One Billion Indians Can't Be Wrong

The South

Despite being the single biggest employer in the world, the Indian Railway Company didn't offer a single person who could explain to me how I was to apply my waiting list ticket; as far as I could tell, I shelled out 300 rupees for a piece of paper stating that I could get on the train if and only if 45 people cancelled their reservations in the next four hours. When I went to the counter just before departure, I found I had only moved up to spot 21 on the waitlist, but refusing to simply forfeit my ticket, I boarded the train anyway and did my best "incredibly confused foreigner" impression; some official guy soon showed up and directed me to the last empty bunk where I could sleep for no additional fee.

Like every other train in Asia, Indian trains are chronically late, but unlike other countries, they actually make an attempt to inform you of this in English. As the departure time neared, a computerized voice announced that the train would be 20 minutes late and that any convenience caused was deeply regretted; after this time had passed, the voice went into a cycle where every 2 minutes it would announce "Train 7045 is now arriving at platform 4" - this went on for a good 2/3rds of an hour. Things only got worse from there and 4 hours after the scheduled arrival, we had still not reached our destination; the advantage of this was that I got a chance to see the spectacular scenery which is rural India - there are actually patches that aren't covered in people and these are home to a variety of tropical crops, jungles, and hills. Unfortunately there was some weirdo sitting next to me who was an officer in the national marxist student league as well as a leader in the campaign to protest our involvement in Iraq - what a fun 4 hour chat that was.

There is no food service in the second class of the trains, but there are random people who board at every station and walk the aisles selling tea, water, and every variety of snack at inflated prices. I tried a dosa but found that it had been cooked several days before and the filling was wrapped in a plastic bag in the center. There were also plenty of beggars in this lot, but the most intriguing of these was a woman who I learned was a "professional beggar"; she goes around sporting the fanciest clothes and decks her face out in jewels and walks around asking for 10 rupees - I've no idea why this works, but clearly, it seems to work quite well.

Vijayawaddy is at the delta of one of the country's largest rivers and serves as the junction for many of the major transport routes; one source I came across likened it to Venice, but this analogy seems to have its flaws - namely that there are roads instead of canals and no boats anywhere. It is however, an attractive place with lengthy bridges pulling together a number of islands and large hills rising abruptly up out of the urban center.

As with all rivers in India, the main one here was buzzing with activity; in one spot, a series of drummers in festive clothes carried out a ceremony which was most likely either a wedding or a funeral; elsewhere, washerwomen savagely beat the dirt out of their clothes on the bank - this is the standard approach to running a wash in India - everyone gives their laundry to these woman who then clean it by smacking it as hard as they can against the concrete - needless to say, clothes in India have considerably shorter lifespans than elsewhere.

Walking through the main streets of the city, I found that at every block, it was possible to dive down an alley and climb a staircase to the residential districts covering the hillsides; I couldn't say for sure whether I were welcome in this tangled system of pathways, but it was certainly an intriguing glimpse into local life that few westerners have likely come across. Back on the central road, I witnessed a procession where a number of drummers led a few porters who bore a litter covered in flowers - at one end of this was the decomposing head of an old woman; this may have been the first dead body I'd ever seen, but fortunately Hollywood had sufficiently desensitized me such that I was only mildly disturbed.

I had once again booked a waiting list ticket, but this time I was only 36 and had 10 hours before departure, so my chances seemed downright decent. I was at a loss on how to kill off that much time given that my guidebook had nothing on this particular town, but there was one hill I could climb up with a Ghandi monument and a kiddie train where I could go "joyriding"; after dark, I tried to find a movie but found the only English film on offer to be "the 2004 Hollywood hit" Human Flesh Eaters. Ultimately I just went to a fancy restaurant and killed off an hour or so asking the waiter to explain everything on the menu.

