15 February - Icecream & Elephant

But that was … a few days ago. Oh god, the ungratefulness of it all. A wonderful man cooks me Valentine supper, lights candles and has tidied up surroundings, has flowers on the table and I…get in a funk because we’re eating our ice cream and strawberries out of tall glasses and not… you know, licking it off each other. Then I get in a further funk because he spends too much time choosing what music to play, and discussing it – mmhm this is the Art Ensemble of Chicago… sexy. Not. Where’s my super sexy Primal Scream vintage compilation - and not enough kissing me and then, then we just go to bed and my parisian chocolate wrap sort of outfit fails to rouse him. I know he’s depressed and probably thinking of the previous 7 years valentines with same woman who’s sadly for him dumped him last year but, there aren’t that many allowances I can make for that. He should be so lucky another princess has walked into his life. Absolutely nothing worse than pent up sexual frustration for this hot blooded girl. And absolutely nothing worse than not acknowledging the elephant on the table. If we can’t communicate this early on… So of course I spend half the night composing a non hurtful, decent way to air my little grievance and alternate with stern reprimands to myself to keep my mouth shut like I successfully did last w/e. Which am this close to achieving until I return to bedroom in the morning to get dressed and yes, not great timing on my part. Something in the toothpaste clearly got me going. I’m wide awake but he’s not and we all know men don’t like the faintest hint of a lecture especially if we’re right. But it’s done and the elephant is no longer on the table. What can I say? I’m addicted to beginnings and I like them under blue skies, with endless possibilities and a high content of sheer joyfulness. It may be too much to ask for and nobody ever really gets rid of their baggage or elephants. OhwhathaveIdone.
The other bad thing about splitting up now is that am post menstrual and totally down to flat stomach, tauter skin and supreme flexibility. Such a shame to not have these ‘feeling good in my skin’ days exploited fully.

11 February - Mouth & Shut

You never stop learning what's good for you. Maybe I finally learnt to keep silent, don’t say nada when the little runaway train of thoughts in our mind makes you want to duck out, say you’re not entirely happy, not all your needs are being met, you’re paranoid, you’re insecure, you want names, numbers, percentages, signatures on contracts. Even if it’s a recent fragile and delicate tiny thing. I was tearful at the cinema, recalling other movies from which I simultaneously exited the building and walked away from the person I was with. Not there and then, but the movie was the catalyst. Usually the actual plot with its strong reminder that either I didn’t have the same things and feelings that on the screen appeared a matter of life or death, or some other portentous message. ‘Three colours Blue’ by Kieslowski springs to mind. I never even turned to look back at 'him'.
I kept thinking ‘Don’t know how to say it’ and trying to distil it into something that made sense (our thoughts don’t always make sense to others) and at the same time was not hurtful. But this search for perfection led nowhere, so for once I didn’t say it.
So we left the movie, we went for crab and eel in Chinatown. He treated me to both. We caught the bus back, and looked at the shop windows on Oxford Street. At home we watched the Pink Floyd documentary on the making of Dark Side of the Moon even though their music means nothing to him. We went to bed and all the time we chatted and had fun. We woke up, we had sex and he fucked me in a novel and interesting way, well for us, for now. He made me tea. He lent me his sunglasses when we walked out in the morning sun. He took me to his favourite places in the hood: coffee at the Oporto, admiring fish at Steve’s, the famous fishmonger, choosing tuna steaks for later. We had more breakfast at the Spanish Deli. We nearly bought a beautiful Pakistani rug for his house. We walked back through the tourists and the locals in Portobello, but we were happier than them. We bought a shirt for him and a top for me ad the Dispensary, then a coat for me at Joseph. Then incredibly satisfying chocolates at some fancy new place on Ledbury Rd, and giggled and were a bit scared at how much money we'd spent on clothes. Then we admired the Vivienne Westwood shoes I have my sights firmly on and he nearly spent more money again by buying a suit at Agnes B. We went into the Boudoir shop and I let him stare at the gorgeous sales assistant by letting her give us a detailed tour. We had a coffee with Susie at Beach Blanket Babylon, (she whispered ‘He’s so nice!’). We walked back, we agreed he’ll cook for me on Valentine’s at home and I’ll wear high heels to push my ass out like the black girl he admired there. He drove me up the road and dropped me off at Alex’s for tea. He kissed me goodbye and he’ll call tonight after his yoga class. And the sun was still shining at 4pm.
And none of it would have happened if I had opened my big mouth and said ‘whatever’ on Friday evening after the movies and then surely would have gone home miserable. And on the bus as further self-punishment.
And today I wouldn’t know how to find my way back to how perfect it can be.

