bit of a hole, but we had TV and a sit down toilet so it was still nice to be away from the hospital. That night we went to a restaurant in town that was supposedly the only passable eatery in the town. I chose the "Brain Fry" from the menu, not really knowing what it was, but expecting at the very most little bite sized pieces of brain...if brain at all; a lot of the menus out here have hilarious spelling mistakes on them (humus/humans and pita, crab/crap soup etc.) Unfortunately it surpassed even my wildest of expectations, and turned out to be an entire goat brain, stem et al, and it was completely un-adulterated. It was like a biology lesson rolled into a meal. You could see clearly all the different bits (the names of which I don't know, but I did recognise) and you could even make very thin microscope style slides...not that I was playing with my food or anything. In the end I put it out of my head that my meal was capable of complex thought processes and even basic problem solving abilities, and I just ate the brainy bastard. it was very strange and didn't taste like much (not even chicken, which was quite an unsettling realisation) and had one of the most stomach churningly rank textures of anything I’ve ever put in my mouth (*insert innuendo here*). Luckily hardly anyone else finished their meals, so after eating my brain (never thought I'd say that again) I at least had everyone else’s leftovers, which was nice. I think I may have worms though because I seem to be capable of consuming roughly the same quantity as the population of Sudan (actually, that’s not saying much) but I am yet to gain any weight. I do have an incredible urge to eat grass though and a strange goat like…compul…compulsion to…ba…baaaaa…BAAAA!

Anyway, not much else happened this weekend. Temples were visited, Indians stared at us, photos were taken, elephants were seen and copious amounts of very liquidy shit was passed. I think the brain fooled my stomach into not digesting it fully. goats are cleverer than we give them credit for...when we eat their brains. it wasn't too bad though and I’m glad to say I’m back to passing shapes rather than volumes.

On Sunday we had by far the most expensive meal we'd ever had at a really posh hotel (they had ice in the toilets for some unfathomable reason). We had bacon, egg, sausages, tea and coffee, cornflakes, toast fruit juice and oranges, bananas & pineapple. It all came to about the price of a McDonalds breakfast thought I suppose the origin of the meat was more questionable (if that’s possible). It was still nearly as much as our accommodation for the whole weekend though! Sometimes I love this country (well I love how shit poor it is...)

So this morning all the girls left, (except for rubbish Amy) and now Kraikudi is quiet and empty and dull. Boredom has a name, and its name is Amy. Never mind, Ben and I are off to the leprosy clinic on Wednesday for the rest of the week so that'll be cool. it's supposedly really interesting there, with good facilities and cleaner rooms; again though, the competition isn’t exactly stiff. We're going with someone called Henry or Hendrich, we're not sure, but I’m hoping he's not German, because I’m still waking up angry at night thinking about that twat Norman. Also I'm a little bit apprehensive about living in the same building as leopards. what'll happen if they escape!?

So that's about it, I can't be bothered to write anymore anyway and the last week or so has been so boring there isn’t much to say. Only 12 days left in our little hospital, and then we hit the road. I really can't wait as I’m starting to get itchy feet (although it could be fungal).

Dave, good luck with your exams, they must start soon (oh and the rest of you at uni too, if you have any)

Sara, the cesarean was cool, but incredibly messy. I can't imagine why you'd want to be a midwife; do you hate women or something?

Paul it'll clear up if you use the ointment. I know it stings, but you shouldn't have been playing with it so much ;)

Crime and Punishment

Monday, May 2 2005 11:24 AM

Dear brothers,

We went away this weekend to a place called Kodai Kanal (not like a British canal...there were no rusty trolleys, sacks of dead kittens or dead smack heads) which is a hill station in the Eastern Ghats, a mountain range running down the west of Southern India. It was a really quiet weekend, spent lazing about in the coolness (I even wore a jumper!) and messing about on the lake. About the most interesting thing that happened was when I got stuck in a tree. I couldn't help myself...it was there, and it needed to be climbed. Unfortunately once I was up I was as stuck as a fat kid in a climbing frame, with a crowd of locals and all my friends taking photos of me. Then a street trader came up and started playing My Heart Will Go On from Titanic on a penny whistle, which made me so desperate to get away that I ended up just jumping out. I resisted the temptation to punch anyone this week.