Miraculously, the waitlist had cleared by departure time. I got a bunk in the hall where an open window blew frigid air on me all night long. By the time we had reached Hyderabad, I had a high fever and all sorts of fun symptoms. I made my way to the guidebook's top-rated motel which for the bargain price of 175 rupees had hot water and a western-style toilet. After, I was nearly signed in, however, I discovered that the check-out time was 7:30 in the morning - this seemed ridiculous to me so I made a big scene and stormed out. Despite all the touts that had tried to sell me a room on the way through town, it seemed that absolutely every place was full at 8AM when I made my second sweep. I eventually found a place called Paradise Lodge with a free room; far from what its name would lead you to believe, it seemed a large contingent of Indian families lived their full time and they never once stopped banging things and shouting at each other.

I set out to find a hospital and discovered that no one in town understood the word; after going in circles for an hour or so, I found an auto-rickshaw driver who agreed to take me to the general hospital. Here, I stood in a long line, was assigned a number and went through a series of rooms where I was assigned different numbers which didn't seem to have impact on the order in which patients were seen. An hour later, I saw a doctor who explained that I was in the wrong place - why I couldn't have been informed of this sooner is a mystery to me.

So, I took another rickshaw across town to the Center for Tropical Diseases. I'd not been able to find a thermometer before this and feared the embarrassment of coming in for a Malaria test without symptom #1; my temperature turned out to be 101 and they collected a number of blood samples, told me to take a handful of pills and and to come back in the morning. Not wanting to eat anything solid, I attempted to order a mango lassi but ended up with a "special" falooja which may or may not have included pot on the list of ingredients (definitely could be a interesting drug interaction). The other crisis was that my supply of toilet paper had just run out, and it seemed there was no place in town that sold it (I know what you're saying: why can't I just use my hand like everyone else? I guess I haven't reached that level of immersion just yet); I eventually had to go to a grocery for eccentric millionaires where I managed to pick up a small roll for 23 rupees.

Everyone in the city who did speak English stopped me and fired a barrage of questions about my time in India. The most popular question was always what monuments I'd seen so far and I was always viciously chided for not yet visiting one or another of their famous monoliths. I have to admit I get a bit tired of being stopped every 5 minutes for the same inane bit of conversation: "Hello, what is your good-name? Jeff. Zoff? Yes. Your country is what? America. Ahhh, that is a very good country, I am Indian. You don't say."

So my first day was wildly unproductive; for the most part I just lay in my room or wandered aimlessly around the city; I ran across a bunch of really cool-looking buildings but never discovered what they were. The navigation situation in Hyderabad is crap - there's not a single street sign anywhere and all the maps are terrible; your best shot of getting anywhere is to ask someone - unfortunately, people in India have the annoying habit of giving completely wrong directions with an aire of perfect confidence - so really, you have to ask about 7 different people who claim to know the place you're going and take the majority opinion. One vaguely interesting thing I came across was the use of something resembling a gnu for transport; they paint their horns red and cruise around town in something similar to an oxcart.

In the morning I spent an hour sorting out the bus situation and eventually found one that went to Golconda Fort. This was a very impressive, ancient structure where you were free to scramble around on the ramparts and gaze over the city from the heights of the central towers. Next, I took another 4 or 5 buses to get over to the fever hospital where I they put a big "Nagative" stamp on my file for Malaria. From there I went to a hilltop temple where they confiscated your camera so you couldn't get any shots of the surrounding city.

Walking to the next attraction, some guy started following me who was in training to become a call center operator and was trying his best to acquire my accent; he had a good command of the language but wanted to learn the informal phrases such as our expression for "to pass urine". In Lumbini Park, I took a boat ride to one of the world's biggest Buddha statues. From the island I spotted the Imax theatre which was showing Harry Potter that evening (yup, India gets it before we do); I had asked many locals about how tough it was to get tickets and they all claimed that I only needed to show up half an hour before - they were clearly not familiar with the magnitude of the HP phenomenon, however, as all the day's remaining shows were sold out.

