Travels with a Van - Part 1

I thought I'd try something a little different with this blog entry. Here you will find various photographs taken during my travels in Karnataka, interspersed with passages from my journal which were written during the same period.

Perhaps this will give you some insight into the state of mind of a traveller. More likely, it will give you some insight into the state of mind of a ramblin' Ollie.

By coincidence I started a new journal (my sixth) just before I left Palolem Beach. This meant that my friend Mike could carry my precious fifth journal back to England and I could start my journey with a fresh set of pages. I've started to compare my writing to a kind of meditation - a way of centering myself in the world. Therefore a new journal kind of represents a new start, an immediate future uncluttered by the thousand ideas and feelings recorded in the previous book.

It does feel a bit weird sharing with you all some of my neuroses. Most of you already know I can be a little hard of myself sometimes. My self-deprecating nature is firmly established in my blogging but it's also there in my journal writing.

As you read you may think that I'm taking myself a little too seriously. I probably am. I probably do.

For me, journal writing is all about capturing an idea or the feeling of a moment with absolute honesty. I may be feeling something completely different five minutes after describing a particular moment, I may believe a different idea, but that doesn't change the undeniable truth of that feeling or that belief in that moment.

As far as I'm concerned, being able to distill a moment like that into words is very, very important indeed.


Saturday 7th January, Palolem Beach

I'm on Palolem Beach and have just put the pieces back together after a New Year period littered with excess and poor behaviour. Actually, I wasn't that badly bahaved - I just lost the plot on the dancefloor because of too much booze and drugs and didn't succeed in pulling myself together for a few days.

But as my new friend Vanessa told me last night, I shouldn't beat myself up about it. I admitted to her that I was quite self-critical because I set high standards for myself. I just figure I should know better.

All of that is in the past now. This is a different book and I'm about to begin a different story. This is the story of my travels around India. I've tried to explain to few people exactly what's been going on with my head over these last few weeks and no-one has really understood. What's there to understand anyway? I have a penchant for parties and sometimes I get a bit carried away. Not such an exciting story, is it?

Here I am, about to embark on this great adventure - a spiritualising, purifying experience hopefully. I'm not helping myself on this quest by chuffing twenty camels a day, eating loads of curry and drinking loads of beer. Something needs to change and it invariably will, once I leave Goa. However, I'm now getting my head around the idea that I should facilitate this change.

Less fags and more yoga is in order I think!


"Boat ride... want?"

The lovely Vanessa is a northern lass, she says what she likes and she likes what she bloody well says

He may be a hairy beast but I'd still shag him


Monday 9th January, Palolem Beach

I was lying on the beach a couple of days ago, basking in the late afternoon sun and trying to sweat some of the poison out of my system. I was in that state between waking and sleeping, when you can hear everything that's going on around you, but it's all too distant and abstract to relate to, like the murmuring of the sea in the dead of night.

Two girls happened to walk by, their voices carried and penetrated my semi-slumber. All I heard was three words from their conversation, but these words were crystal clear and shattering.

"Confidence, stamina, endurance."

It seemed to me in my lethargic state that these girls were referring to the ideal characteristics of a man - from their point of view, at least. I realised with some disappointment that I possess none of these characteristics - well, apart from a little confidence perhaps... but I don't have the killer instinct.

I have become lazy and unhealthy and it's time to regain some of my confidence, stamina and endurance... before I waste away entirely.


Good evening Palolem, and goodbye

Our nightbus to Hampi was called Ronaldo and boasted private compartments you could spoon in

Darkness falls on Hampi's main bazaar at the end of our first day out of Palolem


Friday 13th January, Hampi

We left Palolem at 10pm on Thursday night on a bus called Ronaldo. The bus was an hour late (of course) and as Vanessa and I sat waiting, surrounded by moody Israelis and, in total contrast, a beautiful, blonde Australian family, we started talking to the only other two English people waiting for the Hampi bus - Steph and Ian.

