On a typical busy Indian road as well as the cars, trucks, buses, cyclists, motorbikes, mopeds and auto-rickshaws, it might not be uncommon to see an oxen pulling some kind of flatbed trailer, perhaps a cow or two, dogs, goats, monkeys, and even monks! This melee of speed, color, and smell, in breathless cotton wool heat is an experience that will almost certainly punctuate any Indian adventure. It will overwhelm and amaze you, but you’ll love it.

The busy streets of every Indian city I’ve encountered are terrifying yet at the same time somehow strangely enthralling. At the cusp of chaos they rush like blood to your head, and throb like arteries pumping the very essence of life through your body.

On a rented moped weaving through traffic, people, and livestock feels something like playing a video game. The larger the vehicle the more right it has to charge on through the traffic. Road markings are merely guides and signs are more like suggestions. The constant use of your horn, on any vehicle, is a requirement and thus a constant chorus of horns fills the air and mingles with the dust and fumes from sunrise until well after the sunset.

Riding a bus is no less of an interesting experience. There seems little order to roadside bus stops, and sometimes the buses don’t really stop at all, they simply slow down allowing those who wish to disembark to do so while at the same time fighting with those who are hurriedly trying to get on the bus which is also being swarmed by hawkers holding their goods up to the glassless windows while shouting.

Auto-rickshaws are also an essential part of the transport infrastructure and a ‘must-do’ experience. As a tourist the driver will always attempt to inflate the price you’ll pay, which even then would still be dirt cheap, but there’s no fun in simply paying what they ask. An animated negotiation over the price before the ride is a must. If the driver tells you the ride will cost 70 Rupees ($1.64) you laugh and walk away, perhaps waving your arms for dramatic effect. The driver might then drive up beside you to offer a lower price, maybe fifty Rupees. “Fifty? Ha! No. I do this route all the time I never pay fifty. Thirty, no more.” Better yet, and if you can pull it off with some swagger, learn how to say “I am not a tourist” in their local language as you walk away in ‘disgust.’ It’s not a lie, it’s an enhanced negotiation technique.

While on the road I ended up shooting some video clips using my digital camera. Initially I was simply going to post the clips on YouTube in a raw unedited format, but I ended compiling and producing a very short film (see below) in which I sped up the clips which I think goes some way to communicating the hectic and chaotic nature of the roads in India.

For those who might be interested in the technical aspect of this very short film it was shot entirely on my digital camera, a Canon Powershot S80 which I also use to take all my photographs. The film was compiled on a Mac using iMovie HD and various effects to increase the contrast and graininess of the clips. The music is a track called Ya Ali by Zubin.

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On the road in India (Quicktime version) & also on YouTube

One of the things I find most fascinating about mankind is how different cultures across the world have come to recognize and celebrate spirituality. India is often the place many people go to in order to explore aspects of this, and as much as it might be a cliche, it does seem to be the case that India is somehow more attune or open to the unfathomable.

Visiting temples and shrines here makes me feel like I’m caught up in a conversation among poets. I stand there and nod at random intervals hoping that nobody will realise that I’m faking it, and that I’m no poet, I don’t read poetry, and that it just isn’t really my thing. I do spirituality like I do golf. I know there’s a method and that practice will bring improvement, but on the rare occasions I find myself on a golf course I just slug the crap out of the little white ball in the hope that it will land somewhere relatively near the green.

Standing at the foot of one of the ornately decorated temple towers, called gopurams, I look up at the structure that dates back some 1,200 years and marvel at the fact that this was built to glorify the Gods. It is, in effect, a spectacular monument to mankind’s relationship with that which we cannot control or fully understand, to a drive that has inspired us to build radically different monuments all over the world and throughout all of time.

I can’t tell you much about the temples and shrines pictured here. Instead I’m sharing these photographs with you more for the opportunity to once again look upon them and wonder how it is that they came to be. How something that inspires such beauty can at the same time unleash such unholy horror.

Somewhere away from the politics and power struggles of the various religions of the world, there is a faith and connection in the hearts of many that is so moving and powerful that it has led the creation of some truly awe inspiring buildings, shrines, and art works. If God is a creative power, then maybe when we’re not blinded by our differences, mankind’s truest reflection of God is in our ability to create.

India is a very intense experience that can easily overwhelm you. Coming from the west I found myself once again looking around at the apparent chaos surrounding me and wondering how this country actually manages to get anything done. But here, far outside the safety of familiarity, it’s possible to find a sense of freedom and perhaps adventure which is both exhilarating and intoxicating. In the Hindi language the word for tomorrow and yesterday are the same, which is perhaps the best indication of how things are in this part of the world.