I started moving over towards another theatre that could possibly have tickets available (though it could possibly be only in Hindi). While I walked, I was greeted by a old man claiming to be a very suntanned Irishman waiting for an iminent flight to Delhi to catch another plane back to Limerick; it seemed as if there were a few holes in his story - firstly, I've never come across anyone from Ireland capable of a suntan, and second, he had a weak British accent at best and talked with me for a full 15 minutes without swearing or mentioning beer or women; naturally, in the end, he explained that he was 40 rupees short of what he needed for his plane ticket home - somehow being half a pound short on a transcontinental ticket that starts in two hours just doesn't seem that likely a scenario.

It took quite a while to find that other theatre; every time I asked, someone would say "Oh yeah, it's right over there, you can't miss it", but somehow I always did. When I finally did reach it, the only remaining was the 9:45; the first, second, and third class tickets were all sold out, so I had to buy an extra-special ridicously wealthy person ticket for 35 rupees; interestingly enough, all 4 classes are exactly the same, but where you sit is an indication as to your status in society - a doctor would never dream of paying only 10 rupees for a movie - word would get around fast.

I had time to kill so I wandered around the neighborhood looking for a hotel (somehow I had gone the whole day without bothering to pick up a room); the closest thing I found was a "common beds" lodge which was a single room full of metal platforms; I was soon lost in the residential maze and had to resort to getting a moto back to the theatre - he drove in a big circle around town, took twice as long as I had taken to walk the distance and charged me three times what the journey should have cost. Let me take this opportunity to reemphasize a point - third-world taxi drivers, whether they go by the name of motos, tuk-tuks or cyclos, are pure evil; my travels would be much easier if I would just take advantage of these conveyences, but the truth is, I hate them - I know my restraint can't solve the problem entirely, but perhaps not getting my 20 rupees will be the final straw that starves one of them - then I would feel as if I had done my part to make the world a better place.

Not only were there no previews at this movie, but the feature started a full 10 minutes before scheduled. The screen and sound were superb and the audience was livelier than anything you'd see back home - they hooted at all the women, cheered for the action scenes, and went freakin' nuts when the two Indian actresses made their brief appearance. An hour through, there was an intermission where helpful slides reminded the audience to always spit into the spitoons provided while watching the film. The instant the credits began to roll, the projector switched off - power is expensive, and no one cares about those anyway.

I got another moto ride which costs twice what it was worth and found a hotel where the owner, sensing my fatigue, directed me to his crappiest room and charged me double the normal rate. The TV had some wires crossed and the buttons didn't do anything consistently, but I managed to find a Hindi music video channel and dubbed Buns of Steel infomercials; among the room's other delightful quirks, there was no running water - of course, the owner didn't see this any sort of rationale to provide a partial refund.

The next day, I ran down to the famed Charminar monument; this was a big arch of sorts over the road. Next to that was Mecca Masjid, one of the world's largest mosques, and just down the street were some random administrative buildings which each looked a bit like Aladdin's palace. The highly-recommended Salar Jung museum didn't seem to have any central theme but had plenty of random junk from around the globe and throughout the ages; as usual, there were way too many Indians there obstructing all the exhibits - I feel since I paid 15 to 30 times what each of them did, I should have been accompanied by an army of 14 queue breakers to get me a decent view. The major attraction of the place was an old European clock; 15 minutes before the hour, a crowd of hundreds gathered to watch the spectacle which was projected on two big-screen TVs; when the time rolled around, a little man popped out of a hole, rang a bell 11 times, and disappeared back into the hole - this was all done using about 2 moving parts; when it was finished, the audience broke into wild applause.

Having finished with the major attraction circuit, I wandered deep into the complicated alleys of the Muslim sector. Along the way, I came upon a shop called "Papa Tasty's Ice Cream"; though at the time, this was the only shop of its kind, the owner had a vision; the 10 dishes all had wacky labels that gave no clue to what they contained, but he was sure that they would become as much a household name as "Cherry Garcia." He gave me a business card and told me to tell all my friends to come by - unfortunately, there's no possible way I could find the place again myself, let alone give directions to somebody else. After asking a few dozen people along the way, I eventually found my way to the large city zoo; unlike other zoos in the country, this one tried to simulate the animal's natural habitat rather than popping it in a box where there was no way to even turn around. I went on a safari ride but was disappointed that the animals didn't leap onto our van like they do on TV; one tiger did, however, try to rip off my nose through the hole in our wire cage.

