Bangalore: Becoming a Local

19th Dec - 31st Dec 2014

So how does one make new friends as a tourist in India? I'm no stranger to travelling around different countries for long periods of time, and have made a bunch of lifelong friends because of it. But this time feels a little different. I'm not a 21-year-old backpacking through tourist hotspots, crashing in hostels full of young, like-minded youths who are just as eager to make new friends. I'm not with a bunch of my girls in Miami or Vegas where we meet new people hourly. It's not like Madrid where I already had a bit of a base upon arrival, which expanded further thanks to the classes and courses I’d enrolled in. This time it's just the bro-ski and me, and despite the fact that we look like twins people always assume you are a couple who just want to be left alone.

Obviously not this many
white people nearby
 when I try the app

 And that is where the wonderful world of social media came in handy. With a plethora of apps that allow you to meet people within a 3 mile radius, either for dating purposes or friendship, it was not long till I had arranged a few meet ups at a happening club or bar. 

My app of choice (a thousand thanks to my friend who suggested it to me for this very purpose) is Instamessage. Not only does it show everyone according to distance - luckily India loves a bit of Instagram and is pretty tech savvy - but you can look at all their pictures to judge whether they might be the kind of people you'd want to hang out with. Pictures of cocktails, shots and general mischief are always a good sign. Doesn't hurt to seek out an aesthetically pleasing face either. Simper. Within a few minutes of signing up my phone is pinging away with messages. I've been deleting most of them, all the "hey baby looking good" and the unashamed beg-friends that I had to block "want to make friends please reply... Why no reply?... Hello again how u? Reply plz"
 
It isn't long till we are invited to UB City, a huge, modern 'mall' that housed a few of the happening clubs and bars that night. Reminiscent of Mumbai, it seems the nightlife in the big cities are either situated in the malls or hotels. The music is great, the atmosphere buzzing, the people we meet are so friendly and go out of their way to make us feel welcome. So of course the subsequent week consists of Long Island iced teas on roof top bars, late night trips to the off-licence and a rowdy night at a classy establishment that offered unlimited drink at a fixed price (the poor punters were expecting a civilised dinner, only to be interrupted by loud, inebriated rascals in their early 20s, falling over themselves after a marathon drink session). It was this latter night that Chirag and I felt that perhaps it's time we meet friends closer to our age.

One of my regular haunts: Hoppipolla, where we'd sip on
Long Island Ice Teas on the roof terrace and get eaten alive by mosquitos

I did notice that the majority of the youth we encountered in Bangalore are a little younger than us compared to back home, which isn’t a surprise as by our age most would be expected to be married rather than galavanting in pubs and clubs as we are. Now don’t think I’m generalising or making assumptions just because it’s India… this idea was pretty much confirmed by most of the people we met. Family is extremely important out here and I suppose, unlike home, most people in their late-twenties are expected to be established and settled down. Then again, just logging into Facebook my newsfeed is bombarded with weddings and babies by friends also in their late-twenties, so it’s not all that different really.

It just meant we would end up hanging with people five or six years younger, but honestly everyone out here assumes that we are in our early-twenties so no harm done. Yep, 23, I’ll take that. Good genes as we look younger than some of these 22-year-olds! Of course our age did show a little after the 5am drinking sessions, hanging terribly the next morning and not seeing daylight as we tried to recover from a killer headache. Bangalore…? More like Hangalore! But the important thing is that, despite the very late start the next day, at least I was a trooper and could outdrink the best of them. And while we're on the subject of the most inebriated city in India, the girls we came across really struggled to handle their drink. There was vomit in the ladies toilet as early as 4pm at one bar, and another time the only other female friend at our table had to be carried home before the party had even started. Though there is something about seeing girls stumbling about drunk and disorderly that makes me feel quite at home. I thought the Brits were known for that... but the Bangloreans take the biscuit!

Mixing drinks in the kettle

  We've started to feel quite at home here, especially when we are receiving daily phone calls and messages from the growing number of new friends to plan the evening's debauchery, or when we're directing ourselves effortlessly around the streets of central Bangalore, knowing exactly where to go for a good Dosa or a parcel of paan. So it makes sense not only to stay on longer, but to find somewhere cheaper, a little less like a hotel and a bit more like an apartment.
It just so happens that the road that we move to, Brunton Road, houses most of the friends we've already made! So as you can imagine our little studio suite has become the go to place for late night drinks and conversation. The poor kettle has seen more rum and vodka than it has tea (it's the largest container in the room, perfect for mixing drinks).
I'm beginning to feel like I've truly sampled the life of a young, single lass in this city. All that is left to discover to complete my experience of being a local is the daily grind and the dating world. Now I can't exactly get a job in the next couple weeks - though watch this space, I wouldn't put it past me to come back to work and live here for a bit - so let's go ahead and try the dating scene. 
   This may come as a surprise to those who know me. I've never dated an Indian guy, my preference has always been of the Mediterranean/Latin/Mixed/White persuasion. Sure, the majority of people tend to be attracted to their own, and I'm finally beginning to understand this since being out here - the familiarity, the same customs and history, language and expectations - but the British Indian men I've come across have never appealed to me. I don't share their way of life and I don't find them particularly attractive. But it is a whole different ball game in India, where there are men from all over this vast, rich, cultured country, who are well travelled, stylish, forward-thinking, and have moved on with the times. Unlike your stereotypical "British-Indian" whose only idea of their heritage and customs are from a couple of generations ago before their family migrated to Britain, which leaves them with little opportunity to evolve and a backwards mentality. Whom have no real sense of community, yet stick to their own and frown upon those that appear to have assimilated and somewhat rejected their heritage. Perhaps they should recognise that it's not a bad thing to surround yourself with people of all cultures and choose to date outside of your race; I am proud of being a Londoner and I am equally proud of my Indian heritage. I'm generalising here, mind. I know there are many like me who have carved out their own identity rather than falling victim to diaspora, my own family are living proof... but I digress.