It's funny how the English - like the Israelis... like every other nationality, I guess - will tend to group together at times like these.

The bus, when it eventually arrived, was unique in my experience, and very practical - although there was much confusion in the narrow, cramped central corridor as we piled aboard. It was made up of about a dozen small, cushioned alcoves on two levels. On the left hand side they were single berth and separated from the corridor by thin, grubby curtains. The ones on the right were double berths and had sturdy sliding doors instead of curtains.

Vanessa and I climbed into our berth and slid the hatch closed. Immediately we were separated from everyone else on the bus and would have had complete privacy if not for the fact that the wall on the side of the berth opposite the hatch was a big window. Still, once the light was turned off and we were underway, our relative seclusion offered us the opportunity to fool around a bit.

I was able to sleep pretty well, spooning with Vanessa, occasionally woken by the juddering of the bus on a particularly bad bit of road. On one such occasion we were shaken awake and had the opportunity to survey the Karnatakan countryside bathed in the warm glow of dawn's early light. It was a moment I don't think I will ever forget despite despite the fact that I was still half-asleep - the sense of freedom, being on the open road, travelling into the unknown with my arms wrapped a lovely young woman.

King Cobra was the name of the rickshaw driver who ripped us off fifty rupees to take us two hundred metres to the guesthouse we had selected from Lonely Planet. It was described as "a little gem" in Vanessa's 2004 edition. We were not terribly impressed, mostly because it was located next to a shit heap. Later, we looked at my 2005 Lonely Planet where it was described as "a little tired". With regard to Hampi, we soon discovered, Lonely Planet was not particularly reliable.


Sunrise over Hampi

Hampi, full of paddy fields and boulders

We observe an aged Indian woman washing clothes in the river in the midday heat

An Indian man cups his hands to light a cigarette outside a mental temple in Hampi


Saturday 14th January, Hampi

I've not been doing so well with my journal recently. Well, the last couple of days have been action-packed, so there's nothing to feel particularly guilty about, whereas a certain feeling of guilt was justified on Palolem Beach, since it was pure laziness that led to my indifference to my writing.

I need to find new vigour! Hopefully "the real India" is the place to find it, although as Vanessa and I agreed shortly after we arrived, Hampi isn't exactly the real India we'd been anticipating - it's kind of like Palolem with bad food and lots of rubbish instead of a beach.

I wanted to quickly draw a comparison between my experience of leaving Sydney to go travelling up the Australian east coast last January and that of leaving Palolem a couple of days ago. What I discovered on both occasions is that experiences you have outside the arena of drink and drugs are so much more valid. This is quite obvious, of course, but if you're stuck in a lazy apathetic mindset - a routine involving only eating, sleeping, drinking and smoking - it can be difficult to see the wood for the trees.

The point is that today I found myself thinking along the same lines as I did around this time last year, the day I left Sydney: "Why didn't I leave Palolem sooner? Why did I waste my time and money there?!"

Actually, there are a couple of very good reasons why I didn't leave sooner. For one, my good friend Mike was there. For another, I was waiting for the lovely and very cool Vanessa to join me on my adventure.


Green algae floats in a ruined and flooded temple near Hampi

Everyone seems to want to shake my hand, perhaps it's because I keep telling them my name is Andrew Flintoff

I discover I am popular among Indian men. Vanessa, it turns out, is even more popular

Indian children line up to have their photograph taken and then say thankyou


Monday 16th January, Hampi

Sitting here in the shade of a huge boulder set amidst a million other huge boulders that litter the wilderness around Hampi, I feel like I could have been transported back two thousand years to the time of Jesus. On the other side of the valley the river glistens in the afternoon heat. Women stand on the edge washing clothes, chattering contentedly. Men swim in the water washing themselves, playfully dunking each other. Saris dry on the broad, stony banks - huge strips of unwound cloth, colourful and glittering.

From our vantage point on the hillside we can see derelict temples tucked away in crevices all over the valley, walking the paths between them small groups of Indian men in subdued dress, groups of women in bright colours, the occasional tourist.