That morning I had bought a ticket for the Bangalore train - I was number 228 on the waiting list; basically what had to happen here was for everyone currently confirmed to cancel their trip in the last hours before departure. My ticket didn't get confirmed so I got on the train and attempted to once again grab an excess bunk; the ticket collector didn't quite buy my clueless tourist routine this time and directed me to go to the general car - already containing the 150 others who were waitlisted and more people besides, there was now no place to stand, let alone sit - it's possible that given enough standers of similar height, I could sleep in a crowd-surfing position (these people are always carrying stuff around on their heads). It turned out that were around 20 empty bunks at the start of the night, so I went and lay in one after another until someone kicked me out of each - around midnight I got an unchallenged space.

Hyderabad was a nice enough city - my only beef is that the whole place smelled like piss; this was not due to any lack of urinals, as they were everywhere - people just seemed to enjoy going in the open, even if it was on the wall of a free toilet. I guess another issue I had was stores' use of facilities as buzzwords; these were invariably run by people who didn't speak any English and didn't realize that if you put "Hotel" in your name, you really should have rooms for let, and the word "Internet" actually means you should buy a computer or two.

For those not up on IT news, Bangalore is the software engineering capital of India and home to the research labs of IBM and Microsoft, the programming farms of a hundred other companies, and nearly every call center you're ever going to get routed to. The majority of the city is like any other Indian city, but at its heart is a huge system of spacious parks and western stores for maintaining the sanity of the scores of displaced American keyboard jockeys.

In the morning there was a cool breeze blowing through the shady, exceptionally landscaped streets. In the westerner commercial center, there were a few thousand of the city's wealthier Indians as well as 1 or 2 white guys. Though the food was one of my major attractions in coming to India, I was still plagued with a sickness that made me incapable of even looking at Indian food without becoming ill (this was highly inconvenient as in most of India, there's not an ounce of uncurried food on the menu. Fortunately I was able to find a KFC, Pizza Hut, Subway and a national pizza chain where I ordered a calzone for 50 rupees and got hit with a hefty 13% tax.

I went down to the main botanical gardens and found it, despite it's wide range of trees, lacked any shade whatsoever, and with the sun intensifying by the second, I made my visit brief, though I did manage to see their greenhouse which had no temperature control or plants.

The Catholic missionaries hit this city with a vengeance and there's literally dozens of churches scattered around town; upon an earlier visit, someone had told me there was a 4 o'clock Mass, and with about an hour left I asked a moto driver to take me there. He explained that he would take me for free if I visited three stores along the way; I assured him that there was no possible way I would buy something but he was confident in his exceptional sales staff. I was sure that in end I would not be taken to the church, but with 10 minutes before the scheduled start, we arrived. It turned out that the event at 4 o'clock was a wedding and that the actual Mass didn't start until 6 (this from another unreliable source), so I parked myself in a nearby internet cafe. There was in fact a legitimate English service at 6 delivered by a man with the exact voice and manner of a black Baptist preacher (I think he worked in a call center in his spare time).

The western district at night had a cosmopolitan feel unlike anywhere else in India; people of all nationalities walked down the street, shopping for the latest fashion trends and feasting on foods from across the globe. The Indian girls here actually wore jeans and could frequently be seen fraternizing with boys who were clearly not their husbands. I stopped off at the local Subway; this one served all the standard fare with a few spicy additions; there was no explicit offering of a footlong and no wrapper to accommodate one, but if you looked even remotely American, you would certainly be given the option for exactly twice the price of a 6 inch. My sandwich artist was every bit as skilled as the ones back home, though he practically begged me to let him put some sort of sauce, oil or seasoning on the sub - if I'd not agreed to take some mustard, he probably wouldn't have sold the thing to me. This was just about the best food I'd ever tasted - so perfectly bland and delicious - you who have ready access to Subways at every corner probably won't understand this sentiment, but try going for 6 months without eating a single crisp, uncooked veggie and you'll know just what I mean.

