Paris: the city of loathe.

Not quite the hunchback of Notre Dame.

Paris is a gorgeous city. There is a reason that it was romanticised by a horde of writers. The narrow, partly lit streets full of gothic architecture and gobbled stones were exactly how I pictured it. However, there is one fundamental problem with Paris: it is full of Parisians. There have always been preconceptions about French people being arrogant. I can declare to you that is it absolutely true. Their rudeness extends much more widely then their demeanor. Upon discovering you are not a French speaker, not only do they think you are some genus far below Homo Sapiens, but what's worse, in my opinion, you get extremely bad table service. I agree with Bill Bryson’s sentiments (in his book, "Neither Here nor There") that a waiter should never get snobby, considering they are fetching you stuff. The waiters were generally unfriendly, we always got served after French people and one time our Burgundy Beef came out less than lukewarm on a cold plate. It is hard to be positive about a place that is unwelcoming as Paris is. It is even more of a strain to enjoy yourself when a coffee costs you 4.4 Euros. Okay, I don’t regard myself as tight with money, but 8.8 Australian Dollars for a flat white is simply outrageous. Alternately, an espresso only cost 2 Euros. Therefore, the adding of milk to a shot of coffee costs 2.4 Euros. WHAT THE HELL? What are they doing? Milking the cow themselves? How can they justify charging that much? You can probably discern the tone of this blog from the opening paragraph. Paris is hyped up to be a great city, of fantastic café life and trend setting shopping. But all we found was disappointment.

I just know that some reading this blog will find it offensive. But they will probably be French themselves or have a French background, so that doesn't really matter. Anyway, I am allowed to be affronted when, upon arriving at Gard De Nord train station, we asked (and in French I might add) for directions to our flat. Not only did the person give us the wrong direction, but sent us the opposite way, when the street we wanted was literally 20 metres from the point of inquiry. I am sure they found it funny, but that little detour cost us 30 min. And if the needless shoving and bumping on the Metropolitan train line was not enough, when walking down a street, some awful Parisian creature flicked ash on me. I hope she knew English, because I gave her a dish of it for that little incident. I thought these people were supposed to be refined and eloquent? And, despite the glamourisation of the French in novels and films, they have to be one of the most unattractive and miserable specimens on the face of the planet. Just sit on a train You can justify such a claim by examining the people they chose to admire, like Gerald Depardieu and Jean-Paul Sartre. If these too people don't epitomise, ugly, then who does, I ask you.

Jean-Paul Sartre. A.k.a ugly bastard.

There are a lot of great things about the city, despite my rather passionate rant and I will get to them: eventually. For now, let me vent a few more things to you, dear readers. The Eiffel Tower. What a piece of shit. Gustave Eiffel was the unfortunate soul that brought this so called masterpiece of modern architecture in existence. Anouska and I have renamed it the tacky tower for not only does it look like an large radio antenna or an abandoned oil rig, but some genius decided to place large, gold-neon stars on the front of it and install thousands of lights to go off at night - every hour, on the hour, for 5 minutes. Epileptics must love it. It was nearly torn down at that start of the twentieth century, when major protests against this mental asparagus was made by a number of prominent French artists: "this truly tragic street lamp" (Léon Bloy), "this belfry skeleton" (Paul Verlaine), "this mast of iron gymnasium apparatus, incomplete, confused and deformed" (François Coppée), "this high and skinny pyramid of iron ladders, this giant ungainly skeleton upon a base that looks built to carry a colossal monument of Cyclops, but which just peters out into a ridiculous thin shape like a factory chimney" (Maupassant), "a half-built factory pipe, a carcass waiting to be fleshed out with freestone or brick, a funnel-shaped grill, a hole-riddled suppository" (Joris-Karl Huysmans). (http://www.tour-eiffel.fr/teiffel/uk/documentation/dossiers/page/debats.html) The tower was saved because it was discovered it made a fantastic antenna. I swear I am not making this up. This catastrophe, which will forever taint the Paris skyline, is now considered the most iconic building in the world. The Parisians are supposedly known for their good taste, but if they admire the tacky tower, perhaps that is questionable. If their abhorrent choice in clothing is anything to go by, maybe what they say about them is wrong. We had already learned a number of myths about the French were untrue. The only one that seemed to hold mustard was that they were assholes that ate a lot of bread. Okay, not all French people are bread munching jerks. We met some nice French people. Three in total. Our landlady, a guy selling crepes on the street and the French man who lives in London.