Two days ago it was a different story. Fifty thousand people descended on Hampi for a full moon festival, and as we made our way along the same paths we were joined by hundreds of Indians, some were wealthy tourists wearing jeans and sunglasses, others were clearly poverty stricken and begging, all seemed to be on some kind of pilgremage to the temple ruins which litter the valleys around Hampi.

Looking at the ancient landscape and all the people milling excitedly about, my thoughts turned to Jesus' famous "Sermon on the Mount"...

"Where are you going?"
"Haven't you heard? There's a man called Jesus, preaching and healing the sick! We're going to listen to him!"
"Preaching? What does he say?"
"Erm... apparently he says 'Blessed be the cheesemakers'."
"The cheesemakers?!"
"Well, of course he's talking about makers of all dairy products..."

The day of the full moon was the day Vanessa and I had planned to take the sights of Hampi by storm. Unbeknownst to us, 50,000 Indians had a similar idea. However, when we woke before dawn and went out to watch the sunrise, things were still relatively calm. The only sign of life which hinted at the imminent festivities were the women spreading a thin paste of manure over every available bit of pavement and then painting elaborate and colourful chalk symbols over the dried shit, an activity which was quite engaging, if a bit smelly.

We had breakfast at an idyllic spot by the river, a comfortable distance from a group of crusty westerners who seemed to be living in hammocks around the edges of the restaurant. They were friendly enough in a soap-dodging kind of a way, but being confronted with such a level of crustiness, you couldn't help but wonder what their mums must think...

"Eunice, you couldn't pass me another slice of battenburg could you, there's a dear!"
"There you go, Ethel. Do have some more tea, won't you!"
"I don't mind if I do!"
"Now then, what's young Jeremy doing with himself these days? Has he got a girlfriend yet?"
"No, he hasn't. For the last two years he's been living in a hammock in Hampi."
"Hampi? Isn't that just down the road from Cheltenham, dear?"


50,000 Indians gathered in Hampi to celebrate something to do with the full moon, here are a few of them

Lakshmi the elephant surrounded by Indian women in colourful saris

Lakshmi will give you a blessing for a very reasonable price, only 2 rupees

Vanessa photographed this Indian woman as I bartered with her over bananas

More colourful Indian kids

Can you guess which bit is authentic and which is a dodgy Indian fake?

Ever wanted to know what it feels like to be a celebrity? Go to rural India and find a group of school children on a daytrip

The loneliness of the long distance traveller


Wednesday 18th January, Bangalore

We moved on from Hampi on Monday, got on a coach which juddered through the night and afforded us only a very unsatisfying kind of sleep. We stopped at 2am at a roadside cafe. I stood outside the bus and smoked a cigarette. Tired and drowsy, I was disturbed to see ghoulish, crippled beggars crawling out of night, heading in my direction and moaning like extras from a zombie movie.

We were unceremonoiusly dumped by the side of the road in Bangalore at 5am on Tuesday morning, to be picked up by a rickshaw and driven half-asleep around the hotels, in order for us to find one that was suitably priced, clean, quiet and safe. However, being half-asleep does not put you in the best frame of mind to go hotel hunting, and as a result our lack of lucidity led us to a choose a place that, while not seeming overly expensive, dirty, noisy and dangerous, is a little bit dodgy.

The room is tiny, there are no windows - instead, air vents open to the corridor and somehow amplify the sound of of every other television set (all with the volume turned up full) and every other conversation (in shouted Hindi) - and there are a number of foul-smelling shit heaps outside the front door, in which you can usually find one or two ragged Indians either squatting to shit or sifting through the rubbish to find... what? Shit? It's quite unpleasant.

Anyway, it was actually my fault that we ended up picking this particular hotel as I was the bleary-eyed scout who gave it the thumbs up. Vanessa, to her credit, has taken it all in her stride and hasn't complained a single time, once again affirming her status as a cool chick.