I decided to walk home so I could admire all the christmas lights (mostly of Hindu deities) that were spread around town (this decision may have also had something to do with all the bus signs being in a foreign script). In one parking lot I noticed a 20m rock wall with all the routes still attached; I had half a mind to free-climb it, but for once I opted to ignore that half. A bit further down there were people riding camels around a square - this was some sort of children's festival and I was told I was too old to get a camel.

The next day I went to the City Market to admire the utter chaos that still lay at Bangalore's heart, then grabbed a 4-hour bus to Mysore. This is a big attractor for tourists because of its many monuments and small-town feel (only 800,000 people!); I actually counted around 20 westerners in only 6 hours.

I visited the Maharaja's Palace which was one of the more incredible works of architecture I'd seen this year, and it was a bargain as they had set both the Indian and Foreigner fees at an even 20 rupees. They have this funny policy in this country of confiscating your camera before they let you see anything really cool; at this particular monument they actually charged 5 rupees to watch it for you. I went with the usual approach of keeping mine in my pocket and claiming that I had no camera; they of course have metal detectors to avoid this, but the guards invariably favour a simple yes/no question over a patdown.

I was walking through the streets later when some random kid started started talking to me; he told me about a crazy festival up north of town where they were eating cannabis cake and drinking cannabis lassis and doing all sorts of crazy stuff, and then he proceeded to lead me up that way. This is another one of the 4 or 5 districts of India where this sort of thing is legal. He explained a number of temples we passed along the route then he took me to a place where they manufactured incense sticks; here a saleswoman attempted to sell me a variety of scented oils; as this was evidently one big con-job, I discretely left the building and zig-zagged away before my guide could catch up.

Back in town, I was stopped by an old, Iranian woman who instantly asked me to dinner on the following night; this struck me as a bit scary, so I politely declined. She then proceeded to explain that she held 5 degrees and had practiced as a lawyer for the past 30 years; she warned me of a rampant scented-oil/candle-stick scam she'd been fighting for some time - I told her I'd be on the lookout.

My hotel room lacked a shower but had a spicket about half a meter from the floor with hot water; apparently the traditional approach (for those who don't use the rivers) to bathing in India is to fill a bucket with water and dump it over your head; sadly, it was through this setup that I had the best shower of the week.

There's a very popular temple on top of a mountain to the east of town; this pilgrimage spot is easier to reach than most because there is a public bus that runs straight to the summit. The preferred way down is however, a set of 1000 stairs, so I did manage to satisfy my exercise quota before the trip was done.

Back in town, I started walking towards what was marked on the map as a government hospital. A motorcycle tout stopped me and tried to take me to the incense factory, but when he learned where I was going, he offered to take me there instead. He quickly explained that though the government hospital was free, the doctors were all incompetent so I should go to the expensive private hospital; he was no doubt getting a cut here, but at 40 rupees for a consultation, I can't complain too much. The doctor concluded that my body was simply making the standard adjustment that all must make to the horrible contamination prolific in the country's food and water.

Full of all sorts of new drugs, I decided I would try to conquer my fear of Indian food. Glancing through the menu of a feux-hotel, I found a wide selection of curries, but also on offer, for only twice the cost of a single curry, was something called the "deluxe thali" that included the following: 4 curries, two rotis, two buttered naans, a bowl of soup, a bowl of fried rice, a bowl of steamed rice, and a dessert - this seemed a ridiculous amount of food to fall under a single menu item, but more importantly, it seemed an exceptional deal. I don't know what manner of man or beast this meal was intended for - even if I had been so hungry that I could have eaten an entire horse, I would not have been able to finish this 9 course feast; after polishing off a third of it, I walked away in utter defeat.

I caught a 10 o'clock half-sleeper bus to Mangalore. It was a long and bumpy night, and around 5am it seemed we had arrived in a sizable city; I was confident that the driver would announce when we had reached our destination so I nodded off back to sleep. When I awoke again, I discovered that we had in fact passed Mangalore an hour before; myself and two English girls got off at the next stop in Udupi and grabbed a taxi to the train station.

