Ooty

Ooty is a cool city. No, it doesn't have a thriving clubbing scene (far from it), nor do its inhabitants demonstrate an ironic fashion sense (at least I don't think any irony was intended); but as a British developed hill station at around 2200 feet above sea level it has a significantly cooler climate than the surrounding area. We thought that Ooty would be a nice place to chill out for a few days while Monique completed her recovery from illness.

The bus journey from Mysore to Ooty was cramped, windy, bouncy and uncomfortable to the point where any entertainment other than listening to music was impossible. In addition, the seat immediately in front of me was broken and would gradually decline until it crushed my legs. The seat's elderly occupier seemed oblivious to his seat declining by 45 degrees until I drew it to his attention, and then required assistance to lift the seat back up every time I did so. However, the stunning mountain scenery from the winding road was sufficient entertainment and made up for the discomfort. A completely unexpected bonus to the journey was when we passed through a nature reserve, where we spotted plenty of monkeys and caught a brief passing glimpse of two wild elephants that were really close to the side of the road as we whizzed past. One of our great hopes for our time in India was to be able to see wild elephants; however, we had no idea that we would achieve this so early in our trip and without even trying to find them. We were quite giddy with excitement after this, and really looking forward to spending some peaceful time checking out more of the scenery at our leisure, and perhaps even spotting more wildlife.

Unfortunately the journey to Ooty was the highlight of this part of our trip.

Our trip so far has taken place in the low season for tourism as a result of the high temperatures and the approaching monsoons. However, as a result of the cool climate in Ooty we were visiting in its high season when Indian people stay there for some respite from the heat elsewhere (and inexplicably purchase and wear ridiculous looking wooly hats and scarves while they do so). As a result everything was very expensive for our modest budget. The guesthouse we had reserved in anticipation of this purported to be extremely basic (which it was) and clean (which it was not). In addition it did not include access to any sort of shower. As a result we spent our first evening in Ooty searching for an alternative, only to either be told that the hotel was fully booked or to be quoted an unreasonably high price for a room not significantly better than we had already. We ended up relocating to the Young Women's Christian Association the following morning, where conditions were much more hygienic and we even had the luxury of a bucket with which to have a cold shower, and a wake-up call courtesy of the morning hymns.

As to Ooty itself, our very first impression was good; the hodge-podge of buildings on the steep slopes looked quite charming from a distance. 

However, up close it was anything but charming. Much of the town suffers from a lack of pavements, and all of the town has open sewers; a pretty unpleasant combination, especially combined with the limited street lighting. In addition, the two roads which pass through the town appear to be permanently packed with honking traffic. This meant that much of our time was spent trying to dodge traffic without falling into the sewers and with horns blaring continually only a few feet from our ears. The shops along the sides of the road mostly sell tourist tat and knitted clothing, including the aforementioned woolly hats and scarf sets, for those visitors who have underestimated how much the 25 degrees centigrade temperatures would affect them and were, therefore, of no particular interest to us. We also struggled to locate anywhere particularly decent to eat. Perhaps it was a blessing that the YWCA was only available for one night before it filled up for some sort of congregation.

Ooty isn't all bad. There are one or two colourful temples mixed in between the shops.  

One consequence of the relatively cool temperatures is that it is possible for chocolate to be sold without it melting; every other shop purported to sell “home made” chocolate that all looked suspiciously similar. I had previously purchased some Cadbury's chocolate in Hyderabad in an attempt to cheer Monique up only to find it very disappointing; I assume that the chocolate recipe has to be changed to prevent it from melting, and this results in an unpleasant chalky texture. Whilst Ooty's chocolate wasn't great by British standards (or even American) it was much better than what we had eaten in India before and a welcome pick-me-up for both of us. Rather bizarrely, one of the shops we came across in Ooty used the Cadbury colours and logo on nearly all of its signs within the shop, suggesting that Cadbury has branched out into jewellery, office supplies, home furnishings, and electrical goods amongst other things. The shop stopped short, however, of using the Cadbury brand in relation to its “home-made” chocolate.