Some wall art in another trendy roof-top bar
Pretty much sums up the city

I've always believed that life is all about surprising yourself and getting outside of your comfort zone. I've consistently made sure to stick to this rule, be it relocating to Spain with just two weeks notice, or booking these six months worth of travels the very day my work contract came to an end rather than sticking around to find another job and following the "safe" option. And now, I'd have never predicted that I would be sitting in a bar in India with a guy I'd just met, conversing over a cocktail in a city I'd only known for two weeks. Or that the same night, long after the date guy went home, at about 3am I'd be watching Aladdin with two friends as we merrily recited the entire film and arm in arm sang all the songs at the top of our lungs, passing round rum and the odd spliff in their dimly lit lounge. You can just about hear the sound of our heart strings tugging simultaneously as Jasmine announces "I choose him! I choose you, Aladdin"

So, date night details: I’d had a few drinks the day before at a gorgeous brewery cum restaurant bar called Arbor just a few minutes walk away from the apartment. It was reminiscent of my West London local back home The Aeronaught, which had impressed us all when it had newly opened, but this one was grander, served just as good food and had a rooftop terrace opposed to a fancy beer garden.

Arbor Micro-Brewery. I even went ahead and tried the beer platter
consisting of six half-pints of different flavours from sweet to bitter.
And I hate beer!

My date for the evening lives an hour and a half away taking into account Bangalore traffic, but a mere half hour when the roads were clear. Still I insist that the location had to be right near me, so Arbor suited perfectly. Perhaps I can blame the excessive cocktails (I've had five cosmos to his two or three beers and I am still less inebriated than he) or the flowing compliments from his side, but I find myself having a good time. He’s a fair-skinned, young lad from Rajasthan who towers over me at about 6 foot 3. At the time we seemed to have a lot to discuss and I thought perhaps I’m finding him attractive. Although the highlight of the evening comes in the form of a tipsy girl who apologetically interrupts our conversation to tell me that she and her friends had been admiring my outfit from when I first walked in – a black and pink maxi skirt with a strapless black top – and that I have the most amazing shoulders she’s ever seen. Shoulders?! Definitely the most unusual compliment I’d ever received, but I blush, thank her and make sure to take down her number to hang out later, as it’s so difficult to find fun, females friends on social media and I am in desperate need of some new girlfriends. I so miss my wine soaked dinners with my ladies back home, so a bit of girly company would have been most welcome. After I take down her number she slurs: “Keep wearing those beautiful strapless tops, don’t worry that you are in India! Not enough girls dress like that.” Before I can ask whether that meant that my outfit was too revealing or inappropriate she saunters off. Though I have seen many girls in tiny, skimpy outfits (the type I daren’t bring in my suitcase as it would be a waste of space for India) so I’m not too worried. Nothing that can’t be fixed with the quick drape of the omnipresent black shawl I keep in my handbag at all times.
   In our intoxicated state we make another date for the next day to meet at the apartment and organise a plan from there. Though after he leaves the real fun begins; that would be the drunk and stoned sing-along version of Aladdin. The next day comes and he arrives empty handed at 11pm after a long journey through traffic. Of course Bangalore being a city of early doors means it is impossible to get a drink anywhere and too late to pop to the booze shop for a bottle. So in my stone-cold sober state I realise that actually I’m not attracted to him whatsoever. Firstly I had to lead the conversation, secondly I don’t even like tall guys – anything over six-foot is unnecessary, and thirdly he has weird Megan Fox thumbs and doesn’t wear aftershave. I send him home without even a handshake goodbye, which he isn’t best pleased about, but if there’s one thing I simply cannot do it’s feign attraction. I had almost given up on my brief Indian dating adventure after that and was ready to make peace with the fact that perhaps I will never be attracted to an Indian man in this lifetime…

 The following day, which would make it the afternoon before New Years Eve, we make our way back to the fancy salon where Chirag insists on getting his haircut, despite it costing the same as back home. Fair play, they do a great job and we were friendly with the staff and owners. Originally we were going to spend New Years in Mumbai and I had pre-picked a few excellent places for us to party into 2015, but a few of our plans fell through so we delayed our flight to Mumbai to as late as possible on New Years Day – to cater for the hangover obviously. With D-day just round the corner, naturally, I’m itching to find a new plan that doesn’t involve shelling out for extortionate club prices in crowded, sweaty places. More than anything I just wanted a good crowd to drink, dance and party with.

Visage: the awesome salon that Chirag
got his weekly haircuts. I'd say it easily rivals
some of those back home.