We got a general ticket on the next train two hours later. At the appointed time, a train pulled up to the station; we couldn't find a general compartment, so we jumped into an AC sleeper. Shortly after the train pulled away, a fellow passenger informed us that we had in fact boarded the wrong train and that we would no doubt be fined heavily. Since this was an express, it would likely not stop til well after our intended destination, so all there was to do was sit down and enjoy the ride. A waiter came by and offered to bring us a few extra breakfast omellettes provided we gave him a tip; this sounded like a great deal until he rejected our first tip (a very generous 50 rupees) and would accept no less than double that (the implication clearly was that this was hush money for not running to the ticket collector). The train stopped earlier than we expected, so we jumped off at the town of Karwar without the slightest inkling what the place was about; for some reason of which I'm not really aware, we decided to forget about the train that would be arriving shortly and take a taxi to the bus stand where we caught a ride to Canacona. When we reached that station, the girls decided that they would find a taxi to Palolem; I opted to hop on one of the buses that left every 10 seconds and never saw them again.

Since my previous experience with Indian beaches had involved piles of garbage, poo, and hordes of Indian tourists with firecrackers, I didn't have the highest of hopes for Goa. However, once I had breached the long lines of souvenir stands, restaurants, and umbrellas, I came upon an idyllic white sand beach with rocky cliffs on both ends; backpackers from the far reaches of the globe swam, sunbathed, and played v-ball - not a single Indian tourist could be found. I took a moment or two to savour this and then went to get lunch; I decided to have a super burrito at a place called Casa Fiesta (I figured with a name like this, it must be the real deal) - the side of jasmine rice detracted from the authenticity and they'd clearly never heard of mole sauce, but it was otherwise an excellent attempt.

For some reason, they have no cheap Asian motorbikes in India; they're all either automatic scooters or high-end Enfields. I rented the former from some woman with a souvenir stand who may or may not have had any claim to the vehicle; before I left, she warned me that if ever I were stopped by the police, I should tell them that I borrowed the bike from a friend and not mention the bit about the whole rental thing. The hot scam in this area is to sell you the petrol you need to get to the nearest petrol station (again, there's no notion of returning with matching fuel); I paid for 2 litres at 30% over the retail price - what I got was either far short of 2 litres or was not real fuel, and I barely made it the 30km to the nearest city.

I headed up the coast to Colva Beach, which was packed with high-end hotels, expensive restaurants (including Dominos and Baskin Robbins), and all the trimmings of an upscale beach destination; down the road was the more laid back Benaulim Beach where I secured a room in the upper story of some lady's house - her six-year-old son showed me my digs and then proceeded to beg me for money.

The next day I headed up to Old Goa which was packed with ancient churches, museums on the history of the place, and of course, souvenir stands. Housed in one of the churches was the body of Saint Francis Xavier which has apparently refused to decompose over the last 400 years - I apparently arrived one year too late for the once-a-decade display of the remains. For lunch I stopped at a roadside shack where a man was selling hamburgers - he emphatically explained to me "they're called hamburgers, but it's not ham in there, it's beef!" - there was no way I was going to pass up something this novel.

From there I sped through the narrow streets of Panaji's Portuguese quarter and then followed a number of confusing roads to Aquada Fort where they were shooting a Bollywood movie. Heading north, it was one continuous string of beach-side development; the restaurants ran the gammit from Russian, to Israeli, to American, and every patch of sand was covered in beach chairs and banana boats. In the last hour of daylight, I arrived in Arambol beach; one end featured jagged rock formations that perfectly framed the setting sun. The place was plagued with hippies doing all sorts of strange hippy stuff; apparently there are entire families of these long-haired weirdos who stop by here, park themselves at a guesthouse, and then just never leave.