I am showing my disapproval.

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You are probably appalled with me. I am too. I had such high expectations for Paris and they crashed like the Icelandic economy. The thing is I really wanted to fall in love with Paris, but there was just too much that struck me as inconsistent with a bubbling, democratic metropolis. We saw homeless people and beggars much more often then expected. Army personnel carrying Clarion machine guns patrolled the train stations and trains themselves. Trash cans do not exist because of the 'threat' of terrorism. Instead they have plastic bags attach to metal rings. Does this sound like the home of the first modern democracy? I became conscious of a disturbing mood prevailing throughout the city and it made me very uncomfortable. However, there were many things about the city I genuinely liked and enjoyed experiencing. Firstly, the Seine River is beautiful. Much more so than the Thames. You only have to walk by the banks to realise it is probably the most beautiful river in the world and when the sun goes down and the neon lights appear, it's breath-taking. Anouska and I were continually drawn to the gentle meander of the Seine, either to watch a small band of American buskers play some great rock tunes on a bridge, to have some terrible Rose we purchased from the Monoprix, or just to take a relaxing stroll. Secondly, the Musee de Orsay and Lourve are cultural giants. The de Orsay has some brilliant Rodin sculptures and many fine examples of impressionist and naturalist art. My favourite thing about the Lourve is the ancient antiquities. After feeling somewhat obligated to see people take photographs of the Mona Lisa, thinking they will never see that image again, or muscle for room to eye the Venus De Milo, I spent most of the day looking at the sculptures of a foregone era.

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Buskers on the Seine.
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If you're searching for the macabre, Paris is the right place to be. The whole city encompasses the gothic spirit. From a distance the Cathedral of Notre Dame just looks like a typical gothic church. Up close, you see the detailed work that covers the huge expanse of the building. There are sculptures of saints, devils and gargoyles all over it. It dawns on you why it took over two centuries to build. In the 14th century it would have been made such a presence over those who saw it. It must have been as if God built it himself. In keeping with the gothic mood, we took a train out to the Pere LaChaise Graveyard on a overcast Sunday. Being fall, leaves covered the streets, further adding to the atmosphere. Here we saw the final resting places of many great spirits including; Jim Morrison, Oscar Wilde, Chopin, Proust and someone called 'Sextoy'. Jim Morrison's grave was littered with flowers and packets of cigarettes, in case he needed a smoke, which I thought was a kind gesture. Wilde's gravestone was covered in lipstick kisses. I don't think he would have appreciated that much attention from females. There were also some fitting tributes to fallen soldiers and victims of Auschwitz. Amongst all the reminders of death, there was a lot of beauty about the graveyard. I think all graveyards should be as charming as this, because in the face of death, don't we need some confirmation of life? I am not sure that the Catacombs are such a thing, but it was definitely worth a visit. In the 19th century, a plague ripped through Les Halles, killing many inhabitants. As a result, their graveyard became too full. So, they exhumed the bodies already there and decoratively placed them inside an abandoned stone mine. Walking the one and a bit kilometre walk underground, you pass the bones of millions of deceased Parisians. It was very bizarre to say the least.

Memento mori.