The salon is buzzing when we arrive, and there are a few new faces behind the counter. As we take a seat to wait for Chirag’s preferred hairstylist; a chatty, Sri Lankan lad who we both spoke with at length when we first arrived, one of the new faces behind the counter immediately introduces himself and declares his unbridled passion for Arsenal, even before we admit that we are North Londoners and that I myself support Arsenal. While Chirag’s eyes glaze over at the mention of football, I continue to indulge this guy as he speaks animatedly about the Premier League and staying up late for Match of the Day. Having spent a year and a half writing continuity for ESPN, I’m not out of my comfort zone. I think of my boys back home… they’d be loving this. Apparently they even have pubs that are restricted for certain clubs like back home – an Arsenal fans-only pub round the corner, a Chelsea-scum one next door, Man U can probably be found on the parallel road.

While Chirag gets his hair cut we continue to chat. This guy (let’s call him Mr. Arsenal) has an infectious energy about him, and it’s just so refreshing to talk to a man who is confident and self-assured rather than meek and easily intimidated. For once I’m not the one that has to lead conversation and after picking up on a few hints I get the feeling he’s flirting with me.

He promptly invites us to join him for lunch, which at first we just assume is a friendly gesture that we’re supposed to politely refuse. Before we know it, we’re sitting in the back office with the salon owners, which consists of his mother who I’d spoke to during our first visit and another lovely Sindhi lady and her husband, sharing homemade Punjabi food and the vat of non-spicy (to cater to my weak palette, bless him) palak paneer that Mr. Arsenal had just ordered. We’re so touched by yet another display of the generous hospitality of total strangers, as we sit around the table familiarising ourselves with stories of travels, anecdotes about the state of the TfL and the lengths the Sindhi couple had to go to find a good dosa during their visit to London (no wonder, seeing as they were staying in Hyde Park… you’d have to travel out to zone 3 at least!).

Before we leave we are cordially invited to spend New Years Eve with them all at a member’s club nearby; drinks, food and entry complimentary as we’d be sitting at the club president’s table. After the rowdy, drunken kids we’d had to encounter the past couple weeks and the young, boisterous crowd at the clubs, this felt like the perfect, civilised way to celebrate the new year with great, older company. We exchange numbers and discover that he too lives down our road, so a quick drink after dinner

is a must. 

Bloody brilliant. A juicebox/carton of rum

  That evening we bundle into a rickshaw to the nearest booze stall looking to buy vodka, gin and whiskey as per our individual tastes. On the way Mr. Arsenal points out little landmarks throughout the journey in his fast-talking, confident manner: ‘there’s where to get the best omelette in town, regardless of the dingy surroundings and dirty décor’, ‘That’s the best place for jewellery’, ‘There’s the dirty side road where I used to play as a child, and developed my strong immune system’… something along those lines. By the end of the evening I find that I’m beginning to warm to him and actually, dare I admit, he’s rather charming. Before he leaves, he vows that tomorrow he’ll be stealing a New Years kiss from me at the stroke of midnight. Hmm… I’m not yet convinced, but I admire his conviction all the same.

I have a huge smile on my face the next day as we count down to midnight, each one of us merry from all the liquor and the night’s festivities. When it starts to drizzle lightly at the stroke of midnight, the New Year cheers are extended on account of the rain. I had imagined I’d be dancing to EDM in a dark club, bumping into boozed-up youths and barely noticing that we’d entered 2015 unless the DJ went out of his way to start a ten second countdown. Instead, dressed in an elegant, full-length, electric blue dress especially for the classy affair, Mr. Arsenal and his brother drive us up to the large member’s club where we are greeted by his parents and the couple we had lunch with the day before, all just as hospitable, friendly and kind as when we’d first met them. We are given goody bags packed with Black Label whiskey and various little bottles of alcohol, and make our way through the open-air space right to the front by the stage, past all the guests sitting on allocated tables and the frenzied waiters carrying drinks and delicious nibbles. It’s like the traditional ‘dinner and dance’ functions we used to attend with all the family as children, long forgotten now and replaced by house parties or last-minute clubs. On stage there are a variety of well-known singers and performers, as the aunties and uncles all dance to popular Indian tunes, which as we know I can’t dance to unless I have at least a quart of vodka in me. This sort of celebration is not my cup of tea at all, but there’s something about being in India and the great company that I can’t help but enjoy myself and admit that this will be one of the most memorable evenings of the trip. Seeing as the dance floor is a no-go zone we spend most of our time chatting away by the toilets or drinking shots at the bar. Though once the dance floor begins to clear out, at around 1pm, to my utter delight the DJ starts to play EDM tunes. I drag Mr. Arsenal to the front and that’s it… I’m in my element now, lost to the music.

After getting stuck in traffic for almost an hour, we drive back to my apartment (Chirag and I had booked separate rooms for the last few days to avoid the dreaded holiday cabin fever) and continue the celebration. I shan’t divulge any further details, but safe to say that it’s not beyond me to find an Indian man attractive after all.

