Indian Slummer

RIP Indian Slummer

2014-06-03T23:06:00.002-07:00

I took myself off to India in search of a small slice of happy. I thought I could do it without hair mousse. My hair looked consistently crappy.

I travelled all over the country on the sleeper buses for which India’s renown. I found it quite thrilling. Whizzing about. On a flat bed. Sprawled out. Lying down.

I stayed in shacks and shitholes, which were cheap but a far cry from cushy. And every night, I became a mosquito’s delight and was devoured just like human sushi.

I visited temples and ashrams. Met sadhus, swamis and sages. I stopped eating meat and got back on my feet by doing more yoga than I had done in ages.

I studied Vedic Dharma and had a go at silent meditation. But then I got sick with severely bad shits and needed hospitalisation.

I splashed about in the Ganges and I scaled Himalayan mountains high. I lolled lazily about on white beaches until my pale skin started to fry.

I met some incredible people and I made a great many friends. I dated some dudes. Drank too much booze. And I had a colonic cleanse.

Then six months ago I met Max. He was handsome and kind. A real treasure. He captured my heart. Right from the start. I thought he would be mine forever.

I moved into his place in South Goa. Looking back, I wish we’d gone slower. Because living together isn’t that clever, when you’re with someone who don’t really know yer.

A few weeks later I became ill. I discovered I had a stomach tumour. Then things went downhill, when blood started to spill and near death led to my lost sense of humour.

It took a good few months to recover. And I wasn’t much fun to be with. But by the time I was fine, Max was no longer inclined, to have me in his life as his lover.

I came home without further ado. My Indian dream’s now a thing of the past. Why slum when I really don’t have to? When I’m happy with life at long last?

Back to the Mat

2014-03-07T23:17:00.000-08:00

The operation to remove the ten-ton tumour from my stomach had brought my body to its knees. But it was the six weeks spent flat on my back in recovery afterwards that totally sky rocketed me out of my mind.

Why had this happened to me? What sort of karmic crime had I committed to merit such a supersized sandwich of bullshit? Was there some greater cosmic purpose to this unfortunate turn of events? If there was, then I just wasn’t seeing it. None of it made any sense.

So five weeks ago, I decided enough was enough. It was time to scrape myself off the sofa. And so with Bambi-like dexterity, I wobbled back out into the sunlight and headed to the one place where I knew I would find answers.

My yoga mat.

I’d heard about a school called Abhinam yoga that had recently been set up by a doctor called Namito Rakesh. Namito had been the personal physician to one of the world’s most acclaimed yoga guru’s, BKS Iyengar. During his time at the great master’s Pune Institute, he had developed a distinct medical approach to the practice. An approach that Iyengar himself had hailed a triumph. I figured if Namito was good enough for Iyengar (aged 95 and still busting some pretty spectacular moves), then he was good enough for me.

I signed up to the Teacher Training course immediately.

And so began a journey.

During the first week, I mainly learnt to cry…produce mucus...and shit…a lot. We were being taught the Kriya’s – ancient cleansing techniques which involve a series of strenuous breathing and abdominal exercises. They are designed to purge the body and mind of toxins. And boy, did they do the trick! I was reduced to a smelly, snivelling, dribbling mess.

I felt dreadful.

It was at this point that I began to foster a supreme dislike for ‘Doctor’ Namito. I mean, what godforsaken yoga was this man teaching? I wanted to quit. But with assurances that there was a method to this madness, I hung on in there.

By the end of week two, I felt even worse.

We had finally started our Asana practice. But it hadn’t gone well. For the first few days Namito had my fellow students and I performing these ludicrously difficult sequences of backbends, handstands and one-armed press-ups. I hadn’t yet fully recovered from my surgery and he’d given me this to do?

I wanted to die. I wanted to take Namito with me. And I wasn’t alone.

But then half way through this second week, the gears suddenly changed. We went right back to basics. We’d spend entire afternoons in Samasthiti (standing pose…literally…standing) or in Uttitha Hastasana, Intense Arm Pose (still standing…but with our arms over our heads). Yet as simple of these asanas were, Namito wasn’t satisfied. As far as he was concerned, I was inept. My alignment was totally off, my back was horribly rounded and my performance was clumsy and graceless. In just under a week this man had managed to comprehensively consign everything I’d learnt in my 15 years of practice to the trash heap.

I wanted to punch myself in the face. And kick Namito somewhere pertinent, below the waistline. Hard.

Fantasy sucker punches aside, this was a watershed moment. I began to realise that my performance in these postures was telling me something important about the imbalances I was feeling in my life. My Quasimodo posture was a symbol of my tendency to carry the weight of the world on my shoulders. My flat feet demonstrated a failure to stand tall and proud. The tumour in my stomach? I came to realise that even this was rooted in years of negative thinking – it was nothing but a ball of toxic emotions.

Suddenly the penny dropped.

As Namito lead us further into our studies, furnishing our practice with a firm understanding of yoga philosophy, anatomy, physiology and the bio-mechanics of the body, everything started to fall into place. My body and mind were becoming aligned. A greater awareness was beginning to emerge.

Today, the psychotic she-devil that once ruled my world has been toppled from her throne. And the blood-sucking sack of shit that had been growing in my abdomen has been replaced by something new. I’m not sure what it is exactly. But damn, I’m feeling good!

The Max Factor

2014-01-11T06:58:00.002-08:00

It’s been three weeks since my hospital discharge. Since then I’ve received the results of my biopsy and I’m delighted to say that my tumour came back benign. The exorcism had worked. Its arse was grass. That malicious mo-fo was gone. I was so relieved. All I had to do now was heal.

But the road to recovery hasn’t been easy. It’s actually been one big, fat long stretch of empty. A yawning, sprawling blanket of tedium briefly interrupted with intermittent flashes of unbearable pain, all of which have prompted displays of unparalleled psychopathic behaviour.

With the entire mid-section of my body held together with Egyptian mummy quantities of bandages and topped off with a stomach brace that gives Bridget Jones’ knickers a run for their money, I’ve been rendered completely useless.

I feel like I’ve fallen off the edge of the world. Marooned. A permanently pajama’d beached whale. So naturally, I’m dealing with this in the only way I know how…

By morphing into some kind of frothy-mouthed she-devil who spends much of her time wallowing in a cesspit of despair. I could effortlessly reduce even the bravest of men to rubble.

Well…all bar one.

Max.

Max has just spent the last two years hiking around India. He’s scaled the Himalayas, grappled with ferocious wild animals and lost his own bodyweight in sweat crossing jungles and barren deserts. All to raise money and awareness for India’s poor. So if there’s anyone best equipped to deal with my shenanigans, it’s him.

Which is fortunate for me because Max just so happens to be my boyfriend.

Over the last few weeks Max has shopped, cleaned and cooked for me, endured my tears and she-devil tantrums, scraped me off the floor and genuinely saved me from disappearing up my own arse.

He’s even given me his own blood. It turns out we’re not just a love match, but compatible all the way down to the capillary level. Max, as I only very recently discovered, was my mystery transfusion donor. Even my parents, who've despised all my past partners, have started calling him ‘Saint Max’.

And it doesn’t stop there…

Here in Goa, his actions have acquired him legendary status. He’s helped everyone from the local village boy to the big shot businessman. Blokes want to emulate him. And girls want to throw their knickers at him. It’s like dating Brad Pitt. Except that right now, I don’t feel anything like his Angelina Jolie.

Nonetheless, his good nature and unflagging optimism have managed to tame the heinous she-devil that I’ve become and she’s slowly inching her back in her box. I’m beginning to feel much more human again.

And with the Max Factor beside me as well as inside me – I'm like a whole new person, ready to take on the New Year, armed with all the strength, courage and support I could possibly need.

The Cyst that Stole Christmas

2013-12-27T23:28:00.003-08:00

I’ve now been at the Workhardt Hospital in Goa for three weeks. In this time, I’ve been subjected to several sonograms, three CT scans and undergone two operations. I’ve spent six days in intensive care, where numerous blood transfusions and blood tests were performed and along the way, I’ve been forced to pee into a range of ridiculously tiny receptacles. I currently have the delightful pleasure of a plastic catheter tube stuffed up my va-jay-jay and I’m permanently attached to an intravenous drip, pouring a medley of medicines into my now inflamed veins.

But at least I now know that what caused all of this had nothing to do with yoga. In fact, Marichiasana D, the posture that made me go pop, pretty much saved my life. Well that – and my boyfriend. If it hadn’t been for him insisting on taking me to hospital, I would still be lying on the sofa, clutching my stomach, believing the pain I was in was just a pulled muscle.

Nevertheless, I’m still not entirely sure what it is exactly that is wrong with me. This is partly because my medical team and I don’t really have a common platform of understanding, owing to our language differences. And partly because my prognosis keeps changing as their medical investigations widen. After my initial scans, they were convinced that the rather large mass they’d detected in my lower abdomen was a haematoma.

But the first operation scotched that theory.

Upon draining this thing out of me, they discovered not blood, but a gooey, mucousy gunk filling up their syringes. They declared this to be some kind of supersized cyst that I’d most likely been walking around with for years. Still, at least they’d got the mucilaginous monster out.

But no. The cyst persisted.

Within hours, the pernicious fucker had refilled and returned with a vengeance. Further scans informed me that it was now on some kind of urological colonial crusade. It was growing into my pelvis, pushing into my bladder, it had taken hold of my left ovary and was now rapidly on its way to engulfing both my kidneys.

This beast was quite literally trying to possess me. I felt like the Linda Blair character from the Exorcist. I was quite certain that if this thing wasn’t gouged out of me soon I would be projectile vomiting while my head did a succession of full 360’s.

Cue surgery Number Two: The Exorcism.

This was going to be epic. Nothing like the neat little keyhole procedure I’d had previously. This time, the surgeons would be sawing my stomach in half to scoop the blood-sucking fuck monkey out of me. I would be like the magician’s assistant in some kind of twisted magic trick. Only without the magic. And no general anaesthetic either. Thanks to a congenital quirk that renders me completely inept when it comes to clotting blood, they decided that putting me under would be too much of a high risk. They didn’t want me bleeding out. I would be given an epidural to numb me from the waist down instead.

I’d become the unwitting subject of a Channel Five shock doc…and I had front row seats to the whole hideous horror show.

A flurry of frenzied activity then ensued as my doctors set about hunting down the gallon or so of extra blood they needed to staunch the impending haemorrhage, giving the nursing staff enough time to institute their own pre-op preparations. Most absurd of which included the shaving off of all my pubic hair and the rather half-arsed removal of my red toenail polish. By the time I was actually wheeled into the operating theatre, I had an extremely itchy six-o-clock shadow situation going on ‘downstairs’, while my feet looked like they’d just tap-danced their way through a murder scene.

And I was petrified.

I’d never had an open surgery before and as I lay on the operating table, squirming under the starkness of the bright theatre lights, I began to cry. Uncontrollably. I really wasn’t sure if I was going to make it out of there alive.

Still, at least the whole thing was going to be quick. No more than an hour, I was told.

Six hours later, I was finally wheeled out. Unconscious. Not one of the six epidurals they’d attempted had worked. I cannot even begin to describe the unconscionable pain I endured as they stuck the scalpel in and began slicing me apart. Suffice to say that once they were done peeling me off the ceiling, my surgeons had no choice but to knock me out cold.

And thank God for small mercies. Because aside from predictable blood bath, what they found when they finally got inside my stomach was so overgrown, odious and insidious, it prompted a riptide of shock throughout the hospital. This entity had engorged beyond all proportions and plugged its tendrils into the various vital organs of my lower body.

It was going to be a cluster-fucking nightmare to excavate.

When the surgeons finally emerged to showcase the mug shots of this monster to my now supremely concerned boyfriend – they were calling it a tumour. When I eventually came round, my man filled me in, conjuring a living, breathing being from what he witnessed of this angry looking, watermelon sized mass with pulsating veins, coated in viscousy goo. To me, it sounded like Captain Caveman. Less the hair. And if given half the chance, I’m quite sure it would have sprouted fangs, horns and a psychopathic Cyclops eye.

The good news is that I’m going home tomorrow. Two days before Christmas. And while this cyst/tumour/whatever-the-fuck-it-is may have stolen my left ovary, robbed me of my dignity and stopped me from doing any form of exercise for the next 6 weeks, I am pathetically grateful it’s out of me.