I cannot discuss Paris, without in some way, mentioning the food. A lot of the meals we had were quite decent and not too expensive, despite the Parisian trend to charge a lot for very little. They are very big on baguettes, filled to the brim with meat and with as much cheese as they can safely pack into it. Pastries of every size and description, naturally. I personally liked the spinach and goat cheese quiche. On their meat, they do fantastic sauces and I fondly remember a particular pepper sauce that accompanied a steak extremely well. There were food vendors on the street as well, which was a surprising discovery. Most of them sold Crepes in delectable chestnut spread. Others sold grilled corn, which tasted just like popcorn. Oh, and who could forget the bread. With everything meal, anytime of the day. And I am a celiac. Damn them! Anouska and I are of the opinion (and this may sound blasphemous) that although the food was pretty good, you could get the same quality at one of the better French restaurants in Perth, especially the "Loose Box". And the pastries were definitely on par with the famous stand at the Subiaco markets, run of course by French people (but polite). It is a shame to say that when our week had expired, we were actually happy to move on to our next destination: Amsterdam. Paris became the first major disappointment of our trip. But when you are travelling, you don't always know what to expect. Half the time you are thrown into a culture very different to the one you have grown up in and the way people live can often surprise and even shock you. But, that, in essence is what travelling is for. Not marking off what destinations you have been to, but learning what life is like outside your very small backyard.

Outside Gard De Nord, near to our apartment.

Londontown and the Occasional Blue Sky.

No witticism or sarcasm attached. I just like this picture.

We were sitting in Bahrain International Airport for six hours, when we were supposed to be there for two. Keeping with their proud tradition of lengthy delays, Gulf Airways left us to amuse ourselves in a country I could not even locate on a map. I now know that it is a small Island kingdom in the Gulf Sea, with their very own Monarch. And that don’t have to pay taxes. I thought it, like death, was a certainty. The beginning of travel legs never seem to progress smoothly – for what reasons I cannot discern, as you are soon to discover.

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The delay made our evidential arrival to Heathrow Airport far behind schedule. We arrived at 10pm, four hours after the latest possible check-in time to our accommodation, thus incurring a 25 Pound late fee. Striving on regardless of the British cold and the many, many steps in London’s tube system, we found Willesden Green, the suburb of our destination. We hauled our 20 kilogram-a-piece luggage several kilometres through the London streets, feeling the biting cold seep through our multiple layers of clothing. I wasn’t wearing gloves and I could see my hands were turning an unhealthy blue. Finally, after much tribulation, we found the street and the place where I could finally lay my head down to rest. By this time it was past 12am and the last time I had slept, I had only managed 5hrs. That was over 24 hrs ago.

The late check in fee, which was 25 Pound (roughly 60au) was for a combination lock box that held our set of keys. What logical was behind the cost of this device I cannot say. At that point, I didn’t care, I just wanted to sleep. But no, rest would have to wait for this weary traveller because the lock didn’t function. The numbered keys were all jammed, so inputting the right combination was impossible. After debating on what to do, one of the permanent tenents of the building arrives home. He was an Australian. He very generously gave us the landlord’s number, who he described as “a real wanker” and asked us if we “ wanted a beer for our troubles”. I believe the Cultural Stereotypes Committee is after this man for questioning. So, Anouska calls the landlord and feigns damsel distress as only she can and the man, under the impression she was by herself in the dark streets of London, rushes straight over. Sucker. He was very apologetic, naturally, about our situation, but when we sorted out the financial arrangements for the week, I noticed that we had been charged the late check-in fee. I enquired, “The late fee. Is this for the lock that didn’t work?” Which he replied, “I suppose you are going to tell me you are not happy with it”. I simply retorted “yes”, and that sum was detracted from our total bill.

London is a very liveable city. It has a certain charm that you can’t specifically describe with words, but I am sure the people who have visited this city can confirm that encompassing aura it has. I can understand why people reside here and why so many Australians emigrate. I seemed to recognise the familiar Ocker of my homeland everywhere and it filled me with a sense of pride. Well, not pride exactly. If you heard the idiotic ramblings of my fellow countrymen you would suddenly employ a British accent very quickly, to distance yourself from the pack of ‘flaming galahs’. But seriously, I love Australia, I do. I just wish many of the other Australians I have encountered on my journey would renounce their citizenship and head south for a prolonged winter in Antartica.