"NASA", Bangalore's space age bar is a exceedingly inspiring place

Bangalore's botanical gardens do not rival Sydney's, but in their favour they do have monkeys

This funny salesman and his little friend would not sell us anything other than a hankerchief


Friday 20th January, Mysore

Sitting here in the Park Lane Hotel (our third visit in two days and we'll probably be back here tonight... and the night after) waiting for an Earl Grey tea and omelette, I can kind of imagine what it must have been like in India all those years ago when the country was still under imperialist rule. The service here is so immaculate, somehow so uncompromisingly English, that it feels like we are still the masters and the Indians are our servants.

In the context of a restaurant, of course, the customer is the master, but nonetheless there is a level of service which feels like it's from a bygone era. Certainly, the steadfast Englishness which I referred to is something that you would rarely find in England these days, apart from within the elite domains of the wealthy and priveleged.

The Park Lane Hotel is the premier eatery in Mysore for travellers and tourists alike. Full of character and eccentricity, the restaurant also boasts some of the best food I've stuffed my face with so far on my travels, as well as live music and a warm, friendly atmosphere. However, the aspect which makes dining here a truly original experience are the little red lightbulbs hanging above each table from the lofty, leafy netting in the ceiling. These lights can be turned on in order to attract the attention of one of the numerous immaculately polite waiters hovering around.

Blimey! I went off on a bit of a travel writers tip then, didn't I?! Not really my style but I suppose it makes a refeshing change from discussing my feelings all the time.


Vanessa turned away at just the wrong moment as I tried to juxtapose her golden trestles with Indian soldiers taking a break

Most Indian shop staff has nothing better to do with their time than organise vegatables into neat little piles

An Indian woman sits patiently waiting for someone to purchase her flowers


Saturday 21st January, Mysore

I wonder if the reason my relationship with Vanessa is so well-balanced - or rather, the reason I'm so comfortable with the balance in our relationship - is because of her inherent girliness, which exhibits itself in a number of ways. Despite being independant-minded and practical, she is a relatively nervous traveller, which contrasts my relative confidence and occasional recklessness. In this sense, we're looking after each other - we compliment each other. She tempers my recklessness and I help her to relax.

It's funny, her occasionally evident vulnerability makes me feel more manly, which is a good feeling! She somehow gives me strength. She grabs my arm every time we cross a busy road, something that kind of fills me with pride and confidence. But I wonder... is it because she's worried about herself or she's worred about me?

I don't actually want to know the answer to that question. I would like it to remain a sweet mystery.


In Mysore for some reason they paint the cows yellow

An annoying little beggar followed us around for 15 mintes whining and spoiling our photos. We didn't think he was genuine as he had gel in his hair

Slightly plump men with "disco hair" and moustaches are what passes for sexy in India

We are delighted upon finally finding the ellusive massala dosa

India is a very colourful country

The men in India

There is a bizarrely large number of men in India who bear a striking resemblance to Hollywood actor Michael Biehn.

Seemingly wherever you turn, Lieutenant Coffey - the psychotic Navy Seal from "The Abyss" - is staring back at you. It's quite freaky actually. Indian men like to stare, and almost without exception they have moustaches, most of them great bristling ones like the one Michael Biehn sports in James Cameron's underwater sci-fi flick. Those too young or not sufficiently hirsuit to grow a proper moustache have bum-fluff under their noses and, sadly, they are inevitably subject to ridicule from their hairier peers.

According to an Indian guide I met, one of the first things asked by a woman who is negotiating her arranged marriage is whether her potential suitor has a good moustache. If not then the deal is in serious jeopardy. The bum-fluff boys lose out bigtime.

The Indians really are funny bastards though - and not just because they all have amusing moustaches. Waiters seem to find it difficult to think creatively or laterally. You won't find "Fried egg and chips" on many menus in India for obvious reasons, but you will often find "Fried egg" and you will find "Finger chips". Order them together and they will most likely arrive separated by half an hour. This difficulty is not just restricted to western food. When I asked to have some raita with my popadom all the waiters in the restaurant gathered in the corner of the restaurant for a conference, murmuring and wobbling their heads in confusion. Decide to move to a better table between courses and all hell breaks loose.