Whether there’s a sequel to this ghastly horror story, I won’t know until I get the results of the biopsy next week. But for now, while my Christmas may be spent in a horizontal position, at least I won’t be lying in hospital feeling desperate and alone. I’ll be in my own bed, with the one I love. And for me, that’s a gift that not even Santa can surpass.

The Cow that Jumped Over the Moon

2013-12-25T18:58:00.001-08:00

Miracles had happened. I’d high-tailed it out of Blighty. Moved in with with the man of my dreams. And returned to a land that nourished my soul and filled my heart with joy. I’d hit the jackpot. Scored a hat trick. I felt unstoppable. Indefatigable.

I was the cow who’d jumped over the moon.

And there was no way I was going to let this rare interval of serendipity go to waste. I had Lady Luck’s nipple in my craw and I was going to suck the milk of her good fortune…‘til that bitch’s tit ran dry.

So my first few weeks were a tsunami of activity. I was excited. Optimistic. Rabidly gung-ho. I was a maniac on a mission. And like it or not, my man was joining me for the ride. Stage One was launched - our domestic set-up required immediate attention. Now, don’t get me wrong, my guy’s gaff is certainly very plush and palatial. And most people would have been deemed it a paragon of hygiene. But I’m not most people. I’m an obsessive, compulsive freak of nature. To my intolerant eye, it had issues. It needed to be cleaned - forensically. And the macho décor required a significant dial down. Then – and only then – could we begin the process of feathering our looming love nest.

So together we set about stripping, scouring, and scrubbing the place, before feverishly redecorating, refitting and refurnishing. Out went the old and after a steady succession of avaricious shopping trips, in came the new. Bed linen and bath towels; cookers, crockery and cupboards, saucepans, side tables and soap dishes - within a matter of days this one time lad’s pad had been utterly emasculated. We now had ourselves a fully-fledged, super-soft furnished, jasmine-scented, candlelit palace of passion.

Home was sorted.

With the wind beneath my wings I then soared straight on to the next major item on my agenda…

Me.

I was a fucking mess.

When I’d stepped off the plane I was pallid, puffy-eyed and porky. Nonetheless, I’d hoped that after a hot shower, a good night’s sleep and a few days of soaking up some rays I’d be right back on track. But two weeks on and I still looked pasty and felt positively rotundrahedral. I needed to shape up. My guy deserved a goddess for a girlfriend, not someone with the sex appeal of a swollen slug. However, unlike our home, a fresh coat of paint and a few scatter cushions simply weren’t going to cut it. What I needed was a full body overhaul.

So in came the draconian diet whereupon all foodstuffs verging anywhere near the colour beige were promptly banished. Chips, cheese naan and channa masala were dead to me. It was strictly fruit and veg all the way. Then began the extreme fitness regime.

Fortunately for me, my boyfriend takes his physique super-seriously. He has an entire room dedicated to the matter of exercise. A chamber of sheer physical torture – wall-to-wall weights, punch bags and various cardiovascular contraptions of terror. I wanted a washboard stomach. And he knew how to could get it. So together we fashioned a get-fit programme which included my usual 2-hours of ashtanga home practice, followed by an hour of press-ups, planks and weight lifting with him; a mid-morning Vinyasa yoga class and a late afternoon hour-and-a-half bout of light Hatha.

Day one went incredibly well. Day two was an unmitigated disaster.

I was halfway through my Vinyasa class, straining to get into a posture called Marichiasana D – an extreme abdominal twist which combined a half lotus with a contortionate hand bind – when it happened. Something inside of me snapped. It felt like my bladder. And it was accompanied by waves of sharp, shooting pain. It wasn’t good news. I wasn’t going to be able to finish that class. Nevertheless, I thought I’d just pulled a muscle. Overdone it a tad on all this newfound exertion. My boyfriend agreed. So I took a few days off.

And then I did something really stupid. I signed up for a weeklong ashtanga intensive, which involved 6 hours of practice a day. I thought I’d recovered. I thought I could hack it. I was that cow. Jumping over that moon.

Problem was, I hadn’t quite thought through the landing aspect to this lunar leap. So when I came down, I did so with one almighty thud…and I was promptly rushed into hospital.

Weigh To Go

2013-11-29T20:38:00.003-08:00

I should have known when I busted the zip trying to do up the first suitcase that I’d overdone it on the packing front. But no. I just dragged a bigger version out of the attic and found even more crap to fill that with.

I’m not naturally one to travel light.

That said, the preparations for this trip have been a particular nightmare. With so many different eventualities to plan for, I’ve found the whole thing an exercise in torture. Firstly, there’s the whole hair mousse situation. I’m away for six months and frankly I’d rather die than spend a single day sporting a ‘do reminiscent of a circa 1970’s Michael Jackson. So that’s 15 or so bottles of product - around 10kg’s - right there.

Then there’s all my yoga paraphernalia. I plan to practice twice daily while I’m in Goa – and pick up a bit of teaching work while I’m at it – so I need a variety of options. Add to that bikinis, sarongs, sundresses, a few smart outfits and a couple of pairs of heels for business meetings, trainers, flip flops, some colder climate clothing (just in case), medical supplies, a few books, a couple of handbags and the full spectrum of underwear – for everyday, fat days, period days and those times when I’d like my man to know that I’m sluttishly available – and all of a sudden, I’m packing some serious poundage. I nearly broke a toe hoiking this little lot down the stairs last night.

But it was only when I arrived at check-in this morning that I discovered just how ludicrously over-bloated my load really was. For a start, I had to recruit the help of a porter and a nice American chap checking in at the counter next to mine just to lift the damn case on to the scales. It came in at 40 kilos…almost the same weight as me. No worries I thought. Only double the allowance. Perhaps a small excess baggage charge to pay.

But the jaw-on-the-floor expression I got from ‘Anne’, my check-in lady, told me otherwise. Apparently, my suitcase had cruised way beyond the limit of excess baggage, past the territory of ‘heavy load’ and had veered into the arena of health and safety regulations contravention. My case had been grounded.

But Anne - God love her -had a plan.

I needed to get myself a second case. Anne suggested a carry-on as I was allowed to take two of those on board. She just needed me to jettison 15 kilos to get my big case down to into the respectable heavy load bracket, which she said she’d waive the charge on. Then I was good to go.

Sadly, this was not as straightforward as Anne had made it seem. The only place that was selling luggage that morning was a store located at the farthest end of the terminal. A twenty-minute trek away. No mean feat when you have a two-ton travelling tumour to tow behind you. Nevertheless, I did manage to find a nice compact wheelie companion for it, before setting off on the long haul back to Anne’s loving bosom.

Only by the time I got back, Anne wasn’t there. She’d finished her shift. Some woman named Sinead was now in her hot seat. Sinead had a face like a sucked mango and the swagger of a person who thoroughly despised life. Needless to say she made me feel about as welcome as a fart in a spacesuit. I tried to explain my situation, bring her up to speed on Anne’s plan, but she remained hell-bent on slapping me with an extortionate £160 charge. As far as she was concerned I was some kind of travelling imbecile. And I was now cluttering up her check-in desk.

I, on the other hand, was reaching the point of a full body meltdown.

And that’s when Frank stepped in. Frank was the porter who’d assisted me during my first check-in phase. He was well versed in my plight. And like Anne, he seemed to be some kind of check-in guru, who took great pleasure in finding ways to beat the system. He immediately took me under his wing, escorted me to an area where I could reconfigure my cases, then dispatched me back to Sinead with instructions to waive me through, free of charge.

Sinead had no other option but to comply and within moments, I had my boarding card. I was finally on my way. I just had the small matter of getting through security.

Except that security, as it turned out, was no small matter…

As painful as modern airport security channels can be, I have to say I usually have the system pegged and can generally clear them without much of a kerfuffle. Transparent bag for liquids and laptop are normally at the top of my carry-on. Shoes and jacket are off well in advance. I don’t wear any jewellery to avoid setting off the detectors and I always leave the drugs and guns at home. I’m never frisked and my belongings are never subjected to a second check.

Today, however, thanks to my two carry-on bags situation, I got well and truly snaffled. In my haste to off-load as much weight as I could from my check-in suitcase, I’d placed a range of taboo items in the new bag, which managed to set every security alarm ringing. I was consequently molested from top-to-toe by some uneducated goon; forced to unpack all my belongings so that they could be swabbed and had several bottles of hair mousse, shampoo and perfume confiscated.

I spent the remaining time before boarding inhaling wine just to recover from the whole ordeal.

Mercifully, the minute I got on the plane, all the stresses and woes of the morning seemed to disappear. While the aircraft was packed to the rafters, somehow, I’d managed to land an entire middle row to myself. I wondered whether my new check-in friends Anne or Frank had some part to play in this? Or maybe it was just a benevolent gift from the universe. A sign to say that I was now heading in the right direction. So shortly after take-off, I unbuckled my seatbelt, sprawled myself out across those four seats and slept like a child all the way to Bangalore.

Since arriving in India, everything seems easy. I still have another two hours to wait before I can complete the final leg of my journey – the one-hour flight to Goa. But having checked-in both my cases without so much as a raised eyebrow and with the welcoming arms of my beautiful boyfriend waiting to envelope me once I get there, I now feel considerably lighter.

Truly, Madly, Deeply

2013-11-27T02:31:00.001-08:00

I can’t sleep. I’m not sure if it’s nervousness or excitement that’s making me toss and turn tonight, but with just 24 hours to go before I set off on another Indian Slummer adventure, my head seems to be swirling.

You see, this time it’s different. This time I’m not running away from the shit-sandwich that typifies my life in London. I’ve actually learnt to tolerate the taste. And I’m not setting off on some kind of soul-searching quest for happiness. I’m pleased to say that I now have a few chinks of sunlight perforating my dark armour of woe. No, this trip promises to be something quite special. Something out of this world. This is why I’m in a 2am tailspin. Frankly, I’m bloody bricking it.

Let me explain…

Six weeks ago, I met this guy. A totally extraordinary, one in a million kind of guy. The moment I clapped eyes on him it was like – boom! Thunderbolts and lightening. He reduced me to rubble. A palpable, physical wreck. It was love at first sight. Not something I thought actually happened in real life. Much less happen to me.

I’d met him through work. He was the subject of a documentary I was keen to get my teeth into. He’d flown to London from India to meet with me and I was hoping he’d like me enough to sign up. Suffice to say, I pretty much had him at ‘hello’. Professionally and personally we just seemed to click. What followed was a high-speed romance. 48 hours of sheer, unadulterated bliss. And then he had to leave. On the morning of his departure we clung to each other like limpets, neither of us wanting to let the other go. It was then that he told me that he loved me. And for the first time in 6 years I found myself echoing those same words.

Since then, we’ve remained in constant contact. Surgically attached to our Skype. We speak at least a dozen times a day. We whisper sweet nothings, remotely canoodle and on occasion, have even attempted a dry hump. We’ve started to sketch out a shared future - marriage, babies…a small troop of Chihuahuas - the whole nine yards. And every day this man manages to delight, charm and surprise me in a colourful array of new ways.

But it was when he asked me to come out to India and move in with him that reality actually started to bite.

With only the briefest of courtships it seems like we’re lurching headlong into cohabitation and this concerns me on a number of levels. I mean, let’s face it - you really get to know a person when you live with them and I’m not sure I want to burst our beautiful love bubble so soon. What if I discover he’s an inveterate farter? Or has woefully bad taste in music? Will I still find him as irresistible? And what will he think of me when my own mask of perfection starts to slip? Will he still love me when he comes across one of the rogue hairs that occasionally sprout out of my chin? Will an unforeseen and unprompted outbreak of spotty botty render me utterly charmless? And crucially, will this man be able to handle the pathological lunatic I morph into each month when a certain ‘red guest’ arrives for a visit?

Added to all of this is also the inescapable fact that I’m monumentally shit at relationships. My track record is really quite shocking. Pretty much every meaningful partnership I’ve ever had has dissolved into a baleful and toxic pool of disappointment. My marriage in particular being the most exemplary. Since that crashed and burned, I’ve become quite deft at body swerving commitment. I neither need the headache nor the heartbreak.

So as I lie here in these wee small hours churning over the enormity of what I’m about to do, I find myself wondering whether I should be chasing rainbows again, at my age. Whether this man is my pot of gold or just another regrettable crock of shit, who knows?