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Unlike Anouska, I simple adore cold weather. I must have a genetic disposition to it, because I take to it like Greeks to young bo … what I meant to say is that I take to it very well. There is nothing better in this world than stepping out into the refreshing, brisk air with your attire of coat and scarf and perambulating down the wet streets looking for a coffee. When you are in colder climates you start to see the practical side to the traditional meals. What better cuisine can one have in London than soup, Sunday roast, Bangers and Mash and Shepard’s pie. It filled my body and my heart with warmth. Sure, eating these rich foods on a consist basis will probably increase your waist by a full tire size, but you could just look at it as sufficient insulation to the cold. In this context, you start to question why Australian’s carry on the English tradition of certain meals. We don’t experience the same temperature as England, yet we are ever so ready to sit down to a Sunday roast while the harsh sun outside bakes a few things of its own. Is it really refreshing to eat a hot meal in summer? Is it good for our constitution? Just some food for thought.

If you haven’t chewed life over with a pint of lager at the pub, or sat reading a trashy newspaper on London’s underground, then one thing you should experience is the tranquillity of Hyde Park. Only knowing the place from novels, I drastically underestimated the size of this park. But, to my defence, the writer’s never indicated, with accuracy, the measurements of this location. Oscar Wilde might state that the characters took a leisurely walk, but he never suggested that a walk around the park would take over an hour. Despite being misinformed, I found Hyde Park to be a quiet haven hidden away from the excitement of the city. When you’re standing in the middle, and if you ignore the distant hum of traffic, you could almost believe you were no longer in London. I think that is what the planners had in mind. It has some very lovely little lakes and a surprising amount of wildlife. One could pass a very agreeable morning here, stopping to rest on a bench every now and then before settling for a lengthy midday picnic. We passed the Princess Diana memorial, which is absolute hideous and adds weight to the argument that Australia should be a Republic.

Anouska outside Buckingham Palace. Stupid Monarchy.

Naturally, you can’t be in London without making your way to the Thames. If you avoid, or at the very least limit the time you are under the tourist deathtrap, otherwise known as the London Eye or as I like to call it – the big ferris wheel that cost more than a night’s accomodation, then having a casual stroll along the banks and over the bridges is very pleasant. But with certain, one of the most fun aspects about London is playing physical Monopoly. We walked around admiring the weath of Piccadily Circus and Mayfair before jumping on the tube, bypassing King’s Cross Station to go to Euston Road for a few drinks. I didn’t know where Old Kent Road was, so I was unable to see if it is as crappy as its land value on the Monopoly board stipulates.

You landed on Trafalgar Square. I have three houses. That will be $320, please.

Like all civilized travellers we ended up at the colossal complex of the Tate Modern ( it was big until we saw the Lourve, but I digress). An unnamed friend, who will cry out that an injustice has been committed to his name, stated in his travel blog, “[W]e've been to the Tate Modern (which ******* dislike (sic) considerably - in all fairness a lot of it didn't make any sense). How anyone with a nearly completed university degree, or anyone who knows even the most basic rudiments of art history can think this is beyond my understanding. The gallery is brilliant and the curators should be applauded on their well thought our installations. It tracks the progression of art from the impressionist era, to the post-impressionist and then to the modernist fields which detract from the symbolic logic of their predecessors and employ completely new methods and subject matter for their works. When you look upon the genius of Picasso’s cubist paintings or Bacon’s disturbing depiction of sexuality, you to start realise that you have absolutely no talent next to these giants. Although this conclusion made me considerably depressed as my artistic endeavours have paled in comparison, it was nevertheless an intellectually profitable experience. The occasion was soured slightly by, of course, the remarks and actions of stupid tourists. The question I put to people who wish to repeatedly photograph an original painting is, why bother? If you an image of the piece, surely you can see it in a book or on the internet. Also, in doing this, not only does your flash damage the product, but you really piss off genuine art lovers like Anouska and myself. In addition to this ever-increasing rant, why do people feel the necessity on sprouting their ignorant opinions at a consider volume, so that everyone in the room can hear. I heard one woman remark that art was subjective and that the point of a particular art piece was that she should decide whether to touch it, even though there was a plague clearing stating, “Do not touch”. Jean Paul Sartre was right when he said, “Hell is other people”.