Anyway, nothing else really happened until the last day when we were getting the bus. We checked out and went down to the bus station but unfortunately we were an hour early so we decided to go and get an ice cream. We found a place and we were all sitting outside when this random walked past and flicked something onto Ben's neck. He quickly disappeared into the crowd and Ben's neck began to itch and burn. We thought it was just an Indian teenager being a twat (there're lots of them about, but usually they just hassle the girls) and so we didn't think anything of it. Ben went to go buy some water to poor on his neck and as soon as he left a guy ran past and snatched up his bag. Nat, who I was sitting next to, just said quite calmly "I think that guy just picked up Ben's bag..." and then less calmly "HE'S STEALING BEN'S BAG!!!". We both got up and, I might add with no regard for personnel safety, gave heroic ungainly chase. I used to think I had a relaxed running style, but I’ve now realised I’m just deeply unfit. This is my last clear memory of the incident as everything else seems to be drowned out by Eye Of The Tiger, which filled my head as I legged it down the street. Unfortunately I was held back by my flip flops, and Nat was held back by her general femaleness so we weren't making up any ground. I could see the guy was a very scrawny looking teenager in a nasty 80's style "Acid House" shirt, but for the purpose of this story I’d like you to imagine that he’s a hard-as-nails man mountain with tattoos and possible kung fu skills. Got the image? Right, lets carry on. So kicking off my shoes I shouted instructions at a passersby to look after them and continued my Keanu Reeves in Speed style run. Feeling more and more like a total hero I turfed it down the street after the scrawny little opportunist…er, I mean the trained killer mafiosa. I don't think I’ve ever run as fast in my life, and may never do again, as by this stage I was going on pure adrenalin and heroic egotism. I was caching up really quickly and the guy saw this. Knowing that he was almost certain to be on the receiving end of a throat punch, or at the very least a very articulate and middle class public dressing down, he decided to jettison the bag in front of a bus and go crying wah-wah-wah all the way back to mommy. Luckily the bus stopped and I picked up the bag, but the assailant had escaped and the long arm of my justice went unexercised (In reality I have no idea what I would have done if he’d just stopped running. Probably just kept running, straight past him like I was running for train or something)

We walked back up the still street where everyone had stopped to see the crazy westerner running bare foot down the street in a sarong, and got back to Ben who didn't have a clue about any of what had happened. I was crowned a hero and showered with gifts by the town’s people, who built a statue of me and sacrificed 3 virgins and an old lady who was too slow to escape. Ben had both his cameras (video and digital) his wallet, his cards, his phone, his passport, his ipod and loads of cash in his bag, and still only offered to buy me a pint. I think I should be entitled to half of his stuff really. Er, I mean…I do it to keep the streets safe, not for the financial rewards…

Anyway, the weekend was really fun and everyone got on really well. an Indian man asked if he could have his photo taken with me, so I said he could, but only for 50 Rp. he laughed and got his camera out anyway. I couldn’t see any money making an appearance and was like “no dude, really…pay the man”. I think he thought I was joking, so I kicked him in the shins and ran away. It's really weird, we're all like celebrities even in the tourist areas. This was before my heroic intervention so it’s not even like I was known yet. There was one guy who just came and stood on the pavement as we walked past and his friend took a picture as soon as one of the girls was near him. Great, a picture of you with some blured tourists in the back round. Maybe it’s a new thing I’m just not aware of; going around taking pictures of tourists as part of some weird meta-tourism. they harass the girls constantly apparently, but never when Ben and I are around (remember that I’m about half a foot taller than most Indian men, and Ben is 6 ft 5. Also, I’m pretty handy with nunchucks).

Unfortunately this week hasn't all been adventures and virgin sacrifices though, as when we got back from Thekadie last week Emma found that 60 pounds and $30 had been stolen out of her room. Apparently this kind of thing has happened before with this particular family, though for some reason TPA haven’t thought of maybe not sending young women to stay with them yet. Emma was very upset and the father of the family has been trying to accuse her of being careless and unthankful for all the family has done for her (or all they've stolen from her). Apparently the money went in two goes, the first time Emma just thought she'd lost it, but the second was more obviously stolen. She also says that when she thinks about it, the first time money went missing the family got a new mobile phone, and the second time a new TV turned up. Seriously, I was going to make a joke about them buying a crown and a new chandelier, but they actually did go straight out and buy new consumer products. Emma phoned TPA who have been very unhelpful and the whole experience has put a lot of pressure on Emma who still has to live with the family. TPA have told the family that she rang them and complained, which has caused an awful atmosphere and Ben and I try and spend as little time there as possible (obviously Emma is hanging out at the hospital with us now; we didn’t just abandon her). It all very complicated and has left a bad taste in everyone's mouths. What’s really bad about this is that we all paid large sums of money to come out here, and would have paid more if we knew that the family we would be living and eating with were financially looked after. I’m not sure if they can realistically be blamed for wanting a TV, when they have a constant stream of materialistic rich westerners parading their iPods etc through their house on a regular basis. The problem is systematic rather than the family being necessarily bad. I also wouldn’t be surprised if the it was just the father and the rest of the family knew nothing about it.