Nevertheless, I’m taking the plunge. One giant leap. Because my heart is telling me I’ve found something special, something truly, madly deep.

Up In Smoke

2013-03-01T20:17:00.002-08:00

I swore I’d never do it again. I really believed I’d kicked the habit for good. But in just under two months I’ve managed to completely unravel. My self-control is in tatters. My iron will? Melted to a pathetic puddle of disappointment.

I’ve started smoking again. I’m such a supreme anus.

Only a few weeks ago I had been in my element, glowing in the laminated glory of my Teacher Training Certificate. I hadn’t had so much as a snifter of a smoke; in fact I hadn’t been even the slightest bit tempted. So where did it all go wrong?

All that stretching, sweating and studying had certainly done me the world of good but the minute it stopped I realised I was completely burnt out. I needed a change of pace. Some relax and recline time. And since nowhere in India does ‘chill-out’ quite like Goa, I decided that’s exactly where I would direct my flip-flops. So I headed to Benaulim, a cosy little beach resort in the South, where I’d spent one of the best months of my trip last year.

At first, it felt great to be back. I found myself a fantastic place to stay in a small guesthouse run by Flora and Elias, an adorable Goan couple, who immediately adopted me as their own and ensconced me into the heart of their family. I was spoiled rotten – they lavished me daily with delicious home-cooked meals and treats, did my cleaning and laundry completely free of charge and were forever dishing out parental advice, whether I wanted it or not. That a ‘young lady’ like me was travelling all alone was unthinkable to them and I guess that’s why they rather sweetly wanted to compensate. I’d moved in with “Mum and Dad” and I have to say, after 4-weeks in Dunstan’s fleapit, it felt pretty great to be “home”.

Socially, I wasn’t doing too badly either. I’d made some good friends here last time around and I was delighted to discover that quite a few of them had returned; or in some cases, had just never bothered to leave. So I had a wail of a time in those first few weeks catching up on old times, often under the intoxicating influence of Goa’s famous (and dangerously potent) local hooch, Fenny. Cue some pretty outrageous behaviour on my part, although mercifully, I can’t actually recall many of the gory details, thanks to the level of my inebriation. Suffice to say, the hangover-cum-red-faced-shame condition I ended up in afterwards was not particularly pleasant and I would often find myself frozen in the recovery position for days.

But beyond the headaches and humiliation, I always had the beach. And I quickly found myself a nice little spot to sprawl out on, by one of the shacks that lined the 2km of coast. So my days were typically divided between sun-lounger and sea as I proudly showed-off my newly honed, bikini-ready body to the local beach boys who, I’m very flattered to say, regularly vied for my attention. I even rented myself a bike to wheel about on…although after realising just how much of an ordeal it was to actually ride, it was quickly relegated to a kind of cumbersome accessory that I just walked around with.

Still, life was good. I was living in a sun-shiney bubble of perfection. Paradise. But, as idyllic as this was, I soon became complacent. My daily routine of beach, booze and bed simply didn’t give me enough to do. I became incredibly bored. And that’s when I started smoking.

At first, it was just the odd cigarette here and there to fill a gaping moment of tedium in my day. But as these gaps expanded, so too did my habit. And now, after 5 months of total sobriety I’m back to chuffing 20-plus-a-day. I’m not particularly proud about this, but at least the fags are cheap and I have to admit I do rather relish the 5-minutes of pleasure they bring. Nevertheless, they haven’t done much to spice up my life here in Benaulim. But I have found something else that has. Although, that’s a story for another time.

Now, however, I’m drawing this particular posting to a close. I believe I’ve well and truly earned myself a nice little smoke. And after that I’m going to accompany my bike as we saunter handlebar-in-hand back to the beach for another full day of doing sweet ‘eff all…

School of Hard Knocks

2013-01-29T01:58:00.002-08:00

Oh happy days…

Today, I was awarded my Hatha Yoga Teacher Certificate, after passing both my practical and theory exams with flying colours. Pretty miraculous for a 40-year old klutz with the coordination of a baby elephant. Stepping up to ceremoniously receive my certificate in front of all the people I’d sweated blood with this last month felt like winning an Oscar. So naturally I marked the occasion in grand, Gwyneth Paltrow style, complete with gushing speech and uncontrollable sobbing; which I then chased down with an irrational outbreak of perspiration. It was a highly charged moment. And although my teaching style may be more barmy than swami, I have to say I’m bloody proud of what I’ve achieved.

But if the road to success is paved with failures then mine has been peppered with more belly flops than overweight diving contest. Firstly, it took me a good few weeks to get up to speed on all the practical stuff. And I know yoga isn’t meant to be competitive, but there’s nothing more disconcerting than seeing your fellow classmates painlessly contorting themselves in to various shapes of pretzel while you continue to lose consciousness every time you so much as attempt a simple forward bend.

And if it wasn’t my body being pummelled then it was my brain, thanks to all the Sanskrit, mantras and sutras we were being force-fed. How I ever got my head around this little gem, for instance, is beyond me:

"Om purna mada purna midam, Purnaat purnam udachyate, Purnasya purnam adaaya, Purnam eva vasishyate”

…but I did and I even managed to memorise the translation:

"That is the whole, this is the whole; from the whole, the whole arises; taking away the whole from the whole, the whole remains"

…just don’t ask me to tell you what all that actually means.

On the plus side, I can now confidently instruct you to “Siras Moola Aswina Bandha” (stick your head up your arse and engage the sphincter lock), so every cloud has a silver lining.

However, the toughest part of it all for me wasn’t so much the punishing schedule as the playground politics and tacit power struggles that are common with being at school. Not that my classmates were a bad bunch, in fact I like pretty much liked all of them. But the little cabal of overly keen yoga bores who’d meet in secret to perfect their practice and swot up on all the theory – I knew about them. They were annoying. And then there was the outright lick-arse who had just two words to her vocabulary: “wooooooow” and “uh-maaaaazzzzzzinngggg” which she’d purr at our teachers with whenever she felt the need to score a few brownie points. Infuriating. But the one student who really made my blood boil was a bloke called “Xenius”. Or “X” as he liked to be known. Quite.

What made X particularly odious was that he really believed that he was some kind of enlightened guru. Which is fine if you can keep that kind of thing to yourself. But no. X liked to share his wisdom. Liberally. He would constantly interrupt our philosophy classes with insights and observations that he genuinely believed were prophetic and profound. But they weren’t. They were either idiotic, obnoxious or just downright pointless. The other day, for example he felt the need to pose this little scholarly nugget: “why is it that nice guys finish last?” I shit you not. I mean, he may as well have gone the whole hog and asked if “absence makes the heart grow fonder?” or whether “silence really is golden?” The truth is most of us have had hot baths deeper than him.

And while X made me want to punch myself in the face every time he so much as opened his mouth, even I could appreciate he was a fairly benign character. Which is more than I can say for my philosophy and meditation teacher, Mahesh. Now that man was scarier than Stalin. Mahesh presided over our afternoon classes like an enlightened despot. And for a spiritual man, who is supposedly a lot further down the yogic path than most of us, he seemed to have one colossal ego. If you were an unquestioning, obsequious lick-arse, then he might be go easy on you; otherwise, he would be downright abusive.

Except to me. Apparently I was so insignificant I didn’t actually register on his radar. In fact I don’t think he addressed me directly once during the entire course. If I had the temerity to ask him a question in class, he would look straight through me, like I wasn’t there. To him, I just didn’t exist. And I found this really unsettling. I mean, you can like me or loathe me – but regard me with stone cold indifference? Now that’s just cruel.

But while I’ve had my fair share of hard knocks these last four weeks, I have to say I’ve relished every second. I’ve seen myself grow and change in so many wonderful ways – I’m happier in my own skin, more at one with my body and I generally feel a lot more at peace. Sure, I may never be able to perform a “crow” without seriously hurting myself, or meditate for more than ten minutes without falling asleep; but I can now execute a perfect back flip from standing, touch my head with my feet while upside down in a headstand and have a fairly superficial conversation with you in Sanskrit.

So move over Madonna, there’s a new yoga babe on the block…

Checking in with Dunstan

2013-01-02T23:49:00.000-08:00

It’s been an action-packed first week at school and I’m amazed at just how much I’ve learned. I’ve discovered that every yoga posture carries a range of physical and mental benefits, yet pretty much all of them can relieve constipation (still, none so far have made much impact on my compacted bowels); I now know that Patanjali is not a mild curry best served with rice (as first thought), but the highly venerated founding father of Ashtanga Yoga; and I’ve also mastered the art of breathing through my clavicles (but it’s not something I’d advise doing in public). And while I ache in places I didn’t think possible, I have to say I feel absolutely fantastic!

But it was the near faultless performance I gave with my first teaching assignment yesterday that’s left me feeling particularly buoyed. Not only did I manage to guide everyone through 6 rounds of Sun Salutations without breaking so much as a fingernail, I pulled it off the kind of aplomb that neither Ely nor the rest of the class saw coming. In fact, they were so astounded by my efforts; they actually broke into spontaneous applause afterwards.

And while I continue pass out every time I perform a standing forward bend (apparently my low blood pressure is to blame for this) and I still can’t do “crow” without making a complete tit of myself, I am delighted with the progress I’m making.

Today, however, I have a day off and as much as I’d love to spend it draped over a sunbed sipping Mojitos, I have to sort out a new hotel. The room rate I’m currently paying is burning a hole in my pocket and if I don’t address this soon, I won’t be able to afford so much as a mint leaf, let alone a Mojito. I’m after something chic but cheap, which may take some time to find, so I’ve forced my weary ass out of bed early to go scour the town.

Within a few hours I’ve pretty much depleted all my options. If I want a room that doesn’t come with a government health warning, it seems I’m going to have to pay through the nose for it. Feeling somewhat dejected, I decide to head to Abba –perhaps my Nepalese friends can point me in the right direction?

With another storm looming moodily on the horizon, I gather my pace, affecting the moronic swagger of a constipated speed-walker, as managing anything faster than a shuffle in flip-flops is harder than you might think. I’m intent on reaching shelter before the heavens open up, so I’m not really looking at where I’m going. Naturally, I don’t see the colossal 7-foot Indian man lummucking towards me until it’s too late.

And this is how I meet Dunstan.

It seems news travels fast in these here parts and Dunstan, having caught wind of my accommodation plight, has come to track me down. Rather too enthusiastically, if you ask me – as he’s managed to completely knock me off my feet and is now yammering nonsense at me. I’m totally mystified. Clearly, this man is wired to the moon, but something – perhaps his stupid great smile – tells me he’s essentially harmless. So I tune in and try hard to fathom some sense. Eventually I pluck out the words “cheap” and “room”. Bingo.

It turns out Dunstan is the manager of an off-the-beaten-track guesthouse called Nadakkavil House. And I’m told it’s completely empty. So I follow him over to the bright orange building, check out a few of the rooms and consequently conclude the deal of the century – a double room, with attached bathroom for 2000 rupees, for the entire 4 weeks (that’s about 70p a night!) Sure, the place is more Bangkok Hilton than Park Lane Hilton, but it’s clean and it looks relatively secure. Plus, I’ve already taken rather a shine to Dunstan. He may talk utter twaddle and look like a strange cross between the ‘Nutty Professor’ and ‘Lurch’ from the Addams Family, but I can tell he has a heart of gold. And that’s good enough for me.

We seal the deal with a firm handshake, which sends Dunstan into incoherency overdrive. The words “promise”, “secret” and “special rate” seem to be going round and round in a loop. Eventually, I get his drift – I’m to tell no one about the deal he’s given me, as it would be bad for business. Holding a finger to my lips I whisper “sshh” to show him I comprehend. He clumsily mirrors the gesture, along with another of his huge, winning smiles.

In fact, Dunstan is so entertained by the whole “Sshh” thing he's decided to adopt it as his new catchphrase and is now proceeding to crowbar it into the conversation wherever he fancies. I ask him if he provides towels for his guests. He responds, “sshh”. Is there hot water? “Sshh”. Can I move my stuff in today? Another “sshh”. And I’m battered with a further barrage of “sshhes” as I attempt to back out the door. Like I said. The man is completely crackerjack.

But I reckon this means I’m in for an interesting few weeks.