YOU SEE THAT! IT MEANS NO PHOTOGRAPHY! DAMN YOU, YOU FILTHY GOTHIC HORDE.

The National Gallery is of such a considerable size and design that I found myself getting lost more than I care to admit. Sure, I saw more religious paintings to last me several lifetimes, but seeing the works of Monet, Manet, Van Gogh, Cezanne, Da Vinci, Raphael and Pissarro in the flesh was awe inspiring and left me with a strong impression that I really needed to learn to draw something more complex than stick figures and silly faces. However, I was very disappointed in learning that one of the paintings I wanted to see, ‘The Ambassadors’, which was on permanent display there, had been temporarily moved to a exhibition. Oh well, I will have to make a special trip to see it when we return to London in January shorting before flying home. We also went to the British Museum, full of artefacts the glorious English Crown has stolen in its imperialist past. I have to admit, regardless of the questionable methods how they attained these pieces, the museum housed some terrific Egyptian relics and objects of Antiquity. I wish I was able to stand the flash photography, loud talking and incessant murmur of hyperactive children for longer than a few hours, so that I could absorb it better. But I can say that I tried. Twice, in fact. I gave it two goes, but it still didn’t improve my misanthropic self.

And of course we went to see a West End show. Our choice was a difficult one. Watch a play based a Monty Python film, or see some muppets, based on characters from Sesame Street sing and be offensive? We chose the latter. We scored cheap tickets on the day for only 25 Pound and they were for the second row. The show was amazing. The basic plot is that Princeton, a muppet, graduates for college and moves to the slums, a la Avenue Q. From there he tries to find his purpose in life and learns from valuable lessons about life from other tenants including a shy teacher’s aid, an interracial couple, a muppet obsessed with internet porn, a gay republican muppet and Gary Coleman, who laments his washed-up, child star profile. You quickly recognised which Sesame Street characters they are derived from, which made it all the more humorous. The songs were very catchy. This isn’t necessary a good thing, when you find yourself on the London tube, absentmindedly singing, “Everyone is a little bit racist sometimes … it’s not as though we go around committing hate crimes” and “the internet is for porn”. If at that point, you assumed that the creators of the show couldn’t further destroy those lovely childhood memories of Sesame Street, think again. After I saw two muppets having sex on stage, I thought, “now I have seen everything.” I can hear your thoughts from here. You’re thinking okay Daniel, you saw one crude show on the West End. Why didn’t you see something else? That would be a valid question and my answer is that both Ivanov (Chekhov), starring Kenneth Branuagh and Oedipus with mile high Ralph Fiennes, was sold out! Kenneth is one of my heros and to hear that there would be no way I could see him act was a terrific blow. Still, as I stated earlier, we are going back to London, so perhaps I will get the chance to see some other great thespian figurehead. I can only hope.

Some lucky swans.

A Horde of Moustaches and Holy Cows

Holy or wasted steak? You decide.

On the way to Mumbai Domestic Airport, our driver mumbled something and pointed vaguely to the left. As we could not understand him, we assumed he was pointing out some landmark and we responded with a nod for our heads and a ‘ah’, as if we were very interested. On a closer inspection of the area to our left we suddenly noticed what he was referring to. A rickshaw (a three-wheel taxi with a carriage – don’t worry, I have more to say about rickshaws later on) was on fire with police in riot gear in close proximity to the burning vehicle. Our artificial ‘ah’ soon transformed into a genuine ‘oh!’ Our Orwellian experience was only just beginning. Upon arriving, we went through a series of strict security measures including; having our ticket checked at the door by an army official, the luggage being screened before it was processed and we were both frisked and electronically scanned. Army personnel casually strolled through the terminal equipped with pistols and machine guns. It was clear that the Indian Government had everything under control. Or did it? Now this is the worrying thing. Not once during this whole procedure did someone inquire to check our passports. Perhaps everyone was too engrossed with the news unfolding on every television at the airport. A prominent political figure had just been arrested for inciting violence in Mumbai and his followers, not particularly agreeing with his incarceration, took to the streets and set fire to taxis, just like the one we saw earlier. Well, the Mumbai police responded to the situation with some of the most energetic uses of a bat outside the American Baseball League. The way Raj, the political figure, was depicted by the media reminded me of Goldstein in the novel, ‘1984’, Who knew all that solitary reading I did as a teenager, instead of getting drunk and experimenting with drugs, would finally come in handy. The workings of India are surely beyond the confines of fiction.