This trip to India has been entirely different to the first time I came to this part of the world back in 2004. I was prepared for the culture shock to some extent, but as Joelle says, it still takes a couple of days to get into the groove of India. Home luxuries like refrigerators, reliable electricity, wireless internet access, air conditioning, and plumed toilets were largely absent on this trip. However, the liberation from this years seemingly unending British winter was more than welcome. “You’ll never hear me complain about heat.” I told Joelle.

My first mistake was bringing so many white T shirts and light colored summer clothes. White things don’t stay white for long and it would seem I still have to perfect the technique of hand-washing things using buckets and the floor!

I should also mention that the Srinivasa wasn’t the only place I ate. Joelle and Laxman prepared many colorful and thoroughly enjoyable meals, some of which we ate in equally colorful company!

On one afternoon while Joelle and Laxman were doing their daily walk around Arunachala, the “holy hill,” I borrowed the moped and decided to go exploring. A dirt track behind Laxman’s house that headed away from the mountain looked enticing to me. I figured that even without a map it would be impossible for me to get lost as I could always just head back in the direction of Arunachala at which point I would find the road that circles the mountain.

I found my way to a small road along which there were rows or palm trees. I kept stopping the moped not to take pictures as much as just soak up the fact that I was enjoying being off the map in India, or at least off my map, not that I actually had a map of course, but you get the point I’m sure.

As I sat there on the moped looking across the fields of palm trees and Papayas I knew that this would be one of those afternoons that would become solidified in my memory, minutes weren’t merely passing, they were being carved out of time itself.

A little way down the road I came upon a small village. The first house along the road was painted in bright colors and so I decided to stop a take a photograph, but no sooner had I taken the camera out of my pocket than a smiling man started walking across a nearby field calling out to me and waving. He approached me and quickly established that the colorful house was his. Neither of us spoke the others language so we engaged in one of those conversations where we both spoke in our native tongue while making exaggerated hand gestures and nodding.

He invited me to step inside his home which was painted dark blue, sparsely furnished, and surprisingly cool on this scorching afternoon. He showed me his kitchen and seemed especially proud of his TV. He then led me outside to the steps onto his roof where he reached up and grabbed the branch of the overhanging tree taking some kind of fruit from it. Speaking Tamil enthusiastically and gave me a few of the tiny fruits and indicated that I should eat them. “Ah, we eat these?” I asked. He stepped back and wobbled his head some more while smiling broadly. I looked at them and thought to myself that I simply had to eat this whatever it was, to refuse would be a little rude.

“You’re not trying to kill me are you?” I asked, feeling a little like someone on a travel documentary. “Are you vegetarian?” I continued. “I only ask because I’m concerned you might be a white meat kind of guy.” I joked as if for the benefit of an imaginary camera crew. He then stepped forward and took the tiny fruit from my hand and broke it open with his hand, then ate one and again motioned to me to eat. With that I smiled and said “Gesundheit” as I ate whatever that was he gave me. He seemed pleased and said something which I hoped was “I’m so glad you enjoyed that” rather than “Ha, you fool, now you’re going to die!”

In truth I wasn’t the slightest bit concerned. In my experience people in the rural villages are always happy to see tourists who have dared stray from the guide book. Smiling man was now waving and shouting at the entire village from his roof top while pointing at me and getting more of those strange nutty fruit things to eat. I might be here for a while, I thought to myself as other villagers started to arrive and talk to me in Tamil.

I stayed with the smiling man and his friends for a while, before eventually shaking everyones hand and saying goodbye as I made my way to the moped. A number of them were talking to me at once, perhaps under the notion that more than one person speaking might somehow make them more understandable to me. I smiled politely and then began to rev the bike, signaling my imminent departure.

At that point one of the men pointed back in the direction I had come from. “This road is a dead end?” I asked, in English, which, of course, they couldn’t understand. “I should turn around then?” Much nodding and wobbling of heads was happening, so in the belief that the villagers were helpfully telling me the road went nowhere, I turned the moped around at which point of the men got on the back and pointed forward while saying something which sounded like “Kalabala jalafalkarootala mallapagaboolika.”

I assumed he was just hitching a ride so I took off, but as we neared a dirt track and he tapped me on the shoulder indicating that I should take the track, which I did. Well, it was a hot day and if I could help a guy out by giving him a ride why not right?

At a small house the man jumped off the bike and motioned for me to park. I parked the moped and followed him to his back yard. He said something while smiling and pointing at the trees then he rummaged around a few pots in his yard and produced a large knife. Maybe in any other situation such a large knife in the hands of a stranger might make me somewhat nervous, but this man seemed to happy to be a knife wielding killer. He walked toward me smiling and still pointing at the tree while talking. Then he tied the knife to a long stick and cut down a coconut, open it, poured the milk into a cup and gave it to me to drink. As I drank it he cut down a small bunch of bananas and a large papaya fruit which he then presented to me as a gift, such generosity to strangers would be almost unheard of in the west. He introduced me to his son and we talked as best we could for a few more minutes before I got back on the moped and continued my ride.