In amongst trying to arrange a way out of Ooty (about which later) we did manage a couple of activities. Firstly, and unforgettably, we visited the Thread Museum which consisted of a large number of synthetic plants and flowers made entirely out of thread. The plants, which apparently took 50 people over 12 years to make (although by my rough calculations that makes each of those 50 people lazy), were described to us by the guide as “miracles”. The only miracle that I witnessed was the fact that they appear able to regularly persuade people to part with their cash to visit the place (although they are probably helped by the lack of open sewers inside the museum).

Afterwards we braved the lakeside crowds and the very Indian queuing style (which will inevitably be the subject of a blog post/rant at some point) to take a short pedalo ride. The 30 minutes we spent slowly peddling our way around the lake in a four person pedalo (having apparently been deemed either too big or too heavy for a two seater) whilst finishing off our stash of chocolate was the highlight of Ooty.

In Ooty's defence, it is quite probably a nice place to visit if you have your own vehicle and use the town only as a base to visit the surrounding countryside. However, without our own vehicle, and in the absence of any organised tours around the countryside, we were stuck in the city centre itself, which leaves a lot to be desired.

Unsurprisingly we were keen to move on to Kerala (a highly anticipated section of our visit to India) a.s.a.p. So we set about trying to make arrangements to descend out of town on the miniature railway to enable us to sample some more of the scenery we had enjoyed on the way in. However, although we had had enough of Ooty, Ooty had not had enough of us and did not want to make it easy for us to leave. After a fruitless visit to the train station in an attempt to secure seats in advance (and which included a now very familiar referral to a different window which was unoccupied by any member of staff), we returned the following day well in advance of the time at which tickets for travel that day opened and stocked up with travel snacks. After a lengthy queue (which, refreshingly, was actually very similar to a proper queue) we were informed that the train wasn't going to Mettupalayam that day and would only take us as far as Coonoor.

Desperate to get away we purchased tickets and took up a position on the platform prepared for the usual scrum for seats (and in particular seats on the side which we understood had the best views), only to be told a few minutes before the train arrived that there was a queue to get onto the train and to find ourselves some way back in that queue which was marshaled by the station staff. The staff proceeded to instruct passengers which of the carriages, with seating for 8 people, they were to occupy; when I was instructed to enter a carriage which already had 12 people in it I referred the gentleman to the size of our luggage, pointed to the next empty carriage which had two people in it and we promptly made our way into that carriage before any objection could be raised. I was quite smug about securing us two window seats for the scenic journey; my smugness lasted until persons 9, 10, 11, 12, 13 and 14 entered our carriage. The cramped journey would have been easier to endure had we secured seats on the other side of the train with what looked like very nice countryside views rather than our side which mostly had a view of the side of the mountain.

We disembarked the (all too) miniature train in Coonoor without any idea how we were going to get to Kerala. Fortunately we then discovered India's local buses with which we have subsequently become well acquainted. After some help identifying the correct bus (which happened to be just about to leave) we proceeded to pay the grand sum of around next-to-nothing on the 2 hour plus journey to Mettupalayam. From there we took another local bus (which, as luck would have it, was also just about to leave) on the four hour journey to Coimbatore for only slightly more. This was a bit of a revelation for us, as up until then we had only travelled between places by train or private (read “tourist”) buses. These government run buses are remarkably efficient and incredibly good value; they leave at regular intervals to various surrounding towns and so aren't particularly crowded. As long as you don't mind hopping from town to town rather than staying on one bus for your entire journey, can identify the correct bus to get on (often without any signage in English) the local buses are definitely the best way to get around India as a backpacker. Despite that, it appears that foreigners are a bit of a rarity on the local buses and therefore attract quite a bit of attention from people eager to enquire about your journey and thoughts on India, and to do whatever is necessary (and often more) to assist you in getting to where you want to go.

We planned to stay the night in Coimbatore, having already had a long day of travel, and head out early for a bus to either Kochi or Wayanad. However, our good fortune was broken by our discovery that nearly all of the reasonably priced hotels/guesthouses in the city were fully booked and none of the multiple travel agents were able to provide transport to Kochi or Wayanad. Buses to Bangalore, however, were inexplicably plentiful. After an extensive and mood destroying search for a hotel we ended up paying over-the-odds for a room which may or may not have had a giant one-way mirror. The following day we modified our plan with a great deal of help from the locals at the city bus stand, we made our way to Munnar, rather than Kochi, by local buses.