 <Insert wide-eyed shocked and red face smiley>

.....To The City

15th Dec - 18th Dec 2014

I had heard that Bangalore was a vibrant, modern city with a glut of pubs, eateries and more importantly a bit of nightlife after staying in a village where the restaurants closed by ten-thirty, finding a rickshaw after eleven pm was almost impossible, and the idea of nightlife was eating paan with friends at ten. I had no idea that Bangalore would blow all my expectations and swiftly become my favourite city in India, just knocking Mumbai off the top spot.
    No more worrying about how to dress, no more searching for modernisation.  We’re surrounded by young, educated, often wealthy, like-minded people who are eager to befriend us and show us around, not expecting anything in return but a few laughs and company. It’s no wonder we decide to stay for almost a month, cancelling pre-booked plans to visit Chennai and Pondicherry in favour of new friends, a buzzing bar scene, great food and every opportunity to shop until our bags are way over the weight limit for the next flight.
   So now that the wonderful city of Bangalore has been properly introduced, I shall start from the beginning:

    We’re so used to being stared at; our faces, attire and the way we hold ourselves instantly giving us away as foreigners or NRIs (Non Resident Indians), that we are actually a little taken aback at suddenly becoming invisible in this bustling, cosmopolitan metropolis. Throughout our stay we end up residing in happening, middle-class areas, so we seem to fit right in. Even as we unload our bulky luggage from the taxi to the hotel – God knows how I managed to accumulate far more than I came with in the space of only a week – no one bats an eyelid. To them we’re just Indians, albeit with a bit of an accent, and perhaps we are a little less well off than the people they are used to that dress and carry themselves in a similar fashion. Our excessive use of please and thank you, good ol’ British politeness, is probably what gives us away as tourists. 

Aaah a bit of luxury... the lovely Elanza Hotel

    It probably sounds rather Western of us that we’re so pleased with amenities of the four-star hotel in comparison to the village accommodation; a basic, but fully functional gym that we make sure to use daily; a complimentary, extensive breakfast buffet, beautiful rooms that wouldn’t look out of place back home, daily house-keeping and the all important kettle, tea paraphernalia and mini-fridge in the room. And it’s a steal at £35 a night, though still rather over-budget for us, with three months yet to go. 

    After being away from modern civilisation for so long, we are itching to grab a bite and hit one of these famous pubs/bars of Bangalore, even if just for the one drink to tantalise our senses for what’s to come. We’re residing in Richmond Town, just south of the centre of all the action (I liked the sound of the area as I hoped it was as well located as the Richmond Town we have back home… luckily I was right). As is customary on our first day, the rickshaw driver rips us off and charges us more than double to get to M.G. Road, which is the main tourist hub. It takes us less than a week to feel like locals, put on an Indian accent and demand the rickshaw charges us by the meter. The trick is to be confident and direct, and our journeys that once cost 100 rupees are down to the normal rate of 25 rupees. 

We frequently snacked
 on amazing Momos

    It’s already past ten pm and we’re actually rather surprised how difficult it is to find places that are open. We later learn that we came at an unfortunate time where until quite recently places to eat and drink would have stayed open till about three in the morning, but a new curfew had been enforced whereby the nightlife had to finish by eleven on weekdays and on the weekends by one at the latest. How disappointing in comparison to Mumbai’s late nightlife… though it doesn’t seem to have stopped the Bangalorean youth, who have adapted quite nicely by simply starting the night much earlier. This is my kind of party city!

   We end up coming across a bar called The Social and are lured in by the music seeping through the walls. Again, as we enter, no one really gives us a second glance, which isn’t surprising as everyone is engaged in conversation, in their own large groups sharing pitchers of beer and nibbles, in a rather classy joint that would rival any of our bars back home. So it’s no surprise that the drinks are as pricey as London, which for Indian standards is virtually unaffordable (just goes to show how truly wealthy and business-forward this wonderful country is, contrary to the impression that the Western media portray. Developing world country indeed!).
   Chirag orders himself his customary gin and tonic and I my favourite cocktail: a Cosmopolitan to toast our arrival to a very cosmopolitan city. I watch with glee as the bartender (yes, he’s handsome just like they are all over the world) skilfully constructs the drink and with a final flourish drops a cloud of candyfloss into the glass for a sickly-sweet twist, which unfortunately dissolves before I can take a picture.
    After we are handed the extortionate bill we vow not to spend so much on drinks again, a promise that we stick to throughout thanks to successfully locating the nearby liquor-shops, numerous pre- and post-drinking sessions at ours and well connected friends that manage to wrangle free drinks at certain bars.



Stuck in traffic inside a Rickshaw... story of Bangalore life

   The subsequent days we spend in Richmond town consist of getting used to the idiosyncrasies of a major Indian city, namely the roads. From the deafening, incessant car horns – the official soundtrack of India in my opinion – to the sheer volume of traffic at all hours that made it easier to walk the twenty minute mile to our destination by foot compared to two hours stuck in traffic. Not to mention the daily, terrifying ordeal of crossing the busy, chaotic roads, where we once stood waiting for an opening in the traffic for almost twenty minutes before a rickshaw driver on the other side of the road took pity on us and dodged through traffic to reach us, and then guide us back to his side of the road. Bless him. Chirag has come up with his own ingenious method of mastering the role of the Indian Pedestrian, which consists of walking directly beside a local that is crossing the road so that in the event of a collision the other person gets run over first, sort of like a safety cushion in the form of a human.