4 February - Saints & Carats

Shit, next time remind me to book winter holiday to cover the first two weeks of Feb. thus completely bypassing that stupid man made occasion called St Valentine’s. Came back to be faced with all these shops full of cards and reminders. It’s just stupid. Makes people feel bad or makes them run to buy something that’s not worth the money. Plus divides the world into have and have nots which of course is the way it is about absolutely everything and should not bug me: ‘have oxford degree/have not’, ‘have children/have not’ , 'have cancer/have not' and so on but, some categories could be avoidable. I shall of course book a manicure so I have perfect hands in case I should receive the only thing that I’d be prepared to not be sour about ie. the diamond ring. I’d say slim chance of that right now and being that under 2 carats is pointless, I certainly don’t deserve one on account of extreme ungraciousness vis a vis gifts. Or so my mother would say 'You're not humble enough'.

3 February - Lie to Love & Love to Lie

'Did you fuck him?'
Trust your girlfriends to get you every time! I’m describing the Indian holiday and talking about Reid a tad more than I spend on Jovi so, the question is an obvious one.
No I didn’t, but could have done. Thought about it, dreamt about it. He did too. Maybe it would have gone something like this…
Small acts of love pt. 1
I wipe his shoes clean of mud and dust. Later on I pay a man 10R to polish them. He buys me a rose scented ice cream milkshake and wishes for a nearby flower seller so he could buy me jasmine for my hair. Later he kisses bravely through the insect repellent on my skin. I get it back on my own lips. It’s truly not pleasant, but he never complained. I listen to his profound snoring and don’t yet want to kill him. Would he abandon me in the banana swamp like he did yesterday? Before any of this? He said he got lost too, but today he’d have gone looking for me.
Small acts of love pt.2
I met a boy whose thick, long, black hair was beginning to matte. He didn’t want to wash it because it had the Arabian sea in it and he wanted to take it back to the Pacific. But he washed it for me. I washed it for him. Standing naked in the big shower room, jumping about on the slippery tiles, surprised by the cold jets of water. He drew the line at using conditioners or products. He hadn’t had time to fall in love yet and obey his new princess. He smelled of sunshine and mango.

Confessions? You’ll never get a real one out of me despite the pseudo diarising herein.

2 February - Twin & Mirror

Back in London back the usual life. Which includes seeing the usual people. Took mere minutes to go from zero to a hundred in the ‘hot under the collar’ stakes. For others it may be scents or tastes or touch. For me and Dear John it’s words, a few chosen ones. Our own shorthand now only needs to say two names, the alter egos of our sick little psyches and it’s straight back to those nights. I have my arms round his back and midriff, am simply saying goodnight at a respectable 10pm in a private club of his liking. He feels fatter and softer than he has been (though he didn’t look it under the usual well cut suit) and so towering over me compared to Toph. I run my hands up his back under his shirt and feel his erection pressing on my tummy (we are the right height). The room disappears and in a flash I see a mini movie containing unbuttoning of trousers, dropping on knees, sucking him for a few minutes before moving back up to kiss and entering that particular tunnel. I want to touch it and feel it, but that would doom me pretty fast. Toph doesn’t know what forces I have to battle with for his sake. Where is he??? Thousands of miles away this week…
My evil twin and I end up sublimating it all with a few more words and nebulous plans for the future, which will never happen, but it makes it easier for now to cool down. We’ll take three days off sometime, take everything possible with, music, substances, paraphernalia but frankly just our dirty minds would be enough and go off somewhere and thoroughly exhaust the myriad impulses, wishes, desires, madness that would take over. As if….Two seconds later as the guy selling the Big Issue is still standing there mesmerised (after all we are not young and beautiful – well one of us is not young and the other one is not beautiful and only they should be allowed to make out in the streets) we part. He says ‘I don’t ever want not to have you in my life’ which sort of... doesn’t flow and it’s verbatim almost what he wrote on a napkin the night of our four hotels and four bars trip. It must be for real because In Vino Veritas and all that, but it’s considerably less desirable and durable than something like ‘You are my life’. Being a mere component would not do! It’s not enough right? Says the addict to the bottle. I walk away without sadness for once. Toph come back, it’s you that I want.