One of the most interesting aspects of this trip has been learning about the Indian attitude to spirituality. India is a melting pot of Hindus, Sikhs, Muslims, Christians and Buddhists... as well as various weird new age faiths which take a bit of everything - and then a bit more. These are popular with westerners who are over here looking for enlightenment and want something they can easily digest. For example, rich and decadent westerners can be found at the free love ashram in Puna, which offers courses in yoga, meditation and ayurvedic massage, as well as a compulsory HIV test and big stonking orgies.

Spirituality is a way of life over here. Faith in God(s) is compulsory.

An incident which is a perfect illustration of this attitude took place when we were on the bus one day, crammed into the back row with three Indian men like sardines in a tin can. We were rather uncomfortable, mostly because there wasn't enough room, but partly because Indian men have a habit of leering at western women and frequently groping them. Neither of us knew quite what to expect from these particular Indians, we weren't sure if they were the groping type.

Vanessa was getting stuck into a book about India called "Holy Cow" which has a picture of the Hindu God Shiva on the front. The ringleader of this little backseat crew took the book from her, lifted it towards his face, did a little bow and mumbled a brief prayer. He opened his eyes, looked across at us and said, by way of explanation, "Shiva... my God". Vanessa and I nodded in understanding. He raised his eyebrows quizzically and said to me, "Jesus..?"

Having previously failed abysmally to explain to an Indian the complexities of western spirituality and our ambivalent attitude to faith, I merely nodded and said, "Yes". He then wobbled his head sagely and I responded in the same fashion.

Despite our different faiths we bonded immediately and proceeded to while away a pleasant hour or so naming sportsmen of past and present. Ah, the international religion of men! Not only did we have faith in God in common, it seemed, we also both knew who Sachin Tendulkar and Diego Maradonna were.

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Visit the Michael Biehn Photo Archive for all your Michael Biehn photo needs. It really is VERY comprehensive.

Some people simply have too much time on their hands... like me, for example.

The shit in India

If cleanliness is indeed next to godliness then India must be the most ungodly place in the world.

Okay, so cleanliness obviously isn't next to godliness because if it were Westminster would be full of gurus, not politicians and Singapore wouldn't have 'The Four Floors of Whores' it would have 'The Ten Floors of God's Laws'... or something.

All joking aside, India is a very godly place. All Indians believe in God (or should I say, Gods, because in the Hindu faith there are over a million of them), they just also happen to not believe in basic hygiene.

I've been meaning to write a blog on the subject of the shit here for a little while because, sadly, it is one of the most affecting aspects of this country. There is shit everywhere! Find a quiet spot in the middle of nowhere, somewhere seemingly untouched by human hands, look closely and soon enough you'll spot some rubbish. You have to be constantly aware of it too, washing your hands at every opportunity, because if you forget then you are liable to end up getting very sick.

Some days you barely notice the shit. It is this way for many of the Indians, who have of course lived with it their whole lives. Wealthy Indian housewives go out to do the weekly shopping, immaculate in their beautiful saris, they seem to inhabit an entirely different dimension to the filthy, mangled beggars, the piles of rotting food, the dust and the open sewers that surround them. Your mind just begins to censor it from your senses. You become hardened to it. It's amazing what you can become accustomed to.

Other days you cannot escape it.

Like today for example. Today I'm really not in the mood for wandering Indian streets smeared with every kind of filth imaginable. "When is anyone ever in the mood for filth, particularly the kind that you can smear?" I hear you ask. Well, never - of course, but as I said before, most of the time you can kind of tolerate it.