    You will all be pleased to know that we have greatly improved since, learning the way of the locals: just walk willy-nilly, stop an incoming vehicle with an open palm and weave ones way confidently through the constant flow of motorcycles, rickshaws, dangerously old, heaving public buses and the odd flashy car. If that doesn’t put the fear of death into you, I’m not sure what will.

    Early one evening, stomachs growling impatiently, we walk around Richmond Town on a rather

The colourful street sign
 leading us to Arab Town

fruitless mission to find decent food, which I have noticed has always been such a chore when hungry and on holiday. Irritated and utterly famished, we are about to turn back and order room service when we stumble upon a little gem, an amazing take-away, open plan, Persian kebab kitchen in an area called Arab Lane. Think China Town or Ealing Road Little India in London, but the Arab equivalent right here in Bangalore. It is like suddenly stepping into the Middle East; ladies clad in headscarves and loose, modest clothing; the men donned kurta pajamas and lamb-skinned karakul style hats; kebabs being cooked over an open barbeque grill on every corner, and we even hear a call to prayer from the nearby mosque. This also seems to be one of the few places to purchase beef in a predominantly Hindu city, and a lot of the menus plastered on the walls of the casual road-side restaurants advertise beef dishes, which we tend to see very little of in the rest of India. Interestingly, the butchers that sell beef are tucked away in the side streets, embarrassed to be seen lest they be frowned upon.

Trying to hide our disappointment at the rubbish Cubbon Park

   I must admit during these first few days in Bangalore, especially after showing such hygiene vigilance in the village with regular soap/anti-bacterial hand washing, avoiding ice, anything touched by tap water and uncooked or questionable food sources, I have thrown caution to the wind a little and within my luxurious surroundings I almost forget I’m in India. Inevitably I began to suffer from a bout of loose bowels and abdominal cramps, which meant some of the first days of sightseeing had to be scheduled around how my stomach was feeling at the time.

   Apologies, but those who know me are well aware that the topic of my bowels makes a frequent appearance in my everyday conversation. At least now I have shown the kind courtesy of warning readers of this blog.
     Much to my discomfort the visit to Cubbon Park (a disappointing green space that doesn’t have a patch on Hyde Park) and Arab Town are plagued by unyielding heartburn and stomach pains that have me doubling over in pain. In my experience the medicine here in the East, even just a quick trip to the pharmacy, is so much more effective and potent than the Western equivalent. Maybe the difference is that they actually want you to get better here, whereas at home there’s no financial gain to be had from the drug companies if you are immediately cured, is there? I visit a pharmacy after the pain has not subsided for a couple days, purchase two pills for 30p that I’m instructed to take before and then after my next meal, and voila… healthy within an hour.
    I walk myself over to the beauty salon for a much needed pedicure, can’t go wrong with just four quid, and I’m set. Now time to make some friends…

From the Village.....

12th Dec - 14th Dec 2014

The lane we would take to avoid the dusty main road

I have been in the little village of Hassan for just under a week now, and although there is little to do here, so far I quite enjoy the relaxed routine to ease me into my Indian adventure. Of course after a month here my brother, Chirag, is itching to leave and get back to civilisation. Our days go a little like this: wake up and have breakfast at the canteen – despite the spicy food burning my mouth to a crisp, read a little and occupy myself while Chirag goes to lectures, lunch at Mayur (local hotel restaurant), more busying oneself as there is no where else to go, then dinner and a drink or two at Suwarna (a slightly upmarket local hotel restaurant… the term upmarket is used loosely when in a village; the toilets are of the hole in the ground variety).

   I’ve had an Ayurvedic consultation during my time here to sort out all my bowel issues. I must say it is working a treat. The entire treatment including medicines cost a fiver, and I even had complimentary extensive yoga lessons to boot. In fact those yoga lessons proved to be a rather interesting hour of my life. After showing me all the complicated poses and praising me as her star student due to my flexibility, the yoga teacher proceeded to tell me about her life; that she had lost a lot of weight over the last couple of years (she showed me her post-marriage fat pics) due to a leg injury. I thought I would return the favour and teach her a few abs and ass moves to tone up. I was rather surprised when she struggled to perform some simple squats and plank, considering that she could fold up her body backwards so her head touched her feet.

Environmentally friendly
car-sharing

   So for our last day, to break up the monotony of village life, we have decided to do a spot of sightseeing. Only half an hour away, in the nearby towns of Belur and Halebidu, stands a collection of intricately carved Hindu temples built over nine centuries ago. About an hour late, again with the lack of urgency in this village, the car arrives to pick seven of us up.  This of course means we haven’t had time to eat lunch, thinking that we’d already be on our way by noon.

The front view of Kedareshwara Temple

   We’re finally on our way, driving past droves of goats, worker-men packed tightly into the back of trucks swaying in unison with each bump in the road, and dodging potholes. Lots of potholes. The first stop out of four is Kedareshwara temple, one of the smaller, quieter shrines, built in the 12^th century. Perhaps because there were no other people there compared to the overcrowded larger temples, or because this was the first place we visited with a fresh attitude and not yet imploding with hunger, but this one was my favourite. As is customary in any place of worship in India, or any temple or mosque for that matter, we remove our shoes by the door and are free to roam the small, soap stone temple upon a well-maintained lawn. There’s something about my bare feet on the warm, holy stone that makes me feel grounded and instantly at ease. You can walk all the way round and take in all the sculptures, no two carvings the same it seemed, of various animals and episodes from the Hindu lore. Neither of us feels the need to engage in conversation as we stroll at our own pace round the temple.