I’ve also decided that I have a cockroach nest in my toilet. There's almost always two or three in my bathroom (or “concrete cell with tap, hole to shit in, and hole for water to run down” to give it it’s full name) and if I shine a light down the horizontal drainage pipe there’s usually a few more in there as well. It’s not all bad, and has provided me with some late night entertainment; I went to the local shop the other day and bought some cheap matches and deodorant and I’ve been blowing them up by spraying deodorant down the plug and dropping a match in. It's great fun and keeps me entertained for hours, though I have lost quite a lot of the hair on my arms. Never mind ehy; if you’re going to give yourself first degree burns, a hospital is probably the place to do it. Though maybe not a tiny Indian one…

I’m thinking of coming back to England in July instead of August. I don’t really fancy traveling for two months by myself through the monsoon; I recon four or five weeks will be sufficient. Also, I have so much to do when I get back; find a job, organise all my university stuff, my bank accounts and loans, find one of those body warmers all the Durham students wear and maybe change my name to Rupert.

Into the Mountains we went

Tuesday, April 26 2005, 12:55pm

hey everyone,
It’s been a while (well...a week?) since the last e-mail, so there's a few things to tell. I’ll try to keep it short though, as I realise gap year stories are like famines in Africa; we all pretend to care, but if we’re honest, the only people who give a shit about them are the people taking part.

So this weekend we went up into the mountains to Thekadie, which is a wild life park and Tiger reserve. It was really beautiful and was a chilly 22oC so it was a nice break from the heat of Tamil Naidu. It took about 6 hours on the bus, which wasn't too bad as the scenery was really impressive, and as we got higher into the hills there were monkeys and peacocks and waterfalls to keep us entertained.

We checked into the Coffee Inn which was like something from Cristal Maze or I'm a Celebrity... because there were no regular hotel rooms, but instead just several tree houses, grass huts and two cottages in this little clearing with palm trees and a little pond in the middle. It was really comfortable and quiet (except for the fucking bull frogs, the monkeys and the various birds. Seriously nature, no one cares). We also had a little observation tower that looked out over a marshy glade where the water buffaloes grazed and swam. It was probably the best place we've stayed in so far, but if I’m honest, that’s a bit like claiming to be the smartest kid on the sunshine bus because all the other hotels and guest houses have been cockroach infested cesspits.

On Saturday morning we got up at 5:00 am (I thought only Victorian children who worked in cotton mills had to get up at that time) and went into the wildlife park for a guided boat ride. It was rubbish. There were hundreds of screaming and whining children, adults who shouted and flashed their cameras and tour guides who talked constant crap. For example, they like to use the word "wild" to make lame animals seem interesting. Case in point; a chicken on one side of the park gates is just a chicken, but once it stumbles across the boundary it suddenly metamorphoses into a "wild hen". Later I saw a stray dog, exactly like the flea bitten mange covered one that lies in the sun licking its balls outside the hospital all day, but in the park it suddenly becomes a "wild dog". Ooooh! The pigs are called "wild boar" and the cows (literally just cows) are "wild bison". It cost an arm and a leg too and they like to charge you at every opportunity, from hiring binoculars to paying entrance to the park and then again for boat ride tickets. I know that it helps to subsidise the conservation, but when you’re conserving mongrel dogs it seems a little rich. There was this one guy who tried to sell me a bead necklace for $10 American and wouldn’t take no for an answer...so I punched him in the throat and stole his stupid necklace.

We spent the rest of the day relaxing, reading, and trying to get over the astounding mediocrity of the boat ride. Everyone else had a nap, but I had discovered the local coffee, which was strong and thick and only 30RP for a half pot (3 cups). After 2 of these, I was a little too wired for sleep and decided to explore, take some photos of the water buffalo and maybe climb a tree or two. I even managed to wangle my way into a local cricket match, but I was soon run out (resulting in a throat punching for my batting partner) and was sent out to field, far, far away from any of the action where I wouldn’t be tempted to throat punch anyone. I hadn't eaten much yet (a pancake and the 2 pots of coffee) and I was feeling a little strange. I started shaking quite a lot and all my coordination was gone, with my vision deteriorating rapidly as well and although I’m no doctor, I took that as a bad sign. I decided to retire to the pavilion where I had some food and tried to get my heart beat organised into something reassembling a regular rhythm. The cricket guys were all really nice (even though I was shit and kept imaginary throat punching them) so before I went we all posed for a big team photo. It was like something out of a patronizing Comic Relief appeal, with me playing the part of Lenny Henry. Except, you know…whiter…and er, funnier.