1 February - Rice & Literacy

Settling into my nice seat, I start one of my favourite activities ever in a life so full of excitement…debunking various bags from items I don’t need. This includes discovering stuff I’ve carted around for weeks unnecessarily or coming across something that would have been very useful … a few days ago. Darn, should have read the papers before …leaving India. Turns out as I leaf through magazines and newspapers I’ve still got with me and intend abandoning on the plane, that
the finance minister of Tamil Nadu, is a woman, who’s forged ahead and in three years has improved the life of the region to a great extent with savings, quality of life etc and has kept a kilo of rice at 3.5R which is just a few pence (boy have I been scammed royally if that’s the case). 45% of the subcontinent population lives in the 3 or 4 northern states which explains why ‘down here’ I was not feeling so overwhelmed by crowds like when in Delhi etc. Those same states are the ones with 90 infant deaths per 1000 whereas in the south it's 11 per 1000. The same goes for literacy, down to 45% up north, 90%+ in the south. What's to learn? Elect a woman, she’ll fix it? Like their old beloved Indira and her ‘no more poverty’ slogan? That you can’t somehow manage to implement the same laws and regulations in the same country? Which is a huge shame. There are also now only 750 girls per 1000 boys born up north, looks like they kill off a few too many. In other states it's up to 900 something per 1000 - there's no wars on, so no men dying in their droves, so stop killing the girls yeah?
The papers also inform me that I missed the a giant book fair and some other major concerts, all happening whilst I was too busy wandering about aimlessly and making sense of the Alien tongue translations. Then again it’s fashion week in London when I’m back so surely avoiding a book fair or a few gigs was the right thing to do. I also realise have not written much about temples and art but I’m still templed out from a few years back. I now visit them but can’t be examining them in any great details and boring you with it would be unforgivable. Was reading Geoff Dyer’s and his ‘Yoga for people who can’t be bothered to do it’ and he says the same in some much better phrase. Top travel observations too. Though his are generally influenced by heavy use of dope and mine aren’t. But he never got to wonder why Indian babies don’t wear nappies and yet never seem dirty. Their mothers must have a sixth sense of when it’s all about to come out and act accordingly. He also never wonders why said babies/toddlers never seem to cry much or have tantrums or can spend hours on a train with no toys to play with. Or whether florists exist in these parts as I never saw one and at some point had a craving for roses, tulips and something that wasn’t jasmine.

30 January - Upgrades & Beads

The boys may be famous in their own heads, but have they been upgraded? Doubt so as their clothes were a bit falling apart despite my efforts with the washing powder. All I did was ask not to be sat next to infants or children and that must have struck a chord with Miss BA check in. I sit in the lounge at 2am waiting to board with a smile on my face knowing a splendid seat awaits me. And am looking forward to coffee as in my haste to be a good tourist, I gave hotel porter my last 50R (a dollar) forsaking a drink at the airport. Shouldn’t have done so, as when I sat in the taxi, the driver asked me for an advance of 100R and he ran back to give it to the hotel guy who got him the fare! The last scam I endured in a sense. I told the driver he was an idiot too as that backsheesh was 1/3 of the fare and clearly too much. Ah well.

Opposite me is a 60 something man dressed in white who is stringing a long necklace of ivory coloured beads on a string. From here none of it looks precious. No shaven head so no neophyte Buddhist. Is it a past time? Could be an easy and portable one. When the beads are all strung up you undo them and start again, Penelope waiting for Ulysses style. Is he 60? Actually he may be a pensioner, he has full head of grey curls, but I can't see his teeth so I can’t tell apart from that he’s a bit jowly. A 40 year old friend has been shagging only 50 plus guys in the last year or so. She had a great time, but two of those are brothers and of Spanish gypsies stock so perhaps they have good sex genes. Her other Californian oldie sells champagne and drinks copious quantities of it, so perhaps the oxygen bubbles in his bloodstream keep him young? Between her and I we’ve sort of kept the universe in balance I’d say as I pick at an age group lower than mine mostly.
Gosh the shops are open even at this hour. So I’ve gone and done it again and contravened possibly one of my top lessons (the ones you tell yourself). Have bought jewellery for myself: an expensive gold bracelet, and several other less costly items. When we all know that jewellery should only be bought for us by men! But it’s nice to look lovely in Bus Class no? Roll on 4am. Let’s go back home.