   Unfortunately the tranquillity is short-lived. I begin to feel mighty impatient as we go from one crowded temple to the other; not bothering to take pictures what with the tens of hundreds of visitors tainting the scene. I’m in and out in ten minutes, but of course the problem with travelling in a large group is that there is always a few who want to faff about for hours. Before we even enter the famous Hoysaleswara temple peddlers and hawkers bombard us outside the gates. Chirag and I almost get away scot-free on account of our brown skin, whereas the group we are travelling with are mostly white and hassled even further. The hawkers push useless trinkets onto us at with the utmost persistence. No definitely doesn’t mean no with these guys:

Hoysaleswara: Trying to escape the crowds and bloody whistles

“Madam, small Shiva statue. Madam, flute. Sir, postcards, sir just ten rupees. Sir, map of Karnataka, Kamasutra book, look at all positions. Sir, you need, sir.”

   These lot aren’t quite as bothersome as the ridiculous shoe-guy at the front of the temple. It is apparently temple policy to leave ones shoes with the shoe-guy at a cost of two rupees, which of course I refuse to pay and discreetly slip my flip-flops into my bag. I’d have gotten away with it too if Chirag didn’t decide to do the same and then insist I put his shoes into my bag with the subtlety of a peacock’s mating ritual. Of course shoe-guy clocks us and tells us off, demanding we pay the two rupees. It’s not about the cost, which is a mere 2p in our money, but the very principle that this guy is making a profit for a completely unnecessary service and that too in a place of worship. How very dare he! I give him a tenacious glare and slip away while Chirag pays for his shoes, victorious that the bad tempered sod didn’t fleece a penny out of me.

   The scolding doesn’t end there, unfortunately. If I hear that stupid whistle one more time, someone is going to get it! I go to sit on the edge of the temple… PEEEEP!! Try to take a photo on top of the statue… PEEEP!! I look around to see if any of these plain clothed guards are around, and only then proceed to climb a ledge to get a good shot when I’m positive that there aren’t any in sight but alas… PEEEEEEEEEPPPP!! They are absolutely picking on me, as around me the locals seem to get away with worse. Next time I shall just smile, wave and continue on.

Manju helping me get my hurr did

   A few of us tire of the overcrowded temple quickly, having to wait for the others as they hire a tour guide to take them round. I can no longer ignore the rumble in my stomach and go in search of safe, peel-able fruit that won’t wreak havoc on my intestines. I spot a fruit stall with bunches of ripe, bright yellow bananas and head towards it but before I reach another fruit seller lady calls out to me. Although I have already decided on the other fruit stall, the way she beckons me to hers in an over familial, friendly manner as if she was waiting for my custom all morning, I can’t help but smile and comply. This feisty, little woman with a loud, nasal voice is called Manju, and already refers to me as ‘Anni’ as she asks me questions and asks to take a picture with me. I purchase a few bananas and a string of jasmine as I’d been eyeing up the local ladies’ hair decorations all day. I know she quotes me the higher, tourist price for the two items at first, but after tying the jasmine around my hair herself, taking a picture together and engaging in conversation, her in broken English and I in broken Hindi, I think she feels a bit bad for overcharging me. She breaks me off some juicy satsumas and hands it to me as a gift, free of charge.

   By now there’s just one more temple left to see and I’m beginning to get a little irritable seeing as the fruit didn’t fill the hole in my stomach at all, in fact it just made it growl louder. I’m tempted to stay in the car for the last one, but after realising this meant that cows and beggars would hover near the car window looking for food or money, I decide to endure another twenty minutes of being ‘whistle-warned’ by the temple caretakers, pushing through crowds, posing for yet more pictures and dreaming of the meal that we were about to attack right after

   We drive back closer to our accommodation where we have been promised a delicious buffet in a (uncharacteristic for Hassan) modern spa-hotel. As we walk up the well-kept lawn to the tranquil dining lodge, lanterns lit on either side of the path; of course I rush ahead leading my body with my vacant stomach, only to find that the dinner buffet doesn’t start for another two hours. Fantasising about paneer, naan, dosa, daal, even the odd continental cuisine was all in vain. Instead we just about satiated our appetites with plenty of gin/vodka and limbo-paani (fresh, sweetened lime water) and the only available snacks which were sub-standard club sandwiches. Word of advice for any traveller to India: whenever you see sandwiches on a hotel menu I urge you to avoid and go for the local food instead. After all, we are all here to experience a taste of the real India not a bloody British sarnie!

Just touched down in Indian Town

9th Dec - 11th Dec 2014

The only thing keeping me warm, as I stand on the platform at Kings Cross St Pancras station in the unrelenting three degree cold, is my seething rage towards the English Transport system; the last two trains to Brighton via Gatwick Airport have been cancelled and I have a flight to catch in less than two hours. Charming… as if I’m not already eager enough to leave the miserable British winter behind. Luckily I just about make my flight, but it’s not exactly the best way to start the twenty-hour journey to my destination where I shall be for the next three months: Incredible India.