On being British in India

In the initial stages of our travels through India I was pleased to see a fair number of references to the British and their part in the country's history and I was certainly given a warm welcome when telling people where I am from. However, a few weeks in, and after visiting a number of places with historical importance, I've started to notice a pattern in relation to those references and a worrying thought has crossed my mind: “Are we the baddies?”

More of Mysore

Palace of Mysore

The next morning got off to a late start, due to the fact we needed some time to recover from the nighttime discoride that took place the day before. After a very hot and sunny walk to the place, we got caught up in some shadiness. Firstly, I should explain that India has a two tier pricing system, whereby foreigner tickets are often 10x to 25x that of Indian residents. While this ensures attractions are not prohibitively expensive for residents, it is mildly irritating at times because they don't explain how they use the additional funds. When we arrived, a 'helpful' security guard insisted on purchasing our tickets for us, meaning he shoved people out of the line, barged up to the window of the ticketing agent and brokered the sale for us. An examination of our tickets revealed that one was from several hours earlier, and they were reselling used tickets. (Hmm...Nancy Drew and the the Case of the Suspicious Ticket? Compared to the Hardy Boys, she did seem to get all the lame mysteries.) Let's just say there is a lot of money to be made on this little scheme.

At the entrance gate to the palace, the security guards gestured wildly at us, encouraging us to go in. However, there was a little kiosk selling audio guides and I was balking like a dog at bath time. The audio guide had information about all the things. And I desperately wanted to know about all the things. To our delighted surprise, we discovered the guides were free with the price of a foreign ticket. And they were really really good! To paraphrase Ross Geller, seeing pretty things and learning? Sign me up please! (I think the guards can only resell tickets for the people who do not use the audio guide. Hence all the pressure and lack of pricing information.)

We weren't allowed to take photos inside the building, which is a bit of a shame because it's got a lovely art deco feel to it, with astonishingly intricate carvings, paintings, and inlaid tiles. It was constructed in 1912 after the original palace burnt down due to a kitchen fire. (Seems a bit suspicious, possibly another case for Ms. Drew?) I was rather surprised it was constructed so recently, because—to my mind—such extravagant expenditures belong to a far more distant past. It did make me wonder how the people of Mysore felt about it. Given the fact it was constructed at a time where a single light-bulb was a status symbol, how were the hundreds adorning the building viewed? Alas, we learned of the palace only from the perspective of the Raj and his family, which was pretty favorable to say the least.

After the palace, we had a stroll through the bazaar, which was a wonderful explosion of colour. Unfortunately, I wasn't feeling very chipper (doggone dengue), so we curtailed the evening to rest for a tour the following day, which was described by the Lonely Planet as leaving one 'breathless.”

The tour started at 8:30 am, and with an 8:30 pm finish, it was going to be a loooong day. The first stop was Mysore zoo, which was not a place I was entirely comfortable going. I've always had a bit of a thing about zoos, because it makes me kind of sad to see animals penned in with a parade of gawping visitors. However, given the increase in human-led extinctions, it seems that zoos are—somewhat paradoxically—now one of the only safe places for some of our animal friends. It also made me feel better that Mysore zoo had signs that stated most of the animals at their zoo had been rescued from damaging or exploitative conditions, or had been found injured and could not be re-released into the wild. And if you accidentally fell in the lion den, and the lion ate you, they were much more concerned the poor beast would suffer some indigestion. 

After you are dismembered, you will go to jail.

 

 

Anyhow, to our great surprise, we both really enjoyed the zoo. So much in fact that we were four minutes late back to the bus by my watch, though a fraction early according to the official time. (Jon: “It's India! Everyone's going to be a little late.”) As soon as we exited the zoo gates, our bus surged forward, careened through the parking lot, swerved around the corner—where it hesitated just long enough for us to leap aboard—before speeding off to the next destination of Chamundi hill. And this is how we found out the importance of timeliness in India.The drive up to the hill offered some spectacular views of Mysore. We didn't have much time at the top, but we did check out a the markets, a couple of temples and some statues.