30 January - Fear & Loathing cont...

The Mexican twins are not totally gone. Here’s their email in response to mine asking how the final trip to Bombay had been. I’m leaving it in Jovi’s words because they make me smile. But some notes are necessary:
the ear cleaning refers to something they do a lot of over there. some guy will clean your ears with a spoke and extract, I kid you not, a ton of material. i wanted it done too but no one in Hampi offered it. It’s a specialty up north usually.
Thongs are what north Americans call flip flops.
Chowpatty Beach is in Bombay.
Indian brides... well the boys were after conjugating/communing with
some gypsy looking Indian ladies but they didn’t know that Indian
ladies behave circa Irish/Italian of the 1950’s i.e ... you want
something? You have to marry me first. Of course there are whorehouses
there too but the boys usually get it for free so were reluctant to stoop to that level.
Jovi maintains he has 2 wives already anyway and he must be something right as it is the
wives who sent him money over when he run out and who pay for a lot of his admin. costs back home. Reid/Badger has his ex g/friend looking after the herb plantation and its profits... I learnt that the best growing season in Oregon is in April. I store useless info like this all the time. Darn.
karnatic refers to stuff from Karnataka, the state where Hampi is.


'tis most mad to peep a subject line bearing that olden town o’
hampi coming from a port altogether dissimilar from my mama’s or my
tender wifeys email addy. our trip, providing i can in fact speak for
someone who’s namesake = reid (don’t know the bloke myself, but am
rather friendly w/ a badger) was just that, a fucking trip kid.
mobbed from train car to train car playing cards w/ crazy turbaned
cats, letting kids record a vast array of Karnatic hymns, losing my
thongs all Huck finn-style out the train doors, then as is the typical
result of self-indulgent vices, jumped off the train for a pack of
gold flake kings only to return to an empty track save a wild boar
eating faeces off the rails. took a fast car out to the Mumbai train
station, met up w/ badger & rickshawed it out to yonder Chowpatti
beach only to have mad beach gypsies mob us is droves. smoked their
charras whilst they helped us kill off some olde monk & took a ride
on one of
their canoes which of course inspired more drunken revelry, much of
which was also recorded for posterity. then went off on a wilde goose
mission w/ some bleeding beach sadhu for some Hampi Lsd which after
our 3rd rickshaw ride was promptly aborted. i bought the badger a
damn fine ear cleaning from a bicycle spoke bearing swab connoisseur &
though mighty reluctant at first, was as usual praised for my wizened
recommendation to that trepidatious lil’ leper. my scalp massage on
the other leperous limb left much to be desired but what to expect
from a man half my size. a fine trip indeed. Never mind the lack of
bedding down any indian strange. perhaps the north will serve me
better for an Indian bride anyhoo next thyme round. good to make yr
acquaintance lisa, kindly forgive the brevity but i hope this epistle
finds yr spirits soaring. hasta ~jovi

29 January - Death & Dicing

Holiday nearly over and I nearly screw it up. First of all by accepting a short lift on the back of an Indian motorbike, during which short trip I witness two accidents. In both cases they picked themselves up, dusted themselves off and were gone, but it’s a reminder of how many die in these parts from carelessness and lack of helmets. Even if they gave them away free they wouldn’t wear them. Ok, it’s hot but not that hot all the time. Then as I’m waiting for a bus from Mahabalipuram into Chennai a car stops to drop a guy off and the driver says he can take me for a fare not much more expensive than the bus. I think of the speed mainly, the bus takes forever, and despite peering into the back where three men are sitting, they look like businessmen but businessmen are men i.e. potential rapists, I get in. A little later I notice my driver has no shoes, not that uncommon a way of driving here, but he also has no side mirrors whatsoever, naturally there is no seat belt and as am sat at the front I get enough sharp breath intakes to make my diaphragm work overtime. It’s getting dark when he drops off the three guys on the outskirts of the city – I thought we were all going to the main station and am alone in the car. Am considering that the traffic is slow-ish, there is no central locking and I can sort of jump out if need be. The conversation is stilted and amiable but truly am an idiot for having to endure that residue of fear that never leaves the pit of your stomach. And it’s never about the money, I don’t have to economise. I think it’s my minuscule dicing with death wish.