   Incomprehensibly tired, having as always opted to watch the array of new films on board and a boxset of Fargo over any in-flight snoozes, I land in Bangalore donning thick leggings, a hoodie and my winter coat draped over my already perspiring arm. The weather, as predicted, is beautiful. That wonderful smell, which I always associate with joy, hits me as soon as I leave the plane; the aroma of heat and sunshine that I so often seek out over the damp cold of London.

   As I wait for my pre-booked taxi I observe the sea of South Indian faces, most of the complexions are bronzed a rich, dark brown by the sun. There are so many kind, friendly faces, and a large handful of handsome people with sharp, pleasant features. I have deliberately spent as little time on my appearance as possible in the attempt to blend in and not attract any attention to myself – hair dishevelled and limp from the flight, make-up non existent and large spectacles to obscure my face… but alas my clothing and demeanour gives me away, and I am clearly a tourist in my parents’ homeland.

Palm trees line the entire motorway

  The three and a half hour ride to Hassan, a little village between Bangalore and Mangalore where my brother, Chirag, currently resides in the Ayurvedic college, is an opportunity to look out of the window at the palm trees and lush vegetation, while the wind blows in my now heavily matted hair. I should use the time to sleep, really. My driver, another kind, sweet-faced man, obliges me as I continue to banter with him throughout the journey, further giving away the fact that I most certainly am not from around her as I talk loud and brashly, my speech peppered with automatic curse words as is my style. Hardly proper etiquette for a woman, ey?

  As we approach the village and drive through Hassan I am expecting, after listening to my brother’s description of it, a bit of a dead-zone. A few stray people here and there, a shop or two, maybe a few places to eat and little else. Not the best assumption to make considering the densely populated country in question! Instead, the place reminds me a bit of Ghatkopar, a bustling area my sister and I stayed in a year back in the suburbs of Mumbai – plenty of small shops and/or stalls squeezed tightly together, like a crowded mouth full of overlapping teeth, dusty streets littered with cars, rickshaws and lorries, people milling about, hanging out of stalls, squatting on the floor under the shade of an umbrella. Though there is a sense of a languid, generally slower pace in comparison to Mumbai… this is the south after all.

This says it all: No Urgent Service
 i.e. we ain't in no rush

   Even the animals have a distinct lack of urgency. Later in the day we came across a gecko in our quarters, stuck fast in one position the floor, unmoving and happy to lounge undisturbed for hours. Another humorous observation Chirag and I made as we rode the rickshaw to the shop was that the stray animals, be it cows, dogs, insects, all seemed to have that South Indian mentality. The way the stray dogs and cows roam around the roads, carefree and ignorant of any orderly system, yet knowing when to find an opening in the road to cross at a leisurely pace without being knocked over by traffic, is not unlike the vehicles and pedestrians that have a complete disregard for road safety - and yet probably experience far less accidents than the rigid, ‘law-abiding’ system back home. I find it quite charming actually, that on the surface the hustle and bustle appears at first dangerous and disorderly, but scrutinise the situation a little further and everyone seems to have an automatic regard for each other on the roads and a good sense of spatial awareness. The drivers make sure to beep their horns, somewhat incessantly, to alert others of their presence and effortlessly dodge and weave around each other, and though it may look like traffic is coming at speed and that crossing the road is a hazard, there is no doubt that drivers will slow down for you. In some strange, chaotic way everything seems to work in harmony.

  Apologies, I’ve gone off on a tangent. Back to my approach into Hassan: perhaps it’s the sleep deprivation but I feel a little overwhelmed and anxious looking around, knowing that I stand out way more in this little village compared to the big cities. All that goes away as soon as I see Chirag in a bright blue t-shirt walking towards the taxi as I reach my destination. It probably has something to do with the fact that my brother was the very first friend I made when I had just been taken home from my mother’s womb and put into a cot with this one year old baby boy, but I instantly feel at home, and as we catch up I almost forget that this is not just a routine visit to his abode in Crouch End and that we are in fact in rural India!

   Looking around our new living quarters I am pleased to be welcomed into a tranquil, clean and modern place. It doesn’t differ much from a pleasant holiday apartment in Europe, even down to the odd gecko/dragonfly/butterfly. It is a complete contrast to the dusty (now muddy as I seem to have brought the London rains with me) uneven, crowded roads just outside, where the nearby reservoir is polluted with rubbish and the streets are lined with garbage. My dad says he can’t stand India, that he finds it dirty and unhygienic… but you almost don’t notice it if you appreciate India for its real beauty and rich heritage rather than worry about a bit of smelly trash on the street. Though I do wonder why there aren’t more street cleaner jobs available, especially because I have encountered some ridiculous job positions such as the ‘bag-packing-guy’ who packs up your shopping after the cashier rings it through the till and then ties it up, only for you to go to straight the ‘packed-bag-checker’ who then opens the bag and checks the items against your receipt. Unnecessary but humorous all the same. Just another quirky idiosyncrasy that makes India so intriguing.