Mat-a-splat-twat

2012-12-20T02:20:00.001-08:00

I’m up at the crack and raring to go. It’s my first day of yoga school today and I would really like to get through it without making a total arse of myself. But I’m not holding my breath. Whenever there’s a genuine need for things to go well, my inner dial seems to tune into frequency ‘fuckwit’ and all hell breaks loose. I just hope I don’t do anything too indelibly moronic today.

Being me is bloody hard sometimes.

The least I can do is make sure I’m not late. So at 5am I’m out the door. I figure an hour is plenty of time for me to locate a shala that’s really no more than a hop, skip and a jump from my hotel.

Naturally, it’s raining.

I arrive for class on time. Which I think is a triumph, considering. However, I am incredibly wet. Trying not to draw too much attention to myself, I squelch into the shala and form a small puddle by the side of my mat. So far so good.

The room is divided into two. There are the six of us doing Hatha with Ely on the one side and four students (including two I’ve not seen before) doing the rather more challenging Ashtanga course with Mahesh on the other. They’re already in full swing and I can tell by the litany of insults coming out of Mahesh’s mouth, that he’s not particularly impressed with their efforts thus far. I don’t think he quite understands that his class may not be able to wrap their legs around their heads and clean their ears with their big toes on day one. I thank god for small mercies that he’s not my teacher.

I, on the other hand, am off to a flying start. Ely has us all in ‘savasana’, or ‘corpse pose’, lying spread eagle on our backs, eyes closed and breathing. I’m feeling smugly accomplished. I’ve got this one totally nailed. In fact, I don’t know what I was worried about. I’m going to sail through this course. No problem.

Fast forward twenty minutes and everyone in the shala is huddled around my mat. They are gazing down at me with looks of real concern. I’m blissfully unaware of the situation, of course, for at this at this point, I happen to be completely out for the count. Evidently, my efforts to execute the perfect ‘hand-to-foot forward fold’ have not gone well. All I’ve managed to do is pass out.

A few minutes later and I’m convulsing…and muttering maniacally…in Sanskrit. I have apparently memorised the name for the position I was just performing: ‘padahastasana’ and I seem to be uttering it repeatedly like a frothy mouthed lunatic. Concerned looks rapidly morph into expressions of undiluted alarm. No one knows what to say or do.

Eventually, I regain my composure and try to assuage my profound embarrassment by springing to my feet as gracefully as I can, while insisting I’m perfectly fine and capable of continuing with the class. Much to my relief, Ely gives me the nod of approval. Clearly, she’s as keen to move on from the episode as I am. Moments later, we’re back on our mats for the back bending sequence, which I manage to complete without drawing any further attention to myself.

In fact, now that the worst has happened, I feel much more relaxed. Sure, I’ve made a total fool of myself and yes, I’m pretty confident that most of my fellow students will be giving me a wide berth for the next four weeks, but at least now I know that things can’t actually get any worse for me.

Except that they can. And by jove, they do…

We’re almost at the end of the class and I’ve just performed a perfect ‘tree’ (standing on one foot with hands overhead in prayer), so I’m feeling cocksure and confident about the next position – ‘crow’. We’re told it looks harder than it actually is, so Ely wants to take us through it first. We gather around and watch as she effortlessly manoeuvres her knees onto the back of her arms and lifts her legs up to hover majestically behind her. It looks impressive. If I can pull this off, I might be able to recoup some of the self-respect I haemorrhaged earlier. I embrace the challenge with brio, clambering back on to my mat to assume the starting position. I’m aiming for poise and control, so I’m taking it nice and slow. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see a couple of the other students already up in their crows. They look great. I’ve got one knee up on to an arm. And all is still well. I just need to get the other one up and I’m there.

Instead, I manage to knee myself in the groin, topple off my arms and land directly on my face. I now have what I’m sure is the beginning of a black eye and I’ve bitten my lip so hard it’s bleeding. At the sight of my own blood, I start crying. It's taken just under two hours for me to make a spectacular twat of myself. That's set a new record.

By the end of the class, having ubiquitously shamed myself, I decide it best to make like a crow and I fly out of the shala as fast as I can. At least the next lesson is yoga theory. I can’t possibly do much damage there…can I?

Thousand-Mile Journey

2012-12-11T07:54:00.002-08:00

I’m not just here for shits and giggles. I need to get myself back on track. And that’s going to take some serious work. But whether it’s the karma, the dharma, or the vegetable korma, I really believe India has the medicine I need.

Nonetheless, being jolted from my sleep by a chorus of howling dogs at stupid-o-clock in the morning isn’t exactly the palliative start I had in mind. But I’m up now and I’m keen to seize the day.

The major item on today’s agenda is yoga. Varkala has become a bit of a hub for the discerning yogi with a number of schools offering the full immersion experience. So what better than an intense period of downward dogging to iron out the kinks and give me the jumpstart I need?

Sadly, there’s not much going on in Varkala at 4am. So to kill some time, I head to the bathroom for a nice leisurely shower. But I forget. Hot water is a rare commodity in Indian Slummer-land. And seconds later, there’s a new howling bitch on the beach.

It’s now 6.00am and I’m thoroughly bored. I’ve already moussed and teased my tresses into a succession of perfect curls. So just for the hell of it, I set about squeezing the poison out of every mosquito bite on my body. By 6.45 I’m stippled from top to toe with a collection of angry, swollen pockmarks of purulent ooze. Still, at least my hair looks nice.

At 7am I deem it late enough to venture out. I head to Abba, the restaurant I was in last night as I noticed they had free wifi and I want jack my Mac in so I can start searching for yoga schools...plus the cute Nepalese waiters working there didn’t entirely escape my attention either!

I arrive to find Abba open and in full swing. One of the waiters recognises me and escorts me to an empty table. In Broken English he proceeds to charm an order from me and before long, I’m tucking into a bowl of “fruit-muesli-honey-curd”…with a dash of Internet and a large dollop of eye candy on the side. It’s an outstanding breakfast combination.

Two hours later and I’m thoroughly satiated: I’ve chased the muesli down with two masala chais and a watermelon shake; I’m now Facebook friends with ‘Chattre’, the hot Nepalese waiter and, subject to an interview with an instructor called Mahesh later today, I’ve secured myself a spot on a four-week yoga teacher training course, starting tomorrow. Not bad for a morning’s work.

I head back to my hut for a well-earned disco nap. I awake some hours later to find it lashing down with rain outside. I’m also running late for my meeting with Mahesh at his yoga shala. I launch myself from the hut with no idea of which way to head and within seconds, I’m both thoroughly lost and thoroughly soaked. I spend a further 20 minutes or so frantically trying to find a rickshaw, but the place is eerily deserted. My appointment is at 4pm. It’s now 4.45. I decide to give Mahesh a call.

After a really difficult conversation, where I try to explain where the hell I am, without really having much of a clue, Mahesh somehow manages to pinpoint my location. It turns out I’m about a block away from the school. But given the complete hash I’ve made of finding it so far, I’m instructed to remain exactly where I am. He’s coming to get me. And he seems really pissed off.

Minutes later Mahesh arrives looking about as disgruntled as he just sounded. He greets me with little more than a grimace and then turns on his heel. I think I’ve just blown my place at the school. But I follow on behind him anyway.

On arrival, I’m tersely told to remain outside. Clearly sopping wet idiots are not permitted anywhere near the shala. I’m left to shiver in a hypothermic heap, where I promptly become dish of the day for the local mosquito population, and before long I’ve yet more angry red welts to add to my collection.

I’m beginning to seriously dislike Mahesh now.

To make matters worse, I can hear laughter and jollity coming from inside the shala. It sounds like there are other students already in there. And they’re all having a high old time.

I’m seething. I feel a tantrum brewing.

Fortunately, a lady appears at the door before I fully work myself into a lather. She hands me a towel and introduces herself as Elizabeth – or ‘Ely’ for short, Mahesh’s wife and business partner. She smiles at me apologetically and ushers me inside. I instantly like her, and I’m delighted when, over a warming cup of chai, she reveals that she, rather than Mahesh, is the main instructor for course I’m hoping to enrol on. She quizzes me about my health, fitness and yoga experience and once satisfied that I’m in good enough nick to handle the programme (a relentless 200 hours of practice and theoretical study squeezed into a time frame of 4 weeks), she registers me (a quick passport and visa check, along with the settlement of fee) and escorts me up to the rooftop, where all the other students are gathered.

Aware of how important it is to make a good first impression, I desperately want to do something constructive with the wet t-shirt look I’m rocking, not to mention the clusters of matted hair that hang where once were perfect curls, but there’s little opportunity to address either. So channelling as much blasé as I can, I enter the room and beam out the brightest smile I can muster.

Seven startled faces stare back. Clearly my attempt to make a good first impression has gone down like a cup of cold sick.

A few stilted conversations later and I’ve learned that my compatriots are as multi-cultural as the multi-cuisine menu on offer in Abba - three Americans, a Canadian, a Colombian, a Lithuanian and a Pole, who actually now lives in Norway. I’m then subjected to another bout of embarrassment when Aneta, the Polish-Norwegian, grabs hold of my passport and announces with resulting hilarity, that I’m the only person she’s ever met who looks better in their passport photo than they do in real life. Great.

Taking this as my cue to leave, I politely excuse myself and make a mental note to try and claw back a small slither of dignity when school begins in earnest tomorrow.

I empty out into pitch darkness. It’s still bucketing down with rain. And I realise a little too late that I’ve absolutely no idea of where I’m going. I’ve already lost my bearings so going back to the shala is not an option. All I want to do is flop into bed. But I can’t bloody find it!

After a solid hour’s worth of trial and error I finally navigate myself back to my hut. And while I finish the day looking like a drowned rat and feeling as tired as a dog, I’m weirdly satisfied. The first step of the journey has been taken. And my adventure has begun.

Welcome to Here

2012-11-26T06:51:00.000-08:00

There’s a certain airiness to my gait as I clear customs and collect my backpack from the baggage carousel. I’ve been here before. I know what I’m doing. I’m focussed. Confident. And I’m packing considerable quantities of hair mousse.

I’m bloody ready.

I’m also bloody grateful that I had the foresight to book an onward flight to Kerala. None of the hustle and hassle of downtown Mumbai for me this time around, thank God. I’ve bought myself a one-way ticket to a place the Lonely Planet beguilingly dubs “Paradise Found”. Varkala – which to my ear, sounds more like a venereal disease than a quiet sun-soaked idyll. Nonetheless, I can’t wait to get there.

Unfortunately, that’s exactly what I now have to do. Wait…for ten…excruciating…hours.

In just under an hour I manage to exhaust most of what this terminal has to offer. I’ve peed in all three of the ladies loos. Knocked back one too many beers in the aggressively over-lit (but surprising clean) food court. I’ve gawped and handled an alarming array of Gandhi and Taj Mahal souvenirs. And returned to each of the three toilets in turn for a repeat performance.

I’ve now taken to lolling. I’m in the main departures hall, draped across a bank of plastic chairs, drooling inanely at an overhead flight monitor. I’m trying my best to extract some form of light entertainment from it. So far, I’ve managed to memorise the time, destination and flight number of every plane scheduled to leave in the next four hours. I wait for the screen to change. I’ve still got page 2 to get stuck into…

Three and a half hours on and I know the movement of every single aircraft coming in and out of this airport. I decide it’s time to move. The plastic chairs, however, have other ideas. They’ve become somewhat accustomed to my company and have now melded themselves to my underside. I’ve literally been here long enough to become part of the furniture. Getting up is now going to cost me my entire epidermal layer.

Saving the sensory pleasure of being skinned for later, I decide to coax myself into a catatonic state instead. I nod off immediately.

I’m jolted awake by the sound of my own name. It’s being boomed out over the Tannoy. I look up at the monitor and realise that five hours have passed. My flight number is blinking angrily. Final boarding. Shit.

I lurch for the gate and make it through in the nick of time. Minutes later I’m cruising at 33,000 feet. And not terribly long after that I’m safely deposited back to the ground in the Keralan capital of Trivandrum. The only thing separating me from my slice of white sandy beach paradise now is a 200km taxi ride. Easy…right?

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

I’ve unwittingly overlooked one small, but crucial detail – pretty much every taxi driver in India is a certified lunatic with a death wish. And it turns out the one I’ve hired to transport me to Varkala is in pathological category all of his own. For the next two hours I’m flung from one side of the car to the other and bounced intermittently between roof and floor while ‘Sanjay’ careens recklessly along bumpy, winding back roads at an average speed of 120kpm.