Next, we dropped in at the waxworks/musical instrument museum, which was so astonishingly bad, it was kind of awesome. The waxworks, each playing a different musical instrument, all featured grotesquely small heads perched—sometimes at improbable angles—atop anemic looking bodies. Remarkably, all the faces had nearly identical features, save the size of the mustache on display. The signage in the museum was also pretty special; approximately every ten feet we were informed it was forbidden to spit, and near the exit, we were treated to a long and petulant rant about how they were not part of the state government's official tour. We did not spring the additional $0.25 for photos inside the museum, so this picture outside will have to suffice. 

Alas, no mustache.

Perplexingly, the next stop was the only time our tour group was tardy returning to the bus. Behold the silk “museum,” where everything on display was brand new and could be yours for a price. Our fellow tour-goers were all over that like a silkworm on a mulberry bush. (Bewildered, Jon and I wandered about looking for the 'museum' before abandoning ship and heading out for refreshments.)

After everybody reluctantly returned to the bus, we headed off to lunch, which was unfortunately not the best experience. Favoring something a bit blander for a change, I asked for a korma, which was so spicy, it nearly blew the back of my head off. Jon's order took 45 minutes to arrive, by which point, everybody was on the bus waiting for us. Yet again.

Next stop was the palace. Since we had already been, we just walked around the complex, eating ice cream while watching the elephants eat their lunch. We then headed off to the Catholic church in the centre of town, which was a very lovely building.The next stop, Tipu's summer palace, was a bit farther afield. Situated in some lovely gardens, the palace was not particularly impressive from the outside. However, the plaster murals on the inside were really intricate, and unfortunately, not at all preserved from the dangers of tourists' errant elbows and bags. We then did a drive by of Tipu's death place (at the hands of the British, naturally), before checking out the former city walls and another temple. Since we'd have to walk barefoot through the glass strewn parking lot to enter this particular temple, the appeal of the inside was pretty low. 

 

Finally, our last stop was the Brindavan gardens, which were nice, albeit really crowded. The big draw was some 'dancing' musical fountains, which are often used as a backdrop for local films. The first show was not particularly pleasant; people insisted on standing directly in front of the fountain, with little care or concern about blocking the view of others. The crowds had dispersed somewhat by the second show, and we had a pretty great view. We were even able to return to the bus 15 minutes early, where our tour guide dryly noted we were the “last ones.” (Seriously??)

 

The next morning we dropped in at the railway museum, which featured some steam locomotives. It was quite delightful, and brought back some good memories for Jon, whose grandfather really loved trains. A brief bit of clothes shopping and some lime sodas and peanuty pakora later, we were finally ready to head off to Ooty. 

Mysore

Mysore just might have the dubious distinction of being the most unfortunately named city I have visited. It is a step up from say, Myfesteringwound, but it doesn't exactly conjure up the most delightful of images for native English speakers. Fortunately, the name is not reflective of the place, and we really enjoyed our time in Mysore, which was filled to the brim with all sorts of fun touristy stuff. But before we could check out any palaces or ruins, we had to get there, which was a crazy adventure all in its own right.

Although we did not sleep a wink on the sleeper bus, we both had a certain level of appreciation for the “Studio 54” feel of the bus. Rainbow holographic laminate on ceiling and walls? Check. Purple velveteen curtains? Check. Flashing multicolor lights lining the door frame? Check. Driver who alternated between blaring his horn and dance music through the wee hours? Check and double check.

We ended up taking a train from Bangalore, which was super super cheap. For a reason. When the train arrived, an unruly mob formed at the entrance to the cars, pushing and shoving to such an extent that people could barely get off the train. Only the people who dove into the scrum and weren't afraid to throw elbows got seats. I secured us two. (My elbows are at most people's face level...winning!)