   After all the travelling I’m famished, so we head to one of the only two restaurants that have been tried and tested, and frequented daily thereafter, for a delightful lunch. The bill: not even two quid between us! The only downfall is how spicy the food is and we all know about my chilli intolerance. I must choose my meals very carefully and stay vigilant with every mouthful lest I bite into bits of whole chilli (which of course I did, many times, followed by inevitable heartburn and indigestion and a scorched, ruined palate). On the subject of cheap and cheerful and the pound still strong against the rupee – something that I just don’t know if I could ever get used to but happily welcome what with my budget and quitting employment to travel – the rickshaw is a mere 40p for a 2-3mile journey, split that between two or three people and its 15p each! The vodka and lime-water at the restaurant is £1.20 and the meals start from as little as 25p for a good, hearty vegetarian meal and no more than £1.50 for a huge meat dish plus side.

An amazing, huge North Indian thali for a mere £1!!

   Now Chirag has been here a month already, and had previously entertained me with stories of how the locals all assume he is a Maharajah (king) from the way he dresses in regal, well-fitted kurtas bought from the local bazaar and matching jewellery, topped off with a heavy, luxurious shawl. Apparently the cook in the kitchens asked if he would like a full-time chef back home and tried to persuade Chirag to hire him! If only they knew how an average Londoners’ wage is completely diminished by the end of the month thanks to extortionate rent, food shopping and bills. Though I must say I am particularly impressed with how well Chirag has settled in here, though I didn’t doubt it for a second. Every corner we pass, a local friend waves to him or calls him over. He haggles with the rickshaw drivers in Hindi, and when they see me looking all Westernised and try to charge extra he argues with them with an impatience that makes me proud and giggle at the same time. This is the same Chirag that I had to force to haggle in Southall when shopping for an outfit for an Indian party, and would still come out of the shop having paid a fiver extra than Recommended Retail Price!

   Having visited India recently, I’m already aware that we are more likely to be regarded as tourists, as we don’t look like your average native despite our Indian heritage. It seems to cause some confusion and curiosity from the locals, which is the cause of all the staring, which I no longer deem as impolite especially when someone gets talking to us and asks a thousand questions, utterly rapt by our answers and eager to learn more. In fact I just got interrupted this very moment by two young female cleaners in colourful saris and wide smiles, that have brought along the receptionist, who speaks perfect English, so that they can converse with me and ask me questions as my Hindi isn’t the best. They’ve asked to see photos of my life in London, and the pretty dresses I wear. They’ve asked why I have a big, pink inflatable ball in my room, which prompts me to show them a few abs exercises and give them a few tips on getting fit. Both of them compliment me on my small frame, big eyes and clear complexion, asking if I know about the Miss India fashion competition… bless their cotton saris! I find out that they are both two years younger than me, married for ten years (at the tender age of sixteen) and have two children under nine years old. They then point to their bellies, which look so cute and round on their slight frames, and ask me if I can help them be rid of their protruding tums. It makes me both excited and impatient to sharpen up my Hindi and Gujarati language skills, which shouldn’t take too long being out here, so I can converse with the locals more.

One of the outfits that Chirag chose, matched with my own belt and leggings

   After lunch, Chirag insists that we visit ‘Big Bazaar’, the local clothes shop, or as we call it ‘Big Buzzr’ (simper) in order to buy a few kurtas and traditional clothes so that I don’t stick out and attract more stares than usual. Anything to get me into Indian clothes, that boy! Of course I’m reluctant, but I do see his point; I’m wearing the most modest items of clothing in my suitcase, a floor-length green maxi-skirt with plenty of material and a white shirt buttoned up to my neck – I think I underestimated just how modest one must be in a village despite the warm weather – and I still stick out like a sore thumb. Chirag says his fellow college buddies all wear the local garms and don’t get as much attention anymore despite being English white, but I’m sure it is just because I’m a new face and they’ll get bored of me soon enough. I reckon Chirag has more fun than me during the shopping trip, pointing out all the colourful kurtas that came in my size, which weren’t many. I purchase two kurta tops, which I personally think make me look like a frumpy turd, but when in Rome… will have to jazz up with a waist belt and coloured leggings that I have in my suitcase. And did wearing the local garments help…? Of course not! I even matched them with bangles, rings I’d bought in India and a bindi on my forehead. Maybe if I tried oiling my hair into two plaits either side of my ears with a middle-parting, and no make-up whatsoever… but alas, vanity. We both agree, just because we are in a tiny village in the South of India where we’ve practically seen everything it has to offer in one afternoon, that is no excuse not to look good! However I must admit, wearing the local clothes has given me a sense of freedom to roam around the campus as I please, and though people still ask where I’m from and can tell I’m different, I personally feel a lot more comfortable – if not bloody boiling and sweaty from covering up so much – than if I was wearing my London outfits.

   We finish off the evening with a celebratory dinner, seven of us in total (Chirag’s uni friends joined in, which I thoroughly enjoyed despite the fact that I was about to slip into a coma after being awake almost 24 hours… but of course chatter-box is me). A delicious mutton biriyani later (though that’s the last bit of meat I’m having for a while, it’s a bit too heavy) followed by a couple voddies, we head out, a little light-headed, for Chirag and his lovely friend Susie’s post-dinner ritual of sweet paan from the street vendor next door and sweet boiled milk smuggled from the campus kitchens.

   All in all, a delightful first day and a great beginning to this adventure.