My plan was to get to Varkala and check out the lay of the land, before plumping for a hotel. I wanted to take my time and pick just the right spot to stay in. I also figured I’d be able to negotiate a friendlier rate face-to-face. But I hadn’t factored in the sheer toll that 24 hours of non-stop travel takes on one’s body. I’m covered in bruises, I’ve shed significant swathes of skin and I’m positively frothing at the mouth with exhaustion. I’ve also turned a worrying shade of green, courtesy of Sanjay’s white-knuckle driving. If I don’t stop moving soon, I’m quite sure I’m going to be sick.

The surreptitious stares I get through the rear view tell me that Sanjay is also well aware of my predicament. He hits pedal to metal. Clearly, scraping vomit off the seat of his car is not how he sees the rest of his afternoon unfolding. The man wants me out of his car. Fast.

Five minutes later, we’re skidding through the entrance of a very nice looking resort called Bamboo Beach House. Sanjay greets the manager and a bit of “how’s yer father” ensues as the commission for bringing me here is negotiated. I’m then told the huts here go for 1000 rupees a night. I do the math and calculate this to be around £12 - way over my ‘slummer’s’ budget. But I can’t face getting back into the cab, so I grab the key, pay Sanjay and wobble off in search of my room.

I pass out the minute my head hits the pillow.

It’s late afternoon by the time I finally come around. I’m covered in mosquito bites and coated in sweat. Thankfully a cold shower ameliorates both of these symptoms and I bounce out of my hut feeling like a member of the human race again.

I discover that the resort empties out on to Varkala cliff – a stunning escarpment that overhangs the Arabian Sea. The view is simply breath taking. I saunter along taking in the colourful assortment of shops, Ayurvedic massage parlours, yoga shalas and multi-cuisine restaurants that jostle shamelessly for business. As local scenes go, this one is unequivocally throbbing.

With an engorged sun sitting radiantly on the horizon, I head off in search of somewhere fitting to watch it set. The familiar tinkle of a Buddha Bar CD grabs my attention, so I follow it into a restaurant called Abba, grab a table outside and order a Mojito. As the last rays sink under the azure skyline of the Arabian Sea the waiter returns with my order. “Welcome to here” he joyfully announces as he sets the drink down on the table.

I raise the glass and smile. That’s the most pertinent thing I’ve heard in ages. I mean, where else would I rather be right now than here?

Indian Slummer Strikes Back

2012-11-18T01:45:00.003-08:00

The countdown to India has begun. Visa and flights are sorted. My old backpack has been dragged down from the attic. And I’ve started hoarding a serious supply of hair mousse.

There’s just the small matter of pulling myself together.

The mottle-faced, dribbling, empty husk I’ve become shouldn’t really be let out of the house, let alone the country. I could effortlessly terrify small children. Time to excavate head from arse. This trip is my “Eat, Pray, Love” moment. I need to get expedition ready.

The next few weeks are a blur. I render smoking, drinking and crying strictly verboten. Hot yoga, Buddhist chanting and a draconian diet of All Bran (nuked in the microwave until it resembles a kind of mucilaginous lava) are my only reinforcements now. My therapist (who I strongly suspect hates me) suggests that wild swimming might be a good way of clearing out my remaining anxieties. I embrace his guidance with gusto and begin a regular regime of early morning dips at the Ladies’ pond on Hampstead Heath. It’s late October and unseasonably cold. Needless to say, my friends and family think I’ve gone completely crackers.

But I don’t care. I feel great. I’m finally starting to turn a corner.

Two days before departure I receive an unexpected call from a bloke called Simon. Not the smarmy life insurance salesman I initially have him down for, Simon actually turns out to be a God. I discover that since my flight is overbooked, the airline has had to rejig some of the seating arrangements and as a frequent Virgin flyer, I’ve been selected for an upgrade - I shall now be flying to India in a flatbed! I feel like I’ve just won the triple rollover. I want to kneel down and worship at the altar of Simon. As good omens go this one is major. Any doubts I may have had about the trip have now been promptly skewered.

The big day has arrived and my inner princess goes into overdrive the minute I step into Heathrow airport. My upper class status leaves me queuing and wanting for nothing. I seamlessly sashay from check-in through a fast track security channel directly into the loving bosom of Virgin’s swanky Club Lounge. Within moments, I’m sipping something called a Black Russian, which Jack, the rather striking (but clearly gay) head barman informs me is the pre-flight tipple du jour. Who knew Guinness and champagne could taste this good?

More champagne as I board the plane, turning left to find not so much a seat, but a whopping great big suite waiting to engulf me. I raise the glass to toast my grandma, if only she could see me now…

It’s just over 8 hours before I'm due to land so after take off I slump into my flatbed and sleep pretty much the rest of the way. As we touchdown in Mumbai a small bubble of panic wells up in me as I realise the magnitude of what lies ahead. I’m about to become Indian slummer again. Holy. Mother. Of God.

Here’s to Hilda

2012-11-18T01:44:00.002-08:00

Why not, I sigh to my friend Jay when she suggests that perhaps another trip to India might be the fix I need. Actually, it’s the best idea I’ve heard in ages. I stare around the familiar four corners of my bedroom. I mean, it’s not like there’s much here for me to stick around for.

I cast my mind back.

Nine months ago, I had been kicking up my heels (or rather flapping my flip flops) in the Pink Palace city of Jaipur. I was just a few months in to my Indian Slummer adventure and really beginning to find my mojo. I’d become acclimatised to the dirt and somewhat anaesthetised to the intermittent bouts of Delhi Belly. India had officially grown on me. I was relaxed, carefree – I may not have quite arrived at destination hippy chick, but I had moved a long way away from neurotic-bitch-from-hell. In fact, I remember thinking how it was the first time in years that I’d felt truly alive.

Then bam…my world came tumbling down.

It was late at night when my Dad Skyped me with the shocking news. My Nana Hilda had been rushed into hospital. Her prognosis: decidedly bleak. She wasn’t expected to live more than a few days. I was stunned. She may have been 92, but Nana was one spunky lady, surely the doctors had got it wrong? However the tone of Dad’s voice told me that this wasn’t the case. There was absolutely no question about my next move. I jumped on the first plane home. And mercifully, I made it back in time to kiss her goodbye.

Nana had been my rock. My guardian angel. My best friend. When she died, so did a little piece of me. That which remained found the grief simply too hard to handle.

So I hit the “fuck it” button.

Drink, drugs and drama ensued as I spiralled steadily into an imaginative cocktail of debauched depravity. I totally lost the plot. Two months later I turned 40. And that’s when I completely slid off the cliff, circled the drain and landed in a cesspit of despair.

Since then I’ve been in self-imposed exile. Interned in my duvet. A quilted hostage. I’ve tried to snap out of it. But neither medication nor meditation has so much as perforated my dark armour of woe.

If Nana were here now, she’d be force-feeding me Rugelach biscuits (these delicious, sugary squares of Jewish stodge that she often made for me) until I’d pulled myself together. But since she’s not here – and I don’t have her recipe – I crack out my credit card instead. Can India save me? Who knows. But I owe it to myself – and to Hilda – to go and find out.

One for the Road

2012-01-23T20:09:00.001-08:00

Although my decision to leave Mysore had been a bit of a kick, bollocks, scramble, I’d somehow managed to land a double berth all to myself on the last sleeper bus out. Given the short notice, I considered this a major victory. I had yet to travel in such style and the idea of whizzing across country while sprawled out on a flat bed really chimed with my inner Princess. I imagined it to be like travelling Virgin Upper Class, but on wheels. So naturally, I was bloody excited.

I was heading to the Southern-most tip of the country, to the ancient city of Madurai in Tamil Nadu, a 15-hour ride away. I was keen to immerse myself in some of the old Vedic charm that I witnessed when I first travelled to India and since Madurai was one of few places that had resisted the need to modernise, I was certain I’d find these traditions there in spades.

However, my enthusiasm for the journey was promptly skewered the moment I arrived at Mysore bus station. The place was in a state of sheer pandemonium. Hoards of people and huge piles of boxes, bags and containers filled every available patch of ground. The noise was ear splitting and there was an indeterminable stench about the place that I found quite alarming. Head-bearers were feverishly darting about with mountains of paraphernalia teetering atop their skulls, attempting to load their hauls on to one solitary bus, which sat at the centre of all this chaos. There was a palpable whiff of anger in the air. Clearly something major was going down. There was no way everyone and everything was going to make it on to that one vehicle.

There are times when having a full-blown hissy fit actually saves the day and I have to say without a shadow of doubt, this was one of them. I had sniffed trouble on the horizon and I was going to nip it in the bud. Pronto. Launching myself into the throng I headed towards an official looking bloke in a uniform. I gave him about 20 seconds to explain what was happening before I let rip with a repertoire of emotions that went from angry through terrified before settling snugly into downright distraught. That the previous bus had broken down and left a full compliment of passengers stranded was neither here nor there, I told him. I was getting on the damn bus. Come. What. May.

Suffice to say, that did the trick. I was jostled straight on. The problem was I was still armed with all my luggage. Evidently every inch of storage space had been packed to the hilt so I now had to hoik my rucksack, daypack, handbag and self into one compact upper berth. Nevertheless, with Herculean effort I managed to shoehorn us all in, although it did require an infeasible act of contortionism to actually lie down. This wasn’t ideal and I’m sure Richard Branson will be delighted to know that it was nothing like Virgin Upper Class. But at least I was on board and could now draw a curtain around me and shut out all the mayhem.

But of course, this was preposterously over-optimistic…

No sooner had I settled in than the curtain swished open and a lecherous looking Indian man stinking of whiskey and wee began climbing up to my bunk. Staggered by the man’s temerity I promptly entered what my friends call “diva mode”. This immediately caught the attention of the driver (and pretty much everyone else within earshot), who stomped over to see what the hoo-ha was about. I assumed he would summarily remove the man from my quarters. But no. Instead, he informed me that the man had in fact been assigned to share my cabin, since the bus now had a glut of passengers. I’m not quite sure what happened next but I think I must have had some kind of psychotic episode. I’m certain it can’t have been pretty. But my god, it was effective. And while I have no idea what happened to the man; which I now feel a small pang of guilt about; I was relieved that I didn’t have to contend with his foul-smelling fumes breathing down my neck for 15 hours.

With the neurotic white lady satisfactorily appeased and securely restrained under her colossal tower of luggage, the driver deemed his carrier good to go. On came the customary loud Hindi music as the peddle hit the metal and with a few toots of the horn, we were finally on our way.

Two hours later, the shit hit the fan...quite literally.

I began to experience a series of sharp stabbing pains in my stomach, which rapidly gave way to waves of debilitating agony. Dinner had come back to haunt me. It wanted out and I realised to my horror that it had more than just one exit strategy in mind. I was on a bus cruising at around 100km per hour. I was pinned down to a flat bed by 3 incredibly heavy bags. I had already caused a massive stink just boarding the bus and I was now about to create an altogether smellier one if I didn’t get myself off.

A mix of fear and panic coursed through me, releasing a stream of adrenaline and with surprising ease I shrugged off the hulk of baggage I was buried under, leapt from my bunk like an Olympian hurdler and raced to the front of the bus. The wild look in my eye told the driver everything he needed to know. He hit the breaks and without further ado I shot out the door. Lurching into pitch-darkness, I found a spot on the side of the road and proceeded to projectile explode from both ends. I couldn’t see a thing, which was probably just as well as I’m pretty sure that what was being expelled was hitting me rather than the ground I was pitifully trying to target.

I must have looked a real fright by the time I hobbled back aboard. I felt weak, dizzy and exhausted and I honked to high heaven. So when the driver offered to assist me back to my bunk, I was pathetically grateful. Had I known his support would include slipping two fingers between my legs as he “helped” me up to my berth, I would have most certainly refused. But despite my frailty I did manage to flick a well-placed kick to his chin once I’d reached the top, just to thank him for his efforts.

In the short time I’d spent on that bus, I’d successfully alienated pretty much all the passengers and caused some mild bodily harm to the driver. I’d infected the entire vehicle with an unshakeable aroma of shit and vomit and prompted a significant delay to the journey. We still had another 12 hours to go before we reached Madurai and I knew neither my bowels nor stomach would hold out that long. Since things really weren’t boding too well I decided there was only one thing for it. Sleeping pills. So I necked 4 and prayed for oblivion.