For about two and a half hours, the journey was reasonably pleasant. Whilst we had aisle seats--far from deliciously cool and refreshing oxygen available to those people near a window--the people in our train compartment were rather pleasant. In the adjacent apartment, there were some kids sitting in the overhead luggage racks who were interested in playing peek-a-boo with us through the metal screen that separated us, a game they didn't seem to tire of for the next three hours.

People shared some of their food with us, we shared some laughs, our headphones and the Lonely Planet guidebook. One of our fellow passengers asked to see it, and spent over an hour poring through it. We thought it was a bit odd, until another person asked, then another. During the course of our travels, we have found the Lonely Planet to be a big hit; it seems everywhere we've gone in India, Indians have been quite curious about India.  :)  

Unfortunately, all our new travel companions departed around the third hour mark. While we were free to secure window seats, our compartment filled with individuals who were comparatively less friendly and far more inclined to stare. (Our peek-a-boo buddies were replaced by a total perv of a guy who seemed like he was trying to stare down my top for the next three hours. Trust me buddy, it's really not that interesting down there.)

When we finally arrived in Mysore, we were marooned on a platform with no clear exit signs. However, a quick glance around revealed the appropriate way to proceed: we should jump down from the platform, clamber over a fence, amble across two sets of tracks, slither under another fence, then hoist ourselves back up on the opposite platform, where the exit awaited us. Although we followed our fellow passengers across the tracks, it didn't seem like the best idea, particularly given Jon's familial history of difficulty with train crossings. Although I had seen several videos of people nearly hit by trains (e.g. below), I was unaware that the seemingly reckless stars of these videos were not entirely negligent, they were simply following protocol. 

 

One fixed-price (more winning!) ride in a rickshaw later, we found ourselves in the city centre, where a tout led us to our new temporary digs. After some much needed R&R, we headed out to investigate Mysore (haha, that sounds like a medical docudrama). After we were lured into an incense and oil shop, and ate dinner at a restaurant that proudly featured disposable vomit bags as a dining convenience (see picture below), we turned our attention to the--much more savory--light show at the palace. 

 

The light show basically meant that the light bulbs covering the palace and its attendant grounds were switched on, then without any fanfare, they are switched off. (I think the more western concept of “light show” may have been lost in translation.) In general, it is like a much classier version of Clark Griswalds infamous Christmas décor in National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. Although the notion of the “light show” was somewhat lost in translation, it was a really lovely atmosphere and we both really enjoyed the evening. With all the lights, food vendors, and friends and families milling about, it even had a bit of a Christmassy feel to it. 

 

On our way back to the guesthouse, we saw a man with long hair sat in a silver chariot that was pulled by a white horse, which was led by a processional of drum players. Periodically, the entourage would stop in the middle of the road and everybody would get down for a group boogie. Jon and I watched the scene unfold, and before we knew it, we were pulled into the fray. (Me willingly, Jon a bit less so.) In India thus far, I have subscribed to a basic formula of jump+flail=dance. While I have tried to use the moves I have been taught of “sow the seed” and “twist the lightbulb,” sometimes I just don't know what's going on, so I just wave my arms about wildly whilst bouncing. Surprisingly, this seems to go down well. After we shook our groove thing in the middle of the road not once, but twice, it was time for bed. 

The above is for illustrative (v. aesthetic) purposes.  :)  Too busy dancing for a good snap. 

Bangalore in Brief

We arrived on a sleeper bus (complete misnomer because neither of us slept a wink) with the intention of moving onward to Mysore. Since we were transiting through, we spent a good amount of time around the bus stations and train stations. My mother always said, "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all." With that in mind, this post should be over. However, we would like you to know this have given rise to the phrase, "Smells like Bangalore.”*

*(Trademark Pending.)

Hyderabad

From Hampi we took a rickshaw ride to Hospet (due to the local bus not appearing as scheduled) to take the overnight sleeper bus to Hyderabad. We saw a tow-truck of sorts on the way...a rickshaw driver sticking his leg out of his vehicle to propel a stalled rickshaw in front of him up the hill. After our previous ‘sleeper’ bus experience we were understandably less excited by the prospect of the journey, but we were excited about staying with Monique’s friend Abhijeet in Hyderabad. The bus was much better this time and included air-con, and we actually managed to get a bit of sleep.