On Saturday night we all went out for dinner to the exotically named Jungle Cafe. We were really impressed by their extensive menu featuring cuisine from Israeli to Mexican, and were spoilt for choice. After about half an hour of pouring over the thick menu we were ready to order. We wrote down what we all wanted and took it to the waiter guy which is apparently the way they did it at this place for some reason. It kind of made the waiter a bit obsolete if I’m honest. He looked over our orders, saw that we had ordered a wide variety of Indian (Chicken curry) Mexican (fajitas) and even Israeli (pita and humus) food and then said "yes this is all fine...but we only have spaghetti". Apparently if we wanted what we’d ordered he could send someone to the market to buy it, but it’d take about an hour plus cooking time. We obviously decided to eat somewhere else and left. Well, after I'd punched him in the…well, you know. It’s a nice example though of the terrible organization and laid back way that things are done here.

On Sunday Ben and I got up early to pack and get ready to check out, but were greeted with the news that one of the girls was really ill (Nickie) and that we were going to have to stay another day. We were obviously gutted to be staying an extra day in the mountain paradise and dropped to our knees to question this decision...shirts were torn open, whys where shouted at the sky and syllables were theatrically elongated.
Sunday was even more relaxing than Saturday and even more time was spent sleeping and reading...except by me, which was partly because I was still a little fidgety from the coffee and partly because I don’t see the point in going to India so that you can spend all your time napping. I decided to go exploring again and soon found myself completely lost in the woods surrounding the town. After about 30 minutes of wondering around, literally 10 yards from the cricket pitch, I was barked at by some mysterious jungle beast which caused me to nearly soil myself. Looking around for the rabid mutt or “wild dog” that was about to sink its teeth into my thigh, I was greeted by a very angry looking deer. If you can tell when a deer is angry. I did not appreciate this, but refrained from punching it in the throat mainly because it looked mean and it's hard to punch when you're running the other way like a girl, tears streaming down your pathetic cheeks.

On Sunday night we managed to slap Nickie back to consciousness (I suggested we poke her in the eye or set the bed on fire. Just a small fire obviously) and dragged her limp body out to dinner. This turned out to be a bit of a mistake because about an hour after we got back there was a knock on our door. It was about 11:30 and Nickie had got worse and was shaking and had a high temperature. We decided to go and find a doctor, which I thought was a waste of time that would be better spent getting a start on her grave. You’ve got to dig deep otherwise the corpse ’ll be dug up by dogs and curious children you see? Anyway, this idea was pooh-poohed, especially by the delirious Nickie, so Emma, Natalie (two of the girls...duh) and I went into town to find the hospital. I was also keeping an eye out for a funeral parlor because it’s never a bad idea to think ahead. When we got there it was pretty deserted so we walked round the back and I managed to find some very giggly nurses who I brought to speak to the girls. We told them we needed a doctor so after some whispered conferring, some more giggling and sniggering they went and knocked on the doctor’s door. He refused to get up and told the nurses to deal with us, presumably whilst being fanned with palm leaves and eating a massive cartoon drumstick. The nurses gave us one paracetamol and said to come back in the morning. This really annoyed us so we kicked them in the shins and legged it. We spent another hour or so walking about the town being barked at (by dogs this time) and chased by pigs, but couldn't find another doctor. Eventually we gave up and went back to the hotel where luckily, for Nickie at least, things seemed to have calmed down slightly. It was a good thing we arrived back when we did as well, as Ben and Nat had heard that an isotonic solution of salts and sugars was great for rehydrating the sick and had mixed her one themselves. Except they didn’t have any sugar so were really just giving her a glass of salt water to drink, which whilst, as I keep pointing out, I’m no doctor I’m pretty sure isn’t the best thing for rehydrating people. Nickie survived through the night in the end and so the whole I snuck out to dig went totally to waste. On the walk back from the doctor’s one of the girls dropped into the conversation that Nickie wasn't taking malaria tablets because they made her feel unwell. Not as unwell as Malaria’ll make you, but that’s her gamble. We’ll have to wait and see how this progresses. I think that's what she's got...or I hope so...it'd be a great story. Mainly only for me, but…that would detract nothing.

Nothing much else has happened...very little does in the week.

hope you're all ok and I’ll try to reply to some individual e-mails a.s.a.p

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.