Drenched with sweat and doubled over in pain, I awoke some hours later to discover that the bus had stopped. I assumed that the driver had pulled over for a scheduled toilet break, so I shakily swung down from my bunk and headed for the door. Still half asleep, I disembarked…and staggered straight into the path of oncoming traffic. The bus hadn’t stopped as much as completely conked out…in the fast lane of a motorway.

Nothing shakes you to your senses quite like the sight of a car hurtling straight for you. Mercifully, my faculties kicked in and I scooched out of harm’s way with just seconds to spare. Near death wasn’t exactly something I’d been expecting when I’d stepped off the bus that morning. The incident seriously scared the shit out of me...and I’m not talking figuratively here.

I really did crap myself.

Flushed with shame I staggered off to sort myself out. This was another fine mess I’d gotten myself into – but I placed the blame firmly on the driver and KPN Travels, the bus company who’d hired him. I mean, what sort of fool leaves his bus in the fast lane while he crawls under to tinker with the chassis? It was a miracle this gross act of stupidity didn’t cause a serious pile-up. I swear I’ll never travel with that bus company again. But save my knickers – and my pride – absolutely no damage was done.

It took about an hour before the bus was road-worthy again and although I desperately wanted to give the driver a piece of my mind, I felt and smelt hideous. So I remained tight-lipped. I only had to hang on a few more hours before this nightmare was over. But that was a few hours too many as far as my fellow passengers were concerned.

The rancid aroma I was emitting was simply more than they could take and I pretty much incited a small rebellion. At the first opportunity the driver bowed to pressure and I was ejected on the outskirts of Madurai. I was too ill to argue, so I heaved my bags and self off and flagged down a rickshaw. It wasn’t until the bus pulled away that I realised I’d left my most treasured possession on board. My Macbook Air!

I was convinced it was a goner but I instructed my rickshaw driver to “follow that bus” anyway and he obligingly set off in hot pursuit. We chased that damn vehicle for over a half an hour before we managed to bring it to a stop. The look of shock on everyone’s faces when I got back on board was unmistakeable. But I didn’t give hoot. The only thing I cared about was my computer.

And while I may have lost my dignity and my own body weight in poo and puke on that lousy road trip, you’ll be pleased to know the one thing I didn’t lose was my beloved apple mac.

Holy Shit

2011-12-28T22:55:00.000-08:00

I don’t know if it’s because I walk around in a bubble of blissful unawareness or I’m just plain stupid, but holy shit, I honestly didn’t see what happened today coming. Its now 2am and I’m packing my bags. In just under 2 hours I’ll be doing a moonlit flit. I really don’t want to leave Mysore. But frankly, I don’t think I have any other choice.

Let me explain…

Since meeting Sammy 5 days ago, I’ve been catapulted into a jet stream of activity. I’ve seen every sight this vibrant city has to offer, including a Sandelwood factory where I discovered how essential oils and inscence sticks are made; a “Bidi” cigarette factory – where I got to hand-roll a few smokes of my own; and countless palaces, temples, museums and lakes. Mysore has made a huge impression on me. And thanks to the rickshaw driver that Sammy fixed me up with, I’ve managed to make a pretty big impact on Mysore…as it turned out Master Blaster was so-called for very good reason. With a ridiculously oversized sound system wired into his rickshaw, he’d blare the Spice Girls’ “Wannabe” at full pelt, while delighting in all the distress this caused the locals. It was his clarion call and I have to say, I did come to enjoy the layer of absurdity this bubble gum pop song added to our adventures.

I had really struck gold with Master Blaster and Sammy. These two crazy blokes not only brought a sense of fun and mischief to all my exploits, they also gave me a fantastic entree into Mysore’s throbbing social scene and before long I found myself ensconced in a great circle of new friends. Among them was a guy called Sayed. He was swarthy and subdued, but also really smart. We had loads in common – not least a passion for yoga, so we started going to classes together twice a day. They were sheer torture and we quickly bonded over a mutual dislike for Jai, our masochistic Ashtanga instructor. We spent loads of time together – taking long rides out into the countryside on his bike to watch the sunset; or wiling our afternoons away sprawled out on hammocks, chatting conspiratorially as we sipped coconut juice out of the husk. I liked Sayed…but what I didn’t realise was he really liked me…a lot…and this would soon become a bit of a problem.

I’d established a great routine for myself. Mind, body and soul were being equally spoilt rotten, thanks to all the sightseeing, socialising and sun salutations I was doing. I felt happy and relaxed for the first time since arriving in India. In fact, I was planning to extend my stay in Mysore and enrol on an intensive programme to improve my yoga. I’d even found a great house share near the school and was looking forward to moving into a proper home where I could cook and chill-out amongst a small community of like-minded students. But it was around this point that I began to notice a curious shift in Sayed’s behaviour.

It was a subtle change at first and it only became apparent when we were around other people, when a dark veil of sullenness would descend on him and he’d become unusually aloof. It was almost as if he resented anyone else interacting with me. I found it a little intense but assumed that if I didn’t pay it much attention his mood would just evaporate. But it didn’t. In fact, as the days rolled by Sayed underwent a full-blown personality transplant. The meek, mellow man whose company I’d initially wallowed in had morphed into a passive aggressive control freak and it was all getting just a little bit claustrophobic for my liking.

So today, I decided I needed some time out. Waking just before sunrise, I headed 13km out of Mysore to nose around Chamundi, one of India’s most sacred Hindu temples. Situated on a steep hill, some 3,500 feet above sea level, this magnificent 16^th century shrine presides serenely over the city and offers some seriously stunning views. So rather than drive up in a rickshaw, I opted to climb the 2000 near vertical steps to the top instead…a decision I came to regret when about halfway up I found myself coated in a thick film of sweat and on the verge of a cardiac arrest. Nevertheless, the panoramic vista really was to die for, as too was the self-congratulatory cigarette I smoked when I finally reached the summit.

I don’t know if it was the high altitude, the breath-taking scenery or some kind of spontaneous outbreak of religiosity, but within minutes of arriving, I managed to transform myself into a total temple tourist twat. Shrouded in a wreath of saffron flowers, with a blotch of red dye planted on the centre of my forehead and wrists covered in symbolic woven bracelets, it was like a Hindu bomb had been detonated and I was ground zero. And the amount of money I shelled out for all this holy shit was astonishing. Still, it made me feel tons better and I returned to the city with a renewed spring in my step.

Had I known that a few hours later I was to find myself in one major shit sandwich situation, I might very well have remained at that temple on the hill permanently. Instead, like a grief- seeking missile on a trajectory bound for trouble, I headed off to meet Sammy and the gang for dinner.

We were dining at Sammy’s favourite bolthole, a multi-cuisine rooftop restaurant just a short walk away from my hotel. I’d been there a few times, it was always really buzzy and I liked the food - they served the best dosas I’d ever tasted. I was really looking forward to basking in the company of my colourful friends after a day of self-imposed exile and I felt a warm rush of excitement when I arrived to find that a large group of them were already there. I spotted a spare seat next to Sayed, so I took up my position and joined in with the banter. They were in jovial spirits and I was tickled to see that Sammy had really pushed the boat out with his wardrobe - teaming a shiny, white satin shirt with a pair of purple harem pants, which he’d offset with a yellow bandana across his head. He looked like the illegitimate love child of Omar Sharif and Captain Pugwash, and his mood was equally as flamboyant. He held fort for most of the night, keeping us entertained with highly improbable stories of excess and iniquity as a guest at some Maharaja or another’s palace in Bombay.

Unfortunately, Sayed’s mood wasn’t quite as ebullient. While the rest of the table was chatting and snacking hungrily, Sayed refused to eat and barely uttered a word. In fact, he just sat there staring at me. I found the whole thing very disconcerting. Even when I asked if anything was wrong, I didn’t get much more than a grunt out of him. So I decided to enlist Sammy’s help and excused myself from the table so the two men could talk. When I returned, I sensed something very strange had gone down – now everyone at the table was staring at me and talking gingerly among themselves in Hindi. I had no idea what was going on. And that’s when the weird-o-meter cranked up yet another notch…suddenly and completely out of the blue Sayed sprang to life and started firing a volley of truly peculiar questions at me. “What’s my favourite pizza topping?” “What music do I like to dance to?” “Do I like poetry?” I was completely baffled!

And then the penny dropped…Sayed was trying to hit on me…albeit in a rather clumsy way. Worse still, I realised that everyone else at the table knew and had been egging him on. I was mortified. I spent the rest of the night trying to remain serene and unfazed by Sayed’s romantic overtures, but then Sammy stepped in and made things super-uncomfortable, not just for me, but for everyone at the table. On Sayed’s behalf, he declared love and then proceeded to discuss wedding plans for us both. I’m not sure who was more embarrassed, me or Sayed, but I knew I had to get out of there…get out of Mysore…

So now I’m getting ready to skulk out of town. Call me a coward, but I just don’t have the heart to tell Sayed I don’t fancy him. I know I’m going to miss my new friends, but I’ve learned one important lesson from all of this – sometimes it’s easier just going it alone.

Mum's the Word

2011-12-07T04:52:00.000-08:00

When I first passed my driving test, my Mother told me to “always keep up with the car in front”. A week later, I wrote my car off by ploughing it straight through a car showroom window. Mum tends to be pretty lousy when it comes to life advice, but yesterday, in a dark and lonely moment, I threw caution to the wind and called her. For once, she made total sense.

She said, “Darling, if you don’t change direction, you may end up where you’re heading”.

I’d travelled to India to find a small town called happy. But so far, no matter where I went, I kept ending up in a cul-de-sac of discontent. So I decided to do as Mum said and change track. It was time to turn the frown upside down.

Mysore is famed for its magnificent palaces, its sacred temples and for being the home of Ashtanga Yoga. It’s a place where “mind, body and soul can come to their senses” and it seemed like the perfect spot for me to knock all three of mine back in line. I decided to fuel my brain first. I was hungry for a bit of Indian history and culture, so I headed for the imposing 3-storied, marbled domed edifice that sat on the opposite side of the road to my hotel. Mysore Palace.

Given the proximity, I assumed getting there would be a synch. But yet again I’d forgotten…nothing in India is ever straightforward. It turned out that the Palace – the third largest in the country – spanned no less than 8 blocks and you needed a PHD in Orienteering just to find the way in. Mercifully, a man called Sammy saved my day.

I was wrestling with an origami of map, trying to solve the “where the hell is the entrance” conundrum when Sammy bounced over and chivalrously offered to show me the way. I quickly discovered that like Nihal, my go-to guy from Mumbai, Sammy was an orifice of local knowledge and in the 10 minutes that we were together, he gave me the entire potted history of Mysore, along with a long list of sights for me to see. Sammy was an ebullient bundle of energy who talked without pause. But his warmth and generosity floored me.

As too did his sense of personal style. On the one hand he characterised all that was typically Indian – he sported a Bindu (the dot of dye you see many Hindus wearing between their eyebrows) along with the obligatory bushy moustache, and he did that funny head wiggle thing that most people over here do; but he also wore a Nike baseball cap – back-to-front, low slung jeans and slogan t-shirt that read “I Do All My Own Stunts”. He was a kooky confusion of East and West. But I thought he was magic. In fact, I was really quite sad when we arrived at the gates and I had to say goodbye to him. His parting shot was to fix me up with Mustafa, Mysore’s “most legendary tour guide”.

Mustafa had been showing visitors around the Palace for eons and knew the place like the back of his hand. The only drawback was that, saving 2 upper incisors, he was totally toothless. So while I was completely bewitched by the grandeur of the Palace’s 19^th century architecture and its treasure trove of art, jewellery and costumes, I might have enjoyed it a little more had I been able to make sense of Mustafa’s running commentary…and spared the jet spray of saliva that accompanied it. Still, what he lacked in verbal dexterity, he certainly made up for in the way he manoeuvred his eyebrows. They operated almost independently of him and every twitch, flick and spasm conveyed a world of meaning. They alone built a bridge of understanding between us. In fact, these two animated tufts of unruly hair had me absolutely transfixed!

And I had to hand it to him - Mustafa was fastidiously thorough in his work. He wouldn’t rest until I had investigated every inch of the Palace and its surrounding 36 acres. He held me captive for the entire afternoon. But I relished every second. By the time I limped out of the gates, I was completely frazzled and desperate to zonk out in the air-conditioned splendour of my hotel room.