The other day I witnessed a woman (a different class of woman to the one I described a moment ago) pulling human effluvia onto the pavement from an open sewer and then scraping it into a wicker basket, presumably to take off and use as some kind of fertiliser. To be fair, the stuff did look incredibly fertile - I imagine there was already billions of friendly little organisms thriving in it, wriggling around in anticipation of becoming aquainted with my tummy.

Death in a wicker basket, my dear readers. Death in a wicker basket.

I've not had much more than a mild case of the wicked complaint known universally as Delhi belly, but I've not actually been to Delhi yet either, so I really shouldn't count my chickens, should I? After two months I am suprised I've not been sick - with all the truly hideous odours emanating from the gutters it's a wonder you don't get deathly ill just from breathing the air. A few times I've managed to convince myself that I was about to get sick, conclusions that were promptly followed by much whimpering and groaning and dread.

The litter problem in India does have its advantages. After being scrupulous in my efforts to keep Bristol and Sydney tidy, I now find myself on holiday from being conscientious about my disposal of personal litter. You can just chuck your rubbish anywhere and I often derive great pleasure from doing so. In fact, dropping a well placed cigarette butt here or a sweet wrapper there can actually radically improve the ambience of a street lined with human excrement. An average Indian observer will look at you as if you're completely mad if, during a fleeting moment of Western guilt, you stop and optimistically search for a recepticle in which to throw your refuse.

I am now largely conditioned to the way things are here but the Indians still have the capacity to shock me with their unsanitary ways.

Vanessa and I were travelling down a mountainside by steam train on a narrow guage railway a couple of weeks ago. Apart from averaging a speed of about ten kilometres an hour, it was a very pleasant journey, idyllic really - babbling brooks and tea plantations, that sort of thing. Here's a picture - I can't be bothered to describe it any more than that, it's getting late and I'm getting hungry. Here's a picture of the train too, while I'm at it. Anyway, we were sat opposite an affluent-looking Indian family - a married couple with a sweet little toddler.

When a slightly caustic smell began to permeate in the carriage, I came to the conclusion that a certain fellow passenger's nappy needed a change. Sure enough, there was some swift re-organisation of bags by the father, a fresh nappy appeared and was handed to the mother and the little one's dress was unfastened. At this point I decided it would be polite to look out of the window for the remainder of the procedure.

A minute later the smell had dissipated and the rustling of baby clothes had ceased. I turned away from the window and found no visible evidence of the recent operation. Vanessa nudged me and said, "I wondered where that dirty nappy was going..."
"Why? What did she do with it?" I asked, slightly perplexed at the extent of Vanessa's interest in the soiled diaper.
"Straight out of the window. She didn't bat an eyelid!"
"No!" I whispered, incredulous as the ambience created by the beauty of the surrounding countryside was suddenly destroyed by the image of a shitty nappy hurtling through the air and landing in the babbling brook I mentioned earlier, or on the head of a poor, forest creature.
"Yes!" giggled Vanessa, "It whizzed past your head! I'm amazed you didn't see it!"

Of course she threw it out of the window! That's what Indians do on trains, I've learnt. Everything ends up on the tracks: spit, piss, shit... everything - even disposable nappies. Especially disposable nappies.

Anyway, that's enough talking dirty.

My right foot

Some of the happiest moments of my life have been spent balancing precariously on slippery rocks in various parts of Sydney and the surrounding countryside.

We would stand there, poised at the ocean's edge, watching the approaching swells, waiting for one that would take us clear of the rocks. When one arrived, we would plunge into the cool, clear water without hesitation, dive six or seven metres to the ocean floor, stare up at the sunlight playing on the surface and then float gently towards it as the air in our lungs came close to depletion. We would burst through the surface, smiling and laughing and gasping for air.

That was the theory anyway. It turns out that hesitating is something that it's very easy to do when you're contemplating diving head first into cold water, especially if the reason you're diving into cold water in the first place is to temporarily alleviate the symptoms of a hangover. Under these circumstances, hesitating is a pretty bad idea. If a big swell catches you when you're not ready for it, you run the risk of losing your footing and being dragged across the coral encrusted rock, which is not a nice thing to happen to anyone.