A few hours and half a book later, we hit the tarmac at Kochin and made our way to our home for the next two days, ‘Costa Gama Home Stay’, on the outskirts of Fort Kochin. That is to say we thought we would stay two days, but we so enjoyed ourselves immediately upon arriving that we extended our Kochin leg to four days. It’s called Fort Kochin from the colonial days, when the Dutch seized the land from the Portuguese and built on the harbour. After the British took over they dredged up a large section of land and made an Island across for the fort – they probably had too much time on their hands. However, all three imperial powers contributed by building large and magnificent testaments to God (churches idiot). The Jews even made an appearance after the destruction of their temple by the Romans in 2nd century Jerusalem and built a Synagogue in a part of town aptly named Jew Town - great work guys. Apparently there were even supposed to be some Jewish descendants there, but all I saw were Indian rugs salesmen who called me friend.

The home stay was run by two lovely guys, Benson and Shi, who were very friendly and recommended some terrific local and authentic vegetarian places to eat. When you taste the Indian cuisine Kochin has on offer, you don’t miss meat at all. They also suggested things and places of interest and were generally lovely and welcoming. How did Anouska repay this said kindness? Well, she killed Shi’s pet Indian parakeet, Ammu by feeding it tapioca chips. Sure the vet said that the bird’s death was caused by a dramatic change in temperate, but can anyone deny the evidence of a bird dying less than a day after feeding it a fried product? Shi was visible upset, holding back tears, as he explained to us that Ammu had passed away while we had gone into town. Anouska will defend her position, saying that a tapioca chip couldn’t possibly kill a bird that frequently ate rice and chillies, but we know the truth. I have since dubbed Anouska with the title of “Ammu Killer”. She doesn’t like it much, but maybe it will quell her birdicidal tendencies.

Ammu, a few hours before he went to Heaven.
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Never get into a rickshaw. Never. Even if it’s a really hot day and you see a road sign which states, water - 100km. Do not get in even then! Not only does this practical joke of modern transportation feeling like you’re going through the spin cycle in a washing machine, but the drivers are so commission hungry that they will take you anywhere, except where you pay them to go. This is a transcript of one experience I had with a prick - sure.

Daniel: Hi, can you take me into Fort Kochin?
Driver: Okay, Four Rupees.
Daniel: Four.
Driver: No, Four. Four, zero.
Daniel: Oh, forty. Okay then.
Anouska and Daniel hop into the rickshaw.
Driver: Where from?
Daniel: Australia.
Driver: Austria. Good cricket team. You see elephant?
Daniel: No.
Driver: I take you to see elephant.
Daniel: Not today.
A few minutes later, the taxi stops.
Driver: I go see if elephant is awake.
Driver leaves the rickshaw and walks off, leaving Anouska and Daniel alone in the vehicle.
Anouska: Why did you tell him you want to see the elephant? He only wants commission. This is going to cost us a fortune. We’re not even going to have enough money.
Daniel: I said no, but he brought us here anyway.
Driver returns.
Driver: Elephant is gone out. Sorry.
Anouska: Thank God.
The rickshaw moves for a short distance and then stops.
Driver: This is temple.
Daniel: I don’t want to see the temple. I want to go to Fort Kochin!
Driver: It’s okay, It’s okay. Now the temple… (at this point, I stopped paying attention) blah, blah, elephant. Blah, blah, blah, water …
The rickshaw starts up again.
Driver: This is a good rug shop, full of very nice things to buy. We stop now.
Anouska/Daniel: NO!