Sammy, however, had other ideas.

I can’t imagine how long he must have waited for me, but as I exited the Palace gates, there he was. He’d apparently spent the day phone bashing every contact in his address book and was now itching to reveal the various plans he’d made for me. I was gobsmacked. The man had gone into overdrive – he’d scored me a week’s worth of free Ashtanga yoga classes, secured private visits to both a silk and sandalwood factory, booked me a complimentary Ayurvedic consultation and now wanted to usher me over to meet a rickshaw driver who went by the name of “Master Blaster”.

So much for my quiet night in. My time in Mysore was about to get seriously mental. But it felt like it was a step in the right direction.

What Goes Up Must Come Down

2011-11-19T21:03:00.000-08:00

I’d been pestered in Bombay and pissed on in Pondicherry. So I needed my next move to be a good one. I’d read about this botanical paradise that was discretely tucked away in a small corner of the Nilgiris mountains, some 2,240 metres above sea level. It was said to feature some of the most jaw-dropping scenery imaginable, earning it the accolade of “Queen of Hill Stations”. It was called Oooty and it sounded Ootylicious!

I’d bravely decided to throw myself at the mercy of India’s idiosyncratic public transport system. So getting there was going to a major mission. I would be crossing country from East to West, covering around 500 km of ground and this 15-hour sortie involved a complex choreography of connecting timetables that left little room for error. I would be catching 2 different buses, and then grabbing a “toy train” (which sounded irresistible), that offered breath-taking views of the mountainous climb towards my destination.

Kumar, my trusty taxi driver dispatched me at Pondicherry bus station and wisely took further measures to ensure I boarded the right bus. I was travelling through the night to Coimbatore – a 10-hour trip, which with help of an eye mask, earplugs and a few tabs of Tamazipam, I managed to comfortably wile away in a sensory deprived coma.

Unfortunately, my blissed out state also rendered me completely ignorant to the huge kerfuffle that had unfolded during the journey. Yet again, the monsoon had been up to no good and unbeknownst to me had blighted our course with a series of detours and delays. It was only when I awoke as the bus was pulling into Coimbatore that I discovered we were running 5 hours behind schedule. And this spelt huge trouble for me.

I had not only missed my next bus, but every other available mode of public transport travelling anywhere near to my next destination that day. I was stuck in Bumblefuck in the pouring rain. I was on a sleeping pill comedown. And I had the world’s heaviest rucksack strapped to my back. Needless to say, I totally lost it.

And then I grabbed a cab.

Call me a moron magnet, but given that I had an entire rank of taxi drivers to choose from, I’m not sure how I managed to end up with the one idiot who couldn’t direct his way out of a paper bag. But somehow, I did. Cue 8 excruciating hours of watching Dhikshit (honest, that really was my driver’s name) gormlessly attempt to handle steep, narrow ghat roads, with nothing more than a small statue of Shiva dangling from his rear view mirror to guide him.

It was clear from his zigzag method of steering that he was woefully out of his depth and I wasn’t sure whether it would be a fall from the sheer cliff edge to the left of us, or a full-frontal collision with the traffic hurtling towards us on our right that would spell our untimely end. Either way I was convinced we’d never make it to Ooty alive. It was at this point that I began to hurl a volley of abuse at Dhikshit, but he remained remarkably unperturbed and continued to drive like a dick wizard.

As day turned to night, the heavens predictably opened up, unleashing not only a torrent of rain but an impenetrable cloud of thick fog too. The extraordinary views I’d read so much about were rendered indistinguishable. All I could see were amorphous, wet, fuzzy shadows. And the higher we climbed the colder it became. This definitely wasn’t the right climate for cropped leggings, a t-shirt and flip-flops.

This was a torture tour from hell.

It was around 1am when we finally passed a road sign welcoming us to Ooty. By now relations between Dhikshit and I had become about as frosty as the weather, so to lighten the mood I offered him a cigarette and we breathed a collective smoky sigh of relief. The end was now in sight. All we had to do was find “The Lotus Hotel” and then we could go our separate ways.

Bearing in mind that Ooty was a one-horse town comprising just 2 main streets, I assumed this wouldn’t take us long. However, I’d completely overlooked a tiny, yet significant detail. Dhikshit was a dunderhead…

We spent the best part of an hour driving around in circles before I managed to persuade the hotel manager to leave his post on reception and wave us in from the side of the road. But what I found when we finally arrived was enough to make me want to jump right back in the car and have Dhikshit take me back to where we started. The Lotus Hotel was a squalid, smelly scuzzhole. Even Dhikshit looked palpably alarmed. But I was too cold and tired to give a shit, so I checked in anyway.

Despite going to bed wearing every single item of clothing I possessed, the arctic temperature of my room combined with a constant sound of random clanking and the odious smell of wee kept me from my sleep that night. I arose the next day firmly decided - I was getting the hell out of Ooty.

I had marked Mysore as the next destination on my hit list for 2 key reasons: Google had indicated that it was significantly warmer there and mercifully, it was just a 2-hour cab ride away. However, if my journey up the mountain was painful, it was nowhere near as horrendous as the one I was about to suffer on the way back down.

In spite of my fatigue, I was filled with trepidation for my onward voyage, as the route was to take me right through Bandipur – one of India’s largest and most celebrated wildlife reserves. Home to around 70 tigers, 3000 Asian elephants, as well as leopards, dholes and bears (oh my) – I was promised a rare treat. Unfortunately, I managed to saddle myself with a cab driver so unpleasant; he made Dhikshit seem like a dream.

From the get-go I sensed that my presence in this man’s car was hugely offensive as he drove with the kind of determination that indicated he wanted me out of his car in the fastest time possible. With scant regard for my safety he approached his mission as if he were a player in some kind of twisted Super Mario Brothers video game, scoring points for every car he overtook and a special bonus for completing this feat while honking his horn as he negotiated one of the 36 hairpin bends that punctuated our descent. Needless to say all I saw as we careered through Bandipur at an average of 120 km per hour was an ambiguous blur of what might have been a monkey’s arse.

Not even the major pile-up we witnessed en route would slow my demented lunatic driver down. And calling him a twat only served to provoke him further. Nevertheless, we managed to shave a good 40 minutes off the journey, pulling into Mysore in a record 1 hour and 20 minutes. Our mutual pleasure of parting company was the only positive thing we shared from the whole buttock clenching experience. And as I limped away, I prayed to every Hindu God going that Mysore would be worth the atrocious 48 hours I’d just endured.

Welcome to Auroville

2011-11-09T21:10:00.000-08:00

Ok, so I was stuck in some kind of Bohemian bad dream, in weather that made Hurricane Katrina seem like a light shower. I was confined to a room with a fan that made a horrible thrumming sound every time it rotated and thanks to this unthinkable eco-toilet contraption in my bathroom, I had spent the past 48 hours being forced to endure the stench of my own excreta. Yes my friends, I really was knee-deep in shit. But I was not going to let this defeat me.

Convinced there was more to this place than the pseudo-spiritual bullshit I’d encountered so far, I made plans to escape. I want to discover the real Auroville and meet a cooler group of people than the woolly sock and sandal set that I was currently being held captive with.

I headed over to reception to see if I could get someone to shed a little light on the situation but all I got were a few hostile grunts about the monsoon buggering everything up. No shit, Sherlock.

I was about to give up and succumb to another day of staring at the four walls of my insect-ridden room, when I spotted a small poster on a nearby noticeboard advertising the services of a local guide called Ganesh. Perfect. I called the number listed and got through to a very chirpy sounding fellow. He spoke perfect English, which was a first and I was delighted when he agreed to come and pick me up later that day. Halle-frickin-lujah!

We’d arranged to meet at 1pm outside the front gate of my hotel. So at 1pm sharp I waded over and took up my position. The rain was lashing down, but I didn’t care. A few minutes later, I spotted a man trudging up the path. I promptly launched myself at him, repeatedly shrieking “Ganesh?” but neither his confused reaction nor his complete inability to comprehend me would convince me he was anyone other my man. He was carrying a hose, which I thought was a bit odd. It was only when he stomped off indignantly, muttering something in Hindi under his breath that the penny dropped. He was the hotel gardener and I’d scared seven shades of shit out of him.

Undeterred, I returned to my waiting post and proceeded to scream “Ganesh?” at pretty much everything that moved, including a toothless old woman, a small child and two stray dogs. Half an hour later, feeling hoarse and wetter than an otter’s pocket, I was about to throw in the towel, when I heard the roar of an approaching motorbike. Ganesh had finally arrived. Togged up to the teeth in Gortex, looking like some kind of hermetically sealed swashbuckler, he beckoned me on to the back of his bike.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I sort of expected my guide to turn up in something with a few more wheels…and a roof. I’ve never been on a bike before, nor have I ever had the inclination to give the experience a go. But I hopped on anyway. And so, clinging to Ganesh’s waist like a fossilised limpet, my white-knuckle tour of Auroville began.

We travelled the length and breadth of the city for nearly 2 hours, passing through thriving villages with affected names like “Tranquility”, “Serenity” and “Acceptance”, taking in the mixed landscape which stretched through forest and woods, across rivers and lakes, right the way down to the beach overlooking the Bay of Bengal. Unfortunately, a combination of g-force, the forbidding wall of rain, along with the thwacking sound my wet hair made every time it hit my face, rendered Ganesh pretty inaudible, so I had no idea what he was trying to tell me about these places. Still, I found the whole thing exhilarating.

The key site on Ganesh’s itinerary was a whacking great golden sphere, which looked as though it was literally rising out of the earth. It was called “Matramandir” and it was located in a suburb called “Peace”. Covered in 2 million discs of 24-carat gold leaf it was one of the most jaw-dropping structures I had ever seen. It was the vision of Auroville’s founder, a woman they referred to as the “Mother” and I was told it represents the soul of the city, where Aurovillans could come and “find their consciousness”. It was magnificent and I wanted to go in. But the blasted monsoon had put paid to that too. It was closed.

I was a sopping, filthy mess. Clumps of matted, wet hair had congealed into a kind of soggy wet helmet, which delivered a rather endearing frame for my mud-spattered face. And I was particularly delighted that my sodden form was now a huge source of amusement for Ganesh. But taking pity on me, he suggested we stop at the Visitor’s Centre so that I could freshen up and relax over a cup of hot chai. The impact of my grand entrance into the crowded café was instant – I literally turned heads as I squished my way through the place. A few weeks ago this would have paralysed me with embarrassment, but amazingly, I was perfectly comfortable with all the strange looks I was getting. In fact I didn’t give a tinker’s cuss!

I was really starting to warm to Ganesh too. He was smart, funny and seemed a lot older and wiser than his 26 years. He was really striking – and pretty tall for an Indian, with a perfect set of flawless white teeth. He cut quite a dash. I found out that he had been born and raised here and over the years had seen countless, Western enlightenment chasers come and go. He kept his opinion of them fairly neutral and said he liked his life here. But I could tell he was starting to find it all a bit claustrophobic. He wanted to experience the world beyond and was hungry for the details of my life in the UK. We spent hours chatting and drinking chai - Ganesh was wonderful company.

We set off for my guesthouse as the sun was setting. The rain had stopped, so we rode at a leisurely pace, taking in the colourful landscape. Auroville really was a beautiful place. I wanted to pay Ganesh for his time, but he was having none of it. We were friends now, he told me.

And Thanks to my new friend, I had had the best day in India so far. I still found Auroville a bit peculiar, but I was beginning to quite like it here. Nevertheless, the monsoon was driving me crazy. I decided it was time to move on. With plans to escape the rain, I went to bed. Tomorrow I would head for the hills.

Don't Worry, Be Hippy

2011-11-03T21:13:00.000-07:00

Desperate to indulge in something a bit more soulful after the brashness of Bombay, I decided to seek out a place called Auroville, an eco-community-cum-social experiment, situated 160km south of Chennai. Way more ambitious than some happy-clappy ashram, this was a universal city in the making, a place where people from all over the world could come and live, “in peace and progressive harmony”. And it sounded right up my strasse.

I was in no mood to faff around with trains and buses. So I opted for indulgence and booked a flight to Chennai and arranged to have a private car scoop me up at the other end so that I could be dispatched to my destination in style. Not exactly slumming it, but I could feel my inner diva stirring and I needed to do something to placate her.

I was on the road again. And I was full of anticipation.