Turkey in India is limited to meat-in-a-can and the deli meat at Subway, so my chances for a proper Thanksgiving dinner were next to none. I stopped by a place called "Tibetan Cafe" which had a total of two Tibetan menu items (though it had a wide range of Italian, English, Middle-Eastern, and Indian meals); I ordered something which turned out to be a lot like ramen soup - now I'll have to stop by Tibet to see if there actually is such a dish. My efforts to find a cranberry-based dessert were similarly unsuccessful. That evening the entire hippy population of the town gathered in one cafe to listen to an amateur band play 60s tunes while they smoked a wide variety of substances - as far as I can gather, this is what they do every night - at present, this is pretty much all there is to their lives - this, and doing weird hippy aerobics on the beach and giving each other dreadlocks.

I had run out of sights to see in the state so I spent the next day just aimlessly driving around. The distances in the area are very small but the confounding network of small country roads more than makes up for it; it was a simple task to kill off a day and a tank of fuel. Besides the wealth of cows moseying about, a new hazard was the armies of monkeys - these would leap out of trees directly in front of you, bound along the road for a few hundred meters, then disappear out of sight; monkeys are more interesting than other forms of street critters because you're never really sure whether they'll simply run away from you, or jump into your lap and rip out your eyeballs - it all just depends on their prerogative.

After returning the bike, I raced to the bus station and found a fleet of private buses ready to depart for Mumbai. One tout motioned me towards his bus offering a price of 300; while I was moving in that direction, another one shouted an offer of 250 and I started to move towards him; at this point, the first one grabbed me and physically forced me into his bus - I can't say I care much for these high-pressure sales tactics (also known as kidnapping in some circles) but I did get him to match the other price, so it all turned out all right.

Two hours into the trip, our bus stopped for a two-hour repair/dinner break; since the company didn't get a commission for this unscheduled food stop, we had another break half an hour later at the official diner. We reached the outskirts of Mumbai at around 6 in the morning and unloaded at the center around 9.

For being the world's most populous city, Bombay is a surprisingly pleasant place. I half-expected to see great swarms of people, like ants in a nest, crawling over each other to squeeze through inadequately-sized streets, but everything seems well-planned and runs smoothly. Throughout the centre, grand gothic buildings serve as everything from transport hubs, to post offices, to universities. Bustling markets line every sidewalk and a constant stream of activity permeates every alley.

Shortly after debussing (a clever new word I just invented), I came across a truly notable monument - the first McDonalds I had seen since leaving Bangkok - the menu here includes all sorts of paneer and masala-based foods that you can't get back home, but there is still the ubiquitous 8 rupee soft-serve cone.

Nearby was the colossal Prince of Wales Museum; this included all sorts of interesting memorabilia, from stuffed marmots to ancient weaponry. The truly important thing, however, was the admission price - a foreigner had to pay 300 rupies and for an Indian citizen it was 10 rupees, but a foreign student was only 6 rupees! I vowed to go back several times so as to properly relish how little it was costing me.

I had heard from a few different sources that Bollywood studios often recruited foreigners as extras for their films and they usually did this at the "Gateway to India", a large arch down by the water. So, I headed down that way and attempted to look photogenic; no movie types approached me, but some guy did come along and sell me a boat ticket to Elephanta Island.

An hour's boatride from central Bombay is an island which contains a number of cave temples housing images of Shiva and other deities. From the boat dock, you have the choice of walking 500 metres or taking a toy train; you then have another option of hiking up 200 stairs or paying someone to carry you (with all the hilltop temples and low-cost labor I've come across in my travels, I'm really amazed I haven't seen this sooner). At the top they make you pay an admission fee of $5 for foreigners and 10 rupees for Indians (many of whom just spent 200 rupees to be carried up the stairs).

Returning on the boat, I wandered to the western side of the city where there is an uninterrupted seawall that runs for several kilometers along the length of the island; as with everything else, this whole stretch is completely covered in people out enjoying the night breezes - I just went for all the food vendors that were peddling their wares all along the way.