Upon arrival in Hyderabad we weren’t entirely sure which bus station we were at; Hyderabad is a huge sprawling city and has more than a few bus stations. We did, however, know where we wanted to go – the university in Gatchibowli where Abhijeet works as a professor – and thought it would be easy to get there. We thought wrong. We spent over an hour at the bus station wandering from one bus stand to another in search of a bus to Gatchibowli (or even in the general direction). Everyone we encountered seemed terribly eager to help us, but only succeeded in making us do circuit laps of the rather large bus station, rucksacks in tow. Eventually we changed tack and, after some hard-core haggling, persuaded a rickshaw driver to take us for a good price.

Abhijeet lives in an extremely palatial apartment on the peaceful university campus (which he describes as "the bubble"), and is one of the most accommodating and generous hosts I have ever met. Both of these things turned out to be extremely fortuitous for us in the wake of the unfortuitius dengue incident. Before Monique’s illness we did get to see some of the city as Abhijeet had arranged for a driver to take us around Old Hyderabad while he was at work (told you he was generous – we’re deliberately not printing his last name as he would inevitably be inundated by requests to stay with him!). This was a real luxury for us as we are used to exploring cities by foot and local transport rather than an air-conditioned car. Our usual method of exploration would have been completely unsuitable for Hyderabad; unlike most cities where the main points of interest are focused in one area, Hyderabad’s are spread out around the city and take a long time to travel in between.

Our first stop was Charminar, a 400+ old columned building in the middle of a hectic intersection which houses the city’s oldest mosque (Hyderabad having a large Muslim populous), and took a look at the Laad Bazaar.

We then sampled some of Old Hyderabad’s famous lassi (tasty, but a bit of an odd texture – a bit more solid than a drink typically is) before heading towards the Chowmahalla Palace. Unfortunately, unbeknownst to us at the time, the city’s Muslim landmarks are all closed on a Friday, which meant that we couldn’t go into the Palace, or the Salar Jung Museum which we had intended to visit afterwards. Instead, our resourceful driver took us to the Whacky Car Museum – an attraction which hadn’t made it into the Lonely Planet or onto our wish list, and consists of “whacky” (no idea why the ‘h’ is included – perhaps for added wackiness) vehicles made on-site by the museum owner including the world’s largest tricycle, various miniature versions of ‘normal’ vehicles (including, to my pleasure, a mini double-decker red bus) and cars in the shape of a burger, a football, a three-piece suite, a shoe, a camera and an olde worlde-style computer to name but a few. Not the cultural experience we had planned, but a fun quick stop nonetheless.

I'm not sure where the driver will sit in the flat-screen model

 

We then headed to Golconda Fort, a 16^th century fortress built on a granite hill which is now surrounded by the city sprawl. The remains of the large fort are fairly impressive, however our enjoyment mostly came from the views from the higher sections which enable you to look over both the ancient ruins and the surrounding modern city – a really unique view, and one which enabled us to comprehend the size of the city.

We both thought that we would leave our minor-celebrity status behind us in Hampi, and would no longer be subject to regular requests to pose for photos with fellow visitors. Again, we thought wrong. Numerous families and groups of friends approached us to shake hands, talk with us and demand that we pose for photos with them (the tendency is to phrase the demand as if it were a question, but to do so whilst maneuvering us into their desired position and gathering around us so as to give us no real choice). A group of young girls took a particular liking to Monique, who was greeted with calls of “hello sister!” every time we saw them throughout our visit. 

 

They were much more excited than they look here, honestly.

 

An unexpectedly fun part of our visit came as we were descending from the top of the fort along rubberized paths (presumably built for wheelchair accessibility) which became increasingly steep up to the point where no footwear could provide sufficient traction to walk along them. Whilst other visitors turned around and went back up, or slowly traversed the crumbly ground at the side of the paths (presumably the wheelchair users became bobsled racers), Monique and I elected to simply sit down and slide down the 30m path like a giant slide (much to the amusement of the on-looking locals). [Monique edit: Wheeeeeeeeeeeee!!!]