I found Kumar my driver waiting for me as I entered the airport arrivals hall. In fact, he was pretty hard to miss. Armed with a ginormous sign emblazoned with “ Miss Kelly” in large bubble letters, he’d clearly given the task of identifying himself to me much thought and I have to say I was really quite dazzled by his efforts. Kumar literally had me at “hello”. With equal aplomb he maneuvered me into the air-conditioned splendor of his Fiat Padmini and within moments we were on our way. Seconds after that, I was fast asleep.

My peaceful slumber was rudely interrupted some two hours later by a deafening rumble of thunder as a jagged bolt of lightening transformed my bleary eyes into dilated saucers of shock. Raindrops the size of golf balls were hurling down with such force, I thought Kumar’s already somewhat precarious Padmini might split in half. An insouciant “this is monsoon season, Miss Kelly” was Kumar’s only mollification as he continued to career through the deluge at full tilt. Brilliant.

I’d chosen to stay in a gorgeous looking guesthouse comprised of a series of wooden cabins spread out across a verdant landscape. It was located in a district of Auroville called “Certitude”. But the only thing I was certain of when I finally arrived to find my shack submerged in water and the local mosquito population taking shelter in my room, was that my decision to come here had been one giant mistake.

The mozzies had a feeding frenzy that night and I felt like a piece of human sushi. I barely slept a wink. When I arose the next day I was itchier than a whore’s va-j-j and covered in angry red welts. My prayers for better weather, had remained unanswered too – it was still bucketing down and it didn’t seem like it would be stopping any time soon.

I was hungry for food and some human company. Intrigued by what I would find on both counts, I decided to brave the rain and set off in search of the dining hall. This proved to be an epic expedition that not even Sherpa Tenzing would have taken lightly and along the way I encountered a snake the size of a house, several rat like critters (which I later discovered were mongoose) and a couple of crabs (although we were inland, miles away from the coast). By the time I finally located the dining hall, I was a jangle of nerves and sweatier than a fat bird in a sauna. I’d lost my appetite – and frankly, my will to live – but I headed inside, hoping to find some comfort and companionship from my fellow guests.

What I found however was a bunch of tree-hugging eco-wankers, swaddled in robes or some other wafty, hemp-based ensemble. I was in hippy hell. Auroville had been hi-jacked by the white, middle class new age brigade and thanks to the monsoon, I had no way of escaping these hippy, hippy fakes.

Shanti Shanti

2011-11-01T06:01:00.000-07:00

Bombay is a bitch. Every day, she finds new ways to wind me up, piss me off or utterly let me down. Take yesterday for example – I wanted to escape the oppressive heat of the city, so I headed to Juhu, to what the Lonely Planet confidently describes as the “best beach in Bombay”. I figured a day of sunbathing and taking in the fresh sea air would be just the tonic. Unfortunately, the rest of the city had exactly the same idea and I arrived to a scene reminiscent of the D-Day landings.

Nevertheless, I rallied forth and eked out a small postage stamp of unoccupied sand. Within moments I’d managed to make myself a sitting target for every hawker in the vicinity. Normally, I relish the opportunity to haggle and bag myself a nice little bargain, but the traders on this patch came armed with an array of such meaningless tat, I was simply lost for words. I mean, who in their right mind would actually buy a ludicrously oversized balloon or a lurid coloured plastic flute, which when played sounds like a saxophone? But no amount of demurring would stop these opportunists from disturbing me. In the end, I decided to go for a stroll and throw them off that way. Bad move. I became the Pied Piper of Juhu with a stream of these bastards trailing in my wake.

It was clearly time for me to leave. So I began to scramble up the beach, not really looking at where I was going. In my haste I plunged straight into a stream of fetid water. Searching for the source, I discovered a pipe running down the length of the beach from street to sea. It was a sewer. I was standing in a honking pool of Bombay poo. I was mortified.

Soggy, smelly and stressed I flagged down a rickshaw and demanded he return me to my hotel on the double. But what should have been a simple 10-minute ride turned into the journey from hell. Not only did the driver not have the foggiest idea of how to get around his own flipping city, he couldn’t speak a word of English. It took 2 hours before a semblance of understanding was reached, and even then, we needed to recruit several passers by into giving us directions. By the time I squelched through the lobby of the hotel I was hot-faced and harassed. And I reeked to high heaven. If this was some kind of cosmic joke, then I needed someone to come up with a better punch line.

Even so, I awoke today with renewed resolve. I was desperate to find something in the city that could endow me with a few fond memories. So I decided to indulge in some good old-fashioned tourism. I headed to Colaba, where there’s a surfeit of sights to feast on and I made my way to The Gate of India. This majestic monument overlooking the Arabian Sea commemorates the inaugural visit of King George V in 1911 and according to the Lonely Planet it was well worth a visit. But yet again, my trusty backpackers’ Bible and I did not seem to be singing from the same hymn sheet. I didn’t really understand what was so interesting about this whacking great big arch but I followed the crowd and circumnavigated it anyway. About 60 seconds later, I’d pretty much squeezed all there was to get from this landmark and hot-footed it off to escape the hoards and the sweltering heat. I was pissed off. This had been yet another pointless waste of my time and energy.

I stomped through streets in search of an appropriate establishment to recover and rehydrate in. But most places were shut. It was the day before Diwali and many of the locals had taken the day off to stock up on the essential arsenal of fireworks expected for this “Festival of Light”. Only the desperate few remained open for trade – and they were so filthy, you could guarantee that most of the drinks on offer came with a complementary dose of cholera.

I had been walking around in circles for what felt like an eternity and was dangerously close losing it. The expression on my face resembled something akin to a slapped arse. And that’s when I met Raol.

Beaming from ear to ear, he greeted me like we were old friends and when he found out I was from London he proceeded to completely confuse me by asking how Helen, David and Simon were. I curtly responded by saying that London was a big place and as I was in no mood for pleasantries, I attempted to sidestep him, but he was having none of it. He’d already determined to talk to me and no amount of body swerving or blanking was going to deter him. Astute enough to see that I was in distress he offered to buy me chai. Too tired and parched to resist, I shrugged off all caution and blindly followed him into a local Indian canteen.

It was a gamble worth taking as this “Romeo from Rajasthan” as I now like to refer to him, not only provided tea and sympathy, he also imparted the secret to a time honoured tradition for handling the madness of India. It goes by the name of “Shanti Shanti” and it loosely means, “just go with the flow”.

So I’ve decided to pack up my troubles and fly my flow the hell out of Bombay. I’m heading South, to a place called Pondicherry, first thing tomorrow, where I hear the weather is as sunny as the people. And I intend to shanti shanti my ass off, every step of the way.

My Friend Vinny

2011-10-30T23:05:00.000-07:00

It’s been 4 days since I arrived in Bombay and I just can’t seem get into the swing of things. Don’t get me wrong – there have been some amazing highlights. Watching the sunset over Chowpatty beach was pretty awesome; sampling the city’s culinary delights without so much as a whiff of the squits has been a huge victory; and I’m particularly tickled by the huge interest I’m attracting from the locals. I can’t seem to so much as walk up the road without being stared or pointed at. I’ve even been asked to have my photo taken with some of them! You’d have thought they’d never seen a blonde-haired, white girl before.

On the downside, my jet lag hasn’t shown any signs of abating and while insomnia and I may be familiar bedfellows, not even I can tolerate this much sleep deprivation. So yesterday I decided enough was enough. It was time to call in the cavalry…

My friend Vinny is a budding Bollywood writer/director and he’d come out here a few weeks ago to do a bit of moving and shaking. Vin’s a sweet and sensitive kinda guy and I felt sure he’d be able to soothe my soul and get me back on track. We met for dinner at a bistro in Bandra, Bombay’s swanky media district and we wiled away the hours chewing the fat and the fine food while watching all the beautiful people go by.

Afterwards, we set off in search of a mobile phone store as I desperately needed to save on the extortionate costs I was clocking up on my Blackberry. And that’s when I met Nihal. The man was a telecoms genius. Within minutes he had me up and running, having negotiated all the boring paperwork, liaised with the network and even sorted me out with a few cool ring tones. I was now the proud owner of a charming retro brick of a phone and I was bloody impressed. I liked Nihal and I knew his can-do spirit would come in handy. I determined then and there that I would be back to mine his marvellous mind…and I’ve since dropped by to quiz him on everything from where to eat to who to go to for travel tickets – I’ve even asked for his steer on the best brand of laxatives (but that’s a whole other story).

It had been a great night. Vinny had done the trick. I had the spring back in my step. So I decided to reward his efforts with a nightcap back at my hotel. But that’s when the happy-go-lucky Vinny suddenly transformed into the voice of gloom and doom. For 30 minutes without pause, my normally sunshiney friend regaled me with every horror story and rip-off scam that Bombay had going. So now I know that I should never, ever step into the back of a Bombay police van, even if I’m directly requisitioned to; walking on the city’s pavements is a major no-no as that’s where the local rats like to hang; only the plain stupid and mentally deranged actually eat the fish here – oh, and blonde-haired women are widely regarded as prostitutes by the local population (so that explains all the attention I’ve been getting).

By the time I made it to bed, my head was spinning. Thanks to Vinny, I knew I was in for yet another sleepless night.

Bombay or Bust?

2011-10-26T21:49:00.000-07:00

I’m a heavy smoker with an irrational fear of flying so I wasn’t exactly jumping for joy at the prospect of my long flight to Bombay. But with a full box of Nicorette patches and enough sleeping pills to sedate an army, I managed to endure the journey without too many altercations.

As I stepped off the aircraft and began the marathon pilgrimage towards passport control, baggage reclaim and beyond, I felt a Zen-like calm wash over me – I had come this far without so much as a hint of a hissy fit. I gave myself a great big mental pat on the back. This was personal growth - the perfect start to my Indian Slummer adventure.

Alas, this newfound composure wasn’t to last.

I’ve been to India before, in 1994 during a summer break from Uni. But back then I didn’t have a clue about just how poverty stricken this country was. It had taken me a good 3 weeks to acclimatise – I had never seen or smelt a place quite like it. I remember being utterly overwhelmed as I took in the sights of people brazenly shitting into open sewers and whole families living cheek-by-jowl in makeshift huts by the sides of busy roads. I thought these images would be forever etched in my psyche. But I guess 18 years is a long time.

As my Kamikaze cab driver carved a suicidal swathe through oncoming traffic and hurtled headlong into the cacophonic chaos of downtown Bombay towards my hotel, the memories of ’94 came flooding back. Suddenly, I felt bitch slapped by the reality of my situation. The idyllic India bubble had burst leaving behind a knot of anxiety and panic.

I’ve now checked in at my hotel. It’s basic, but clean. I can’t really complain. I’ve managed to calm myself down. But still, as I lie on this strange bed, coated in cold sweat and smoking like a Russian prostitute, I find myself utterly confounded. What on earth am I doing here? Who am I trying to kid? I’m too old to change. Queen of Serene? Me? My arse!

Who Am I?

2011-10-25T20:56:00.000-07:00

Most people would call me high maintenance. From my carefully coiffed curls to my manicured toes, I like things to be just so. And when it comes to dirt, mess, even the faintest whiff of anything remotely funky, I turn virtually apoplectic. To call me a diva is an understatement - I’m a fully-fledged, tiara-toting, pampered princess. So when I decided to jack in my top-notch job and sign up for a 3-month backpacking tour of India; my friends and family thought I’d completely lost the plot. Nevertheless, here I am.

You’d be forgiven for thinking that I’ve come here to “find myself” – after all, I’m pushing 40, divorced, childless and I won’t lie to you, I’m more than a little bit jaded by way my life has unfolded so far. But actually, I’m not in the slightest bit lost. I know exactly who I am. I just don’t particularly like myself. I’ve tried therapy, spirituality and seriously considered cosmetic surgery. But the monotonous hum of self-loathing continues to form the soundtrack to my life. I could carry on crying into my cornflakes, but I don’t think “victim” is a look an almost 40 year old should rock.

So I’ve swapped my skinny jeans and stacked heels for some baggy bottoms and a pair of flip-flops. I’ve scraped off the make-up that masks my misery, surrendered my curls to a thicket of wild and unruly frizz and become an Indian Slummer. I feel naked and alone and for the first time in my life I’m facing up to myself. I really don’t like what I see, but I’m hoping a lot will change in the next 3 months.