Accommodation in Mumbai is absurdly expensive; for 100 rupees more than what I paid for a large room with attached bath on the beach in Goa, I got a tiny cubicle with a bathroom down the hall; naturally, I signed up for a berth on the first sleeper train out of there. My guest house was located on the 5th floor of an apparently abandoned building with only half of a small sign to indicate it was there; I had of course neglected to record any address and so I wandered around in the middle of the night showing people my keychain; not surprisingly, no one had heard of the place, but just before I set about finding a clear spot on the sidewalk, a guy came up and tried to sell me drugs - having an extensive clientele at my hotel, he was able to give me exact directions on how to find it and I was thus able to return to my box for a peaceful night's sleep.

Apparently there's a whole series of clubs in India where people just sit around in the early morning and laugh out loud; I ventured down to the harbour in an attempt to find one of these but didn't run across anyone looking even the slightest bit mirthful. I went to the huge St Thomas' Cathedral for the morning service; it just so happened that they were having their biggest confirmation celebration ever - this meant that the bishop was in attendance and the thing ran about two and a half hours; all the actual gruntwork of the Mass was done by a guy who clearly learned his English from the priest in Monty Python's holy hand grenade sequence.

Walking through the city, I found what was one of the world's largest book markets with thousands of photocopied and used copies lining the streets; every single vendor tried to get me to buy the same book that I'd never heard of, and not one of them could tell me why they were so intent that I buy it - I'm guessing that someone got their wires crossed and they printed a million copies of this no-name book instead of the Da Vinci Code - now they're trying to create an artificial sensation to deal with the surplus.

I went up a big hill to the Hanging Gardens (which were not hanging in any sense of the word) and then to a big temple where thousands of devotees waited in long queues to catch a glimpse of some idle and bought ice cream and sugary snacks along the way. I went in search of a place where 5000 men simultaneously beat thousands of kilos of dirty laundry clean but got lost and ended up at the train station 4 hours early.

One interesting thing I noted in the Bombay train station were large wire cages next to the platforms which held hundreds of passengers and were padlocked from the outside; I opted not to inquire into whether I was supposed to be imprisoned as well, and simply boarded the train. Something in the reservation system went terribly wrong and there were about 10 people, including two smelly babies, sitting on my bed for the first two hours of the trip, but after much discussion, they eventually graciously returned to their own bunks and let me sleep for a bit.

A piddling little town of four and a half million, Ahmedabad doesn't have quite as much to offer as the biggest city on earth, but it's not without its charm. The first impression you get in wandering the streets is of a traffic-packed city where the air is so thick with smog that breathing has lost most of its appeal, but if you manage to duck away from the main arteries, there's a fascinating old villle buried beneath with a slew of attractions to hold your attention for one to three hours. The place is packed with museums but every single one of these closes on Monday, and so I was left with the temples, mosques and a few really old wells.

It was not until I arrived here that I realized the true peace that I'd been afforded back in Bombay; there were no three-wheeled taxis, and thus I could walk down the streets without being constantly and viciously pursued; furthermore, people were used to foreigners, and I didn't have to stop and say hello to every single person I passed. I never imagined that I would run into the problem of people being too friendly, but such is the case here; at every shop and home I was confronted with children and adults who believed it to be their duty to strike up a conversation with me; the first 300 times, I made an amicable reply, but around hour 15, I switched over to a consistent "Je ne parle Anglais".

There were a wide range of impressive buildings throughout town; the most compelling, however, was a little-publicized 400-year-old bath which was formed from many stories of intricately-carved stone arches; the eeriest thing about the place was that it was completely empty - in a country where you are constantly surrounded by a few thousand people, I was completely alone in the dark depths of the tomb-like structure.

When I had walked the streets of the old town in the morning, they were completely deserted, but when I returned in the afternoon, a grand market - one of the largest I've encountered thus far - had abruptly sprung up and great crowds of people spilled through every alley. Approximately every consumable good in existence was on sale here, but one particularly amusing vendor was a man dressed in the robes of a devout Muslim who was selling toy machine guns - he did this by holding one in each hand and shaking his arms up and down while making machine gun sounds.

Streets of Hyderabad