Am reminded of that time in Phnom Phen. I blame the Lonely Planet map really. On it the airport was given as 3 km from the edge of the map I came to realise later, but I took it to be from the centre. So when various drivers asked me for xxx I naturally thought they were taking the piss and failing to negotiate down I asked a kid with a motorbike if he would take me to the airport for yyy. He said yes, I jumped on. I had been travelling for a few months and was on my way to meet a friend arriving from London so familiarity kind of made me think I could handle night time and Phnom Phen. Of course I kind of know how long 3km are and once we went past that mark on one of those long roads unlit and flanked by trees that made you think of the photos you saw of either Cambodians being marched out to killing fields by Pol Pot’s soldiers or of Vietcongs coming in to liberate said Cambodians from the Khmer Rouge… well, I started to spook myself badly. For all that Apocalypse Now is a favourite film and there are no current wars, what do I know. This kid is 20 something, could have had a rifle at 8 years old and used it when he was conscripted into the Khmers. Oh god! Here you are, about to be raped and dismembered and left in a ditch and all for the sake of a few dollars of which you’re not short. Of course we could not communicate. Longest bike ride of my life. I kept thinking ‘But if he wants to kill me where is he going to do it? How far out? And that at least Tina not finding me awaiting her, would raise the alarm and as our host there was going to be the head of Amnesty, well, the culprit would be found and my body sent home, but what good is that if you’re already dead?
Until eventually by Km 7 or 8 I saw in the distance the glimmer of what could only be airport lights and yes he deposited me there safely. And with that I still have not learnt my lesson. Eventually car driver alighted at Chennai main station and I gave him double his fare in huge relief. Then went for my usual veggie curry from heaven. Love eating with my hands, any opportunity, wish we could do that in London. By going to the same place several times in a row I also got another top tip for travel. Eventually fewer people will stare at you. Other diners did, but the staff kind of recognised me and didn’t…stare.
Nearly time to bade farewell to the other small things I like here: the cheap phones and cheap internet, the individually sized sachets of shampoos/conditioners and washing powder, the fruit always available at all hours on some stall, the sugared chai that makes me high, the smiles of people who I’ll never see again.

28 January - Bob & Blunt

The mark of a successful holiday is not hearing Bob Marley songs… or in this case, only heard two tunes. Believe me, some places that’s the only CD they seem to have or it goes back to the tat they sell an maybe in 1980 they sold it to the tune of ‘No Woman No Cry’ so it stands to reason that the tune is conducive to sales and played endlessly.
However, upon waking the morning after the night they were run out of Hospet by the police, I ask Jovi if he’s had a good sleep and he says yes on the whole but ‘This morning, this woman next door was playing this really boring song over and over, man, it was awful, ‘you’re beautiful something’. I jump a foot in the air realising that we’re never safe. If James Blunt is polluting the silence around here, so is Joss Stone probably and I must have just missed David Grey. I tell Jovi to, quick, get thee back to Tijuana and maybe you’ll be safe.

26 January - Creamy & Dreamy

Alone after the whirlwind twins have left town. Am consoling myself with one last rose milkshake with my 12 year old guide Raja who I’ve deeply disappointed earlier because of the ridge impasse. We were gingerly going up some boulders/rocks with the aim to get to the best spot to watch the sunset from. Then I saw it: the ridge, a sheer drop on the other side. Only 6 small steps carved in the boulder to guide your feet. But I couldn’t do it despite not being majorly afraid of heights. A combination of not trusting the slippery thread of my trainers and some last swig of Old Monk before the boys disappeared from view. No, can’t go up there, even if you tell me the descent on the other side is easy. Doesn’t bode well for that trip to Everest I want to take.