That evening Abhijeet had arranged for us to meet some of his friends to go to the cinema to see Iron Man 3. Apparently going to the cinema is massively popular in Hyderabad, so much so that tickets almost always need to be purchased well in advance. Before the film we went out to eat at a crazy place called The Village which is memorable more for its unique ambience than its food; it’s not that the food was bad, it just very much takes second place to the other goings on there. The restaurant is split into various themed areas including a jail area and a movie area amongst others. First we ate chaat (a yummy sort of street food with multiple variations) whilst watching a traditional puppet show that involved dancing characters whose heads would occasionally become separated from their bodies (a bit like Punch and Judy but without the wife-beating and sausages), and between main courses and dessert Monique and Abhijeet took part in some [bhangra] dancing (having sensibly sat out a dance which involved banging wooden sticks together – a more aggressive variation of morris dancing).

The real drama of the evening was provided by a game of musical chairs. Abhijeet let himself down with an early exit and I was an outside contender until a guy pulled my chair out from under me as I sat down, leaving me sprawled on the floor (he apologized but did not go so far as to give me his place in the remainder of the game). This left Monique as our party’s last woman sitting, having to perform with the added pressure of being the sole representative of the Western World vs. the many Indian representatives. One by one the Indian contenders fell by the wayside as Monique increased her standing by virtue of some excellent sitting, and eventually Monique found herself in a one-on-one contest for the title with an Indian bloke in his early 30’s I would guess (I should mention that there wasn’t a single child involved in this game – the restaurant seems aimed at adults who want to recreate children’s birthday parties). [Monique edit: And it was awesome!] The tension in the restaurant was palpable, and all eyes were on the contest (for it had long ceased being a game). After what seemed like an eternity the music stopped, Monique dashed towards the sole seat with victory within sight, pirouetted gracefully, aimed her backside at the goal for the final few inches only for her victory throne to be whipped from beneath her by her competitor! Cue gasps all round! Monique was helped to her feet by her competitor and other spectators, and after a careful checking of the official international rules a re-sit was arranged. However, despite the audience being very much on Monique’s side, the wind had been knocked out of her sails and second time around, her competitor took the spoils. I had no idea that musical chairs could be so competitive! Early rumours suggest that Amir Khan is set to play the unworthy winner in the film of this epic battle.

Unfortunately it was during that evening that Monique’s illness began to break (I wonder how the musical chairs victor would feel if he knew that the girl he had cheated would spend the next two weeks in bed/hospital), so the film viewing was not the most pleasant. The only note-worthy part of the cinema experience was when the film stopped mid-way through the film, and part-way through an action sequence, leaving us all in darkness. It soon became apparent that this was an intermission. Because Bollywood films are so long they have an intermission half-way through for snack-replenishing, comfort breaks and the like. This norm is also applied to non-Bollywood films, irrespective of length and seemingly without any consideration to whether the break comes at a suitable time in the film. An odd quirk in an otherwise very familiar cinema experience.

Monique has covered the next few days in the previous post, despite the fact that she was mostly unconscious through them in an attempt to sleep off Dengue. While Monique slumbered endlessly, Abhijeet was the consummate host, even by Indian standards of hospitality which, in my experience, are extremely high. He did everything within his power to make Monique feel better (including sourcing various comfort foods from around the city in the hope that it would tempt Monique to eat) and despite not having met him before, I was very quickly made to feel like part of the family in what could have been very awkward circumstances.

Abhijeet and I quickly discovered a mutual love of food, and Abhijeet took it upon himself to give me an education in home-style Indian food (with a little help from his maid and, later on, his mother). Having spent most of my life in Birmingham I considered myself to be very familiar with Indian food before this trip. However, I came to learn that the curry and nan bread that I am familiar with is not a daily diet for many Indian people (more of a weekly occurrence – perhaps a little like us Brits generally have a roast dinner once a week); typical home meals are much lighter and more mildly spiced, usually consisting of a vegetable dish, a daal and chapatis. Abhijeet also introduced me to a number of street foods which, up until then, I had been slightly nervous about trying (including oye and the aforementioned chaat). Absolutely everything was delicious, and I feel much more prepared for eating genuine Indian food on the road from now on.