Finally, we get to our destination with our sanity barely in tact and I pay him the forty Rupees. Being a civilized person, I thank him and wait until after he leaves to issue a string of expletives. Apart from this very annoying experience, rickshaw drivers have an infuriating tendency to call their rust bucket contraptions Porsches and Ferraris, which might have been funny the first few times, but irks you terribly the umpteenth time you hear it.

F%&k you richshaw.

So, after that, I ignored my mother’s wishes of not riding a motorbike and hired out a mo-ped to get around town. As you can see from the photo below I look really cool donning shorts and a turquoise helmet. A bike in Asia is a great way to travel. It runs on the whiff of petrol, you don’t have to deal with pushy rickshaw drivers and when shop owners try and herd you into their establishments, you just accelerate off. You are free to wind in and out of the little streets and see a lot of different things you wouldn’t normally on the tourist trail. There is a lot of freedom when you have the ability to go where you want. One day we decided to take a ride out to the beach on the man-made Island. The journey was 60km return and took a few hours on the small, busy roads of Kerala. It is difficult to exceed more than 40km/hr in speed as you are constantly trying to avoid potholes, cows (because they are sacred in India, they are free to roam the streets. They often like to stand or sit in the middle of the road and there is nothing you can do about it. Hitting them is a serious offence.) and other motorists, especially psychotic bus drivers who are not hindered by road lanes or speed limits. If you don’t get out of their way, I doubt very much that they would brake to avoid you. There seems to be a universal tendency of bus drivers being raving loons. I have encountered this trend in Australia, Vietnam and India. Perhaps like water, their egos have taken the shape of their vessels, which in their case is quite large, and they simply refuse to believe that they are just a bus driver and not the King of Bahrain or something.

97 per cent of all Indian men have a moustache. Okay, perhaps that is a made up statistic, but still it is probably much more accurate then something written in a Michael Moore publication. Coming from a country where only a small proportion of baby-boomers, like my father, tend to grow them, it just seemed really funny to me. I know it seems irrelevant, but I just had to tell you. The young guys are extremely vain, combing their hair in the bathroom every chance they get, while the older men are ragged and unkempt, and simply do not care if they have 3 day growth. The old men have a bit of a boys-club going with their chai carts on the street, standing around sipping on 10 cent tea, which incidentally, is the most wonderfully strong and sweet drink you will ever come across, while munching on a number of fried treats. They were very entertained to see Anouska and myself asking for, what is essential a poor man’s drink, but we absolutely loved it. Over the week we stayed in Kochin (yes we extended our stay again) I became terrible dependant on these places, often visiting the cart half a dozen times a day. It was the cheapest addiction I have ever had.

Photographic evidence of man with moustache.

The plan was that we were to only stay in Kochin for a few days and travel around Kerala for a week or so before we were due back to Mumbai to fly out to London. The more we extended our stay, the less time we had to travel around the state. But we did manage to get to Varkala, a beach getaway, amongst our tea guzzling and yellow stained, finger experiences with food for a few days. Although it was nice and relaxing, it no way compared to the joy Kochin gave us. The food was average and it was filled with the most bigoted and unfriendly tourists on the face of the planet. Anouska and I got into a bit of a verbal confrontation with a pair of English twats who thought it was funny to say things like “Hey Kumar. Isn’t there a bar of electricity in this whole country? Why don’t you make Diwali come early and put the fuckin’ lights on”. I admit, it wasn’t a really good idea of mine to tell them to shut up and enquire how England could possibly have become, at one stage, the great empire it was, with people like them at the helm. But it was even less of a good idea for Anouska to call them deplorable, uncivilised philistines, considering they were built like you know what kind of house and looked like they were extras out of “Lock-Stock and Two Smoking Barrels”. But when people act in an abhorrent manner, you just can’t sit idly by, even if it puts you in physical danger. It was a good thing they were too drunk to respond properly, or else I would have really had to show them … ah … how fast I can run away.

Boys at play.

Mmm, Fish