How does Raja see the world? Perpetually stuck here growing up in a place where he has to make friends with brand new tourists every day or week and they show him friendship and kindness mostly, but then they all leave and all he has is a photo maybe a note with thanks which he can’t even read and has to ask someone else to do so for him. But the probably has them all memorised. But the tourists don’t come back. Do they all the same things to him like I said? The same encouragements and to what end? I also needed him to keep me company. Did he think ‘old, lonely woman from the west’. He’s 13! Better or worse than the Spanish or the American woman. Does his sense of trade tell him to aim for couples or groups or women in pairs or alone? Who’s most likely to tip him well? I don’t even know which caste he is, can he study? Will he do this forever? I buy him an omelette and a milkshake. He eats half of it and then wraps it up and I watch him cross the road to take it to his little sister who’s probably 18 months old and sitting on the floor just away from the street and apparently with no adult minding her at all. I want to hug him but not sure it’s the done thing. I wander off to have a superior ayurvedic massage which includes happening during one of the usual evening power cuts and it somehow makes the experience even better. I can hear crickets, dogs, people walking in the street outside. But it’s still peaceful in a way that London never is. We should have blackouts enforced as routine. You save energy, people have to talk to each other, not watch TV or be on the computer , not listen to music, not eat, not watch movies. I reckon 7 till 8 would do it… that may send people home from the pubs and bars and they may never come out again. That may encounter some lobby that wants them to stay out and spend spend, spend. Mmmhh how would that work if you’re on transport? I’d have to think about it. Am turning into a right little luddite what with not using the phone. I’ve regained the feel in my right hand/wrist.

25 January - Stars & Memories

Not only do you see a canopy of stars like you wouldn’t believe when you’re on the others side of the world – some you could never see from London due to their position in the sky, and some you just would not see because our skies are never totally black. But you also create some sort of space into which memories travel at a different speed. Also they don’t appear in chronological order. How great is that! You never know what you’ll remember next. I decide to eat a thai thom kha soup just because I see it on a menu and much as I could eat rice and dahl every day, it’s a temptation I can’t resist. And I have a delicious Madeleine moment before I even taste the first spoonful. I’m just looking at the clear lemon grass broth and the floating leaf and am instantly transported to a beach in Ko Phangan and the arms of the gorgeous Craig who could have eaten a tom ka every day of his life and be delighted by it. I got a taste of chilli after trying to keep up with him. I don’t think we ever ate lunch or dinner without holding hands and laughing and being supremely happy. We were joined at the hips for weeks and it never felt like a constriction. In fact it seems positively unreal. If I look at photos of that time, I look like I’m permanently on E, my smile is so wide. Something to do with not believing the handsomest boy on the beach was mine. And I don’t have a self image problem but this one was my Brad, my Johnny, my Keanu all rolled into one and it seemed to me the crowds parted when we walked through. Like I said, am sure it wasn’t true but I was in another dimension and I liked it. For his part I think I was better than Madonna so it was mutual. But even the best things end and it’s just memories and photos that survive.
Memories being like endless fractals, the appearance of the next train of thought is harder to explain , as it has nothing to do with Thailand and healthy food but perhaps with just health. I think of Al who’s in hospital in St Mary’s right now and I couldn’t visit as I’m here. Another gorgeous 33 year old battling cancer since 2003 and hopefully defeating it. What is it with that age? I knew two others who lost the struggle at that same juncture to the same disease. Jax had planned a last trip with her best friend and ex lover Moose (Moose and Badger would have got on well, eco friendly boys with substantial gifts of discourse) and it never happened as doctors refused to give them the necessary 3month supply of drugs in advance. So they never went across Russia on the trans-Siberian train or whatever it’s called and she never saw China.
It all ended at the cancer ward in Brompton rd on a cold January day. I remember the picture I saw later of a cringeing, shrivelled old lady wrapped in a bright red shawl and asked ‘Is this Jax’s mum?’ ‘No it’s Jackie the week she died’ came the reply. A non smoker/veggie, bouncing girl. Same as Al, a strappy, velvety black skinned health freak. Mark was a reprobate by comparison, but not a bad one. He knocked his head falling off a moped and the x-rays showed three tumours. Not a chance. Died on 8 Feb. more than ten years ago. Still, a lottery. For every mile I cover, it’s one more universe of stuff they never got to see.