As part of my food education Abhijeet intorduced me to a couple of important cultural traditions. The first is know as the "one more spoonful" tradition; this occurs at what one believes is the end of a meal when one has eaten a sufficient amount when the host will insist that you must have just one more spoonful of whatever you have been eating and immediately place several spoonfuls on your plate and give you a look that makes it clear that eating it is not optional (I'm not actually sure whether the insistent look is traditional, or just Abhijeet's take on the tradition). The second tradition occurs on the rare occassions that one manages to successfully refuse "one more spoonful", after which the host will give a hurt expression and enquire "you're not going to make me go out and feed it to the cow are you?", and immediately place several spoonfuls on your plate and give you a look that makes it clear that eating it is not optional. Despite never needing one more spoonful, and despite being well aware that Abhijeet does not have a cow out the back of his apartment, both of these traditions resulted in me regularly being stuffed.

Amongst the notable foods that Abhijeet introduced me to is the famous Alphonso Mango, a type of mango grown only in the Mumbai area for a short period each year, and consequently highly sought after. Now I am quite a fan of mangos, and on both of my visits to Asia I have taken advantage of the availability of fresh mangoes. However, having eaten Alphonso mangos I think I’m going to find it difficult to go back to ‘normal’ mangoes; Alphonsos are sweeter and tastier than any mango I’ve eaten before, and is possibly the nicest fruit I have eaten. One unusual, but delicious, way of eating mango that Abhijeet introduced me to is as a puree eaten with chapatis and spiced lentils; it really shouldn’t work but it definitely does.

Contrary to how it might sound like, I didn't just eat during this period; I also watched a lot of tv (having been pleased to discover the large number of english language tv shows available). In my less sedantary moments I took advantage of the campus swimming pool and the “beauty parlour” where I discovered that #2 on Indian hair-clippers is quite a bit shorter than #2 on UK hair-clippers. Luckily Monique was too busy being ill to be alarmed by my new thug-like look.

Following Monique’s partial recovery from her illness (most symptoms had gone, but she remained very tired and weak), we took a trip to the mall, mainly to get out without leaving air-conditioned conditions, where we ate pizza and had fun at Fun City where our combined efforts at various games, including Monique's forte – ski-ball, were rewarded with just enough tickets to claim a novelty pen. I'm still a bit bitter about my whack-a-mole efforts being rewarded with a paltry three tickets!

We also tried to see a bit more of the city before finally letting Abhijeet have his apartment back. We took a trip to the Qutb Shahi Tombs; an area which, despite being known locally as “the 7 tombs” has numerous tombs with bulbous domes dotted around it.

 

We had a really nice time wandering around the various impressive tombs, but the real pleasure of the afternoon came when we stumbled upon an area of grass/gardens in front of one of the largest tombs where multiple families were relaxing and playing games including cricket, football, badminton and a complex chasing game that was beyond our comprehension, and one child even decided to take a dip in the water feature to cool off.

It seems like there may be a shortage of open areas in Hyderabad (or at least this part of the city), so people treat this part of the tomb site it as a park. The effect of this is that what would otherwise be a somber site is turned into an area of fun and laughter that was really nice to relax in for a while. We again attracted a number of people wanting to talk to us and have photos with us, and one family even invited us to join them to play badminton with them. I’ll put Monique’s badminton performance down to her fragile health and the breeze, and thankfully someone else hit the shuttlecock into a pond before I could embarrass myself.

After an unexpectedly long stay of just over two weeks Monique felt well enough to continue our travels, and I felt able to drag myself available from the home cooked food, so we belatedly headed out to Mysore via Bangalore. Obviously I would have preferred it if Monique had not been sick at all, but given that she did, I am extremely grateful that it happened while we were visiting Abhijeet, because it would really have been a nightmare if we were trying to deal with it on our own. I cannot thank Abhijeet enough for his fantastic hospitality and everything he did to help Monique to get better.