I rode through several other villages, stopping to take pictures here and there, but generally just enjoying the beautiful hot sunny weather and being free as a bird.

As I rode through little villages made up of mud huts and rudimentary one room concrete homes, people would wave at me and shout out “Hi!” or “Hello!” then laugh when I returned the greeting. Children stopped me and often insisted that I take a picture, excitedly shouting “photo, photo!” They would pose in stiff upright stances with their hands by their sides like little soldiers standing to attention, then the moment the photograph was taken they would hurriedly crowd around me to see themselves on the screen of the camera.

A little way down the road I came upon a small village with a fairly imposing church. In such an overtly Hindu area seeing a church was extremely unusual, especially considering the fact there are some 52 holy sites around Arunachala. So I stopped for a moment just to look at it from the roadside.

A villager then approached me and said “Helping?” which I took to be an offer of help, so I asked him if the church was a Christian church “Yes,” He said “Catholic church.” With that he turned around and shouted at a child who scurried away as if to get someone. He then indicated that I could take a closer look, so I parked the bike and walked up to the square building that looked bland when compared to the many ornate Hindu temples in the area.

At that point the child who had run to get someone emerged with a lady who had a very large key with which she opened the church. She smiled at me and pointed at the door saying something in Tamil. Children then came over joined by other villagers and before I knew it I was having a guided tour (in smiling Tamil) of this one room Roman Catholic church (called St. Joseph’s) accompanied by delighted children who laughed at every word I said. After a while I bid the villagers farewell, got back on the moped and took to the road once again.

My friend Mick Singh once told me the hardest thing about going to India is getting there. At the time I didn’t really understand what he meant. Now I do.

Thanks God for Pepsi! I know I am supposed to be immersing myself in this Indian cultural experience, but really, thank God for ice cold Pepsi!

It’s as hot as hell here in India, and when the water you carry around with you in a bottle heats up to a temprature that might make for a nice cup of tea, I have to tell you that a cold Pepsi is just bliss, seriously BLISS!!

I lasted a good few days eating South Indian food and drinking water (or water with a little fresh squeezed lemon) and hot milky sugar saturated tea, but my western taste buds were yearning for something familiar, something refreshing.

After having a bottle of ice cold Pepsi over dinner one night, I was so happy that on the way back home I stopped at one of the many roadside shops to get a big 2 litre bottle of cold Pepsi which I drank that night as we watched the moon rise over Arunachala.

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Just for the taste of it

If you ever find yourself on the wild and crazy streets of Tiruvannamalai in Southern India maybe you’ll be looking for somewhere to eat. Allow me then to give you a restaurant recommendation and point you in the direction of Srinivasa.

I’m not much of a food person which may mean either I am blessed or cursed. In the case of Srinivasa restaurant I’m not sure which of those categories I would fall into. Set behind the makeshift roadside food preparation area where the smell of the burning stove mingles with the smell of the traffic that frighteningly passes by only inches away, this small eatery is a terrifyingly dirty little hut that has all the charm of Thai prison combined with the ambiance of a bus stop.

Laxman and Joelle are regulars here, they assure me that the food, which is served on banana leaves, is entirely safe and among the best that Tiruvannamalai has to offer. This might ordinarily be reassuring had a a very large rat not just walked across the floor just inches away from my feet. “It’s a rabbit.” Laxman tells me with a wry smile as he catches the alarm on my face.

Dosa, a kind of Indian pancake, is served with a bucket of something hot and mildly curry flavored and accompanied by water in what look like prison issue metal cups. Like everywhere else there are no knives and forks, you wash your hands as you walk in then eat whatever is served with your right hand. For the budget conscious visitor this place is hard to beat as a meal for three including hot drinks will cost you no more than for 35 Rupees, which is less than one (US) dollar!

As we sit there eating and making conversation while I struggle to eat my meal with one hand, a man sat at the table across from us falls backward off his stool and lies unconscious on the floor. With no great haste the proprietor and a couple of others pick up the man and hold him in a more upright position on the floor. The other patrons look on for a few moments, before getting back to their meals. It turns out that the man who collapsed works there making the tea and coffee, and as soon as he regains consciousness he returns to work.

I would like to tell you that the poor state of the building, the tables and stools is all forgiven once you taste the fine south Indian cuisine on offer. Unfortunately though, I can’t. The food here is functional and somewhat boring, and I’m not known for being at all fussy about food. But if you fancy eating in a small room with soot lining the collapsing walls while rats run freely and staff collapse around you, the Srinivasa roadside eatery in Tiruvannamalai is very much the place for you. Enjoy!

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[Video] Take a look inside Srinivasa
Tiruvannamalai
Dosa
Joelle’s travel blog and moblog
Laxman’s Flickr photo’s