24 January - Swamps & Mud

Another day in which I fail to honour this holiday motto (everyday do less than the day before) and get swept away in the Mexican Twins one… (Fear and Loathing in Bangalore). We head for the falls which we hope will provide enough seclusion to finally be able to swim/get wet. But as our driver drops us off at the end of tiny country lane and says 'It will be signposted’ things go wrong very soon. Within five minutes I’m lost in a banana swamp. Liberating as it is to walk knee deep in mud it's s bloody hard to lift my feet out of it, though not as hard as Glastonbury, and I have a stupid beach bag type sack to weigh me down or at least hold up so it doesn’t get muddy (books, writing pad, water, food etc – am well prepared for getting lost), but as you know, you can’t sit in mud. This is not where I want to be. One of the reasons for taking up with the Mexican Twins is to not be alone when exploring archaeological sites that are on the whole deserted but could reveal a predatory man round every ancient column. Same goes for deserted banana groves. Why I think the incendiary Mexican Twins are safer than a stranger is debatable apart form the fact that I do trust my instincts. Why I think they would protect me is truly a delusion as Jovi is right now recovering from opium ingestion under a tree back where the lane started (I don’t know this at this point, I think he’s behind me but he never makes it, he’s busy throwing up and falling asleep and eating a bit) and Badger has gone on ahead saying he’ll find a way and simply never come back. Add to my load his shoes which I rescued from where he’s abandoned them. At least am balanced. Only to be told later ‘I’d have found them on the way back’. Thanks!
So yes, alone in the swamp though it’ sunny at least. Birds are sqwaking and I don’t think snakes lurk in mud. I’m listening very hard for sounds of waterfalls or rivers but they seem to come from opposite directions. Several hours so sundown so am not unduly worried. My cries of both names yield nothing until I stumble upon two bewildered ancient ladies who are out wood collecting. The senior granny spots the opportunity and offers to guide me to safety/the falls for a dollar. Deal, and she carries my bag. Eventually out of mud, I go through a small ravine and then scorching boulders.
Finally the unmistakable sound of gushing water, only it’s not falls, it’s … rapids. Which is not the same thing at all. I need to write to Lonely Planet and correct this misassumption. I would not have made this pilgrimage for some mere rapids. As it happens in these parts there is always someone set up to sell you a sugared tea or coffee and eventually the naked torso of Badger appears into view. He claims he got lost too when I pout about being abandoned. We can’t swim in the rapids, but I wet my feet and slip off a rock and nearly lose digi camera etc. Not a great outing. But as suspected there is a quicker and easier way back. As we wander back and make jokes about make up (his ex used to cover his tracks on his arms with concealer – well he worked in a sandwich shop and it was best not to advertise that an addict made your sandwich - I ask him why he won’t wash his hair (though I like the Bobby Gillespie look) and he tells me it’s because he has the Arabian sea in it, from their time on the coast in Kerala, and wants to keep it in for as long as possible. Aahhhh. I love guys in their twenties. In fact I adore them. No forty-something I know has any poetry left.

Later back at the Shanti, I wash our mud strewn clothes grape stomping away (large bucket on shower floor, mad dancing on clothes, very therapeutic) and when they’re dry I fold them nicely and leave them outside their door, hotel maid style. I do wonder how anyone can wear half a sock or unstitched trousers or no underpants for that matter, but it’s rock ‘n’ roll. I get rewarded with my own bottle of Old Monk!