Fortunately, this only happened to me once, and I only have one small scar to commemorate the incident. However, in Sydney, my feet, in association with rocks, did eventually become synonymous with bloodshed.

Over the course of most weekends we'd end up jumping off North Bondi Rocks into the sea at least half a dozen times. These were most enjoyable excursions as they were usually preceded by a right old knees up on the previous evening, and often directly followed by a pie or a Bondi Burger, which you may or may not know is the best chicken burger in the world.

Upon exiting the water, however, and with alarming regularity, I would hear someone say, "Ollie, you're bleeding!"
On these occasions I would look down and, sure enough, discover that some part of one or another of my feet was gushing blood. Having become an outdoor type over the last couple of years, this situation was never met with panic on my part. Usually I would shrug and gaze intensely off toward the horizon. Then someone else would say, "No, Ollie, you really are bleeding!" and I would look down again, realise I was stood in a puddle of my own blood and decide that I should probably go off and seek medical attention.

So frequent were these occurences that it got to the point when Saturday night would come around, we'd be sat in the pub and someone would say, "Ollie, did you bleed today?"
If I did not answer in the affirmative it would invariably prompt the response, "Hmm, something to look forward to tomorrow then, eh?"

In fact, the only time I made it through the weekend without bleeding on the rocks, I went home and trod on a small twig in my kitchen while I was cooking dinner. The twig, of course, pierced my skin and thus provoked the obligatory weekly outpouring of blood.

Some people say that I'm accident prone. I disagree. I just think that my feet are a magnet for sharp rocks. Particularly my right foot, it turns out.

While diving and snorkelling on Koh Tao, my right foot sustained various minor injuries from rocks, but it wasn't until I arrived in India that the strange magnetic effect of my right foot really became apparent. The day I arrived in Bombay I was pushing my bag around the airport in a state of barely contained panic, when I kicked the luggage trolley - not once, but twice - resulting in unpleasant gashes on my little toe and the one next to it. "F*cking typical," I thought as I collapsed on a bench and contemplated bursting into tears.

I spent the next two weeks on Palolem Beach battling to keep my wounded toes clean in order to prevent the nasty tropical germs from getting in - not an easy task, let me tell you. After all, Palolem Beach is... well, a beach. There's f*cking sand everywhere. Not only that, I discovered that my right foot is actually a magnet for heavy objects of all kinds. Therefore, at least three times a day I would somehow manage to catch my increasingly mangled little toe on various objects, including rocks buried in the f*cking sand, but more often on the corner of one of the planks of wood roped shakily together to form my coco hut.

On such occasions I would dive onto my bed and thump the matress as hard as I could in a fit of agony-induced rage while a torrent of awful, awful language would spill from lips, interspersed with the words, "Why, God, why?!"

Recently, the magnetic properties of my right foot have been less pronounced, causing me to consider the possibility that the problem was psychological in nature. In the case of my poor little toe, I became obsessed with keeping it clean and therefore it somehow perversely began to entice calamity. Either that, or this is compelling evidence for the existence of a God with a sense of humour.

Five weeks later and my toe is only just recovering. There's a patch of healthy pink flesh where previously there was a puss-filled sore. As you can imagine, I've been looking forward to this moment, imagining myself gambolling gaily down the Keralan beaches without a care in the world, taking a quick dip in the ocean without fear of opening up the carefully crafted infection-free scab that it took weeks to engineer.

That wouldn't be too much to ask, would it?

Yes, it would. The very same day I was able to caress my little toe and say to it, "Thou art healed, my child," I somehow managed to scratch open a mosquito bite on my lower right leg and promptly get it infected. I'm guessing that it will take about five weeks to heal, which will put me somewhere in the Himalayas when it does. So, I'm really looking forward to my right foot slipping on a patch of snow, losing my balance and falling down a mountain.

Either I am a masochist in denial or it would seem that God really does have a sense of humour.