23 January - Coils & Locks

'We thought we’d be arrested, but not for arson in a small town’. I asked for criminals and I got some. But minor as you know. Have still not established what Jovi did to go down and it’s apparent that the mild mannered Badger (a quick explanation of name ‘I cut up my connections with mankind and I assumed the form of a badger, they have their sweet furry mates and have their garden’) has never killed anyone though prior to coming here he had to turn down some summit at Playboy mansions to discuss the US policy on dope (?).
Whilst the boys have gone carousing of an evening in nearby hot spot Hospet and corrupting their Indian drivers who normally do not imbibe much Old Monk or do mushrooms, I’ve gone to bed early as have been up at 7 for yoga classes, saintly me and of course we’ve done miles and miles of temples and rocks. So am fast asleep under my protective mosquito net when someone bangs on the door and tells me ‘There’s smoke coming out of your friends’ room’. I answer they’re out and what can I do about it? But no, the voice returns a few minutes later summoning me to the ground floor to witness the breaking and entry into their room. Which takes forever and the whole street comes watching as the giant lock is refusing to be hammered open and producing a very unnatural sound for these parts. Eventually the door gives and yes, there goes a smouldering mattress and pillow by now in a dense cloud of acrid smoke. With a sigh of relief I see no drugs paraphernalia lying about in the general ‘Primal Scream on tour have been here’ mess of their room. The culprit is a mosquito coil. Phew. Lady proprietor is very unhappy. Hubby proprietor tells me the price of new mattress and lock, I offer apologies, offers to the gods tomorrow and so to bed after they secure the door with a much smaller lock and give me the key. I am Jovi's and Badger’s responsible parent obviously. I giggle a lot while I consider I should have left no note informing them that I have the key, so that the returning mushroom heads would have taken a while to work out – Alice in Wonderland style - what dimensions had altered: just a general shift in the universe or was their key really too big for this lock? But I thought of the racket and sensibly wrote ‘You’re in the doghouse big time, come upstairs’.
Unfortunately or fortunately they did not do mushrooms, but procured opium instead so they’re sheepish and very apologetic as they turn up to get their key. The man for whom ‘Fucking up is my religion’ seems to apply as a description/mission in life is sort of enjoying the tale though. Not so sure he will when he realises vengeful lady proprietor has not replaced mattress yet and he has to share with his mate. Thankfully opium makes you kind of spacey and not horny so no danger there.

22 January - Old Tat & New Tat Same Tat

Do they sell it because they think this is what we want? And do some of us buy it because this is all that’s on offer? And we’re abroad and we have to buy something? Has anyone told the hawkers/shopkeepers that times have changed and to get new wares instead of endlessly reproducing wide bottomed payjama style trousers and tops? We’re not all clones of someone who arrived here in ’74 and made a strong impression. Personally I know quite a few tourists/travellers and none of them has a mirrored belt or one of those appalling patchwork bags with or w/o mirrored bits. Ooops I lie. Two men I know have South American carpet bags. I have cringed repeatedly when saw them with them, but also believe in democracy so I had to keep stumm and lift the corners of my mouth up. Or those bed quilts in fabrics that should you wash them would lose 70% of the dye in the first rinse. Or belts with coins? Or those horrid pendants in dark/dirty silver and stones that are not valuable, but everyone tries to tell you it’s the best moonstone this or moonstone that. . Ok revise, my sister has one or two ‘bed’covers /rugs framed as wall hangings but .. she lives in a provincial town and there it probably passes for unique taste. Bit like if you were rebelling against Ikea or some such. Do you see any Indian wearing this stuff? Not even the ones from Rajasthan. Would you buy gypsy shit in the UK? No, so that’s why the locals in Bangalore think we’re mad for coming here. Anyway, the reason why I bought some small shit (but resolutely no Rajasthani tat) is so that every time (and believe me this can be dozens of times a day) someone asks me to ‘look, only look at their wares’, I can flash my bracelet, Shiva sticker, bangle, the ankle jinglies etc. and say ‘I have (already)’. Clearly this does not always work. Some of them think ‘She’s got one, so she must want ten more of the same’. But on average 50% flunk away. Then when I spend the last day in one place I dump it back on a stall holder. I’d like to ask ‘How much you give me for this?’ but I know it would be mean so I just give it away. Including my flip flops to the undesirable who’s busy mending lots of others. I’m not dissing the undesirable. I don’t know of a PC term to call him. And he’s screwed around these parts really. Not even aid gets to him through the curtain of despise heaped on him by his own people. Anyway, he clearly thinks he can score off a tourist. I ask him to mend the handle of a plastic shopper and he wants 20R. ‘Brother, I paid 19R for it w/o haggling so I think you’re mistaken’. I hate it when I get mean in Paradise but it chips away at you.

My Mexican twins came here from Verkala primarily because the Raj gypsies on the coast told them there’d be more like them here and the boys like the sorceress look all kajalled up. Maybe they remind them of their smack-head rocker girlfriends?? Actually think the g/friends are not the smack heads here. Unfortunately what they were not told is that here is where the Rah grannies come to end their selling days. No competition so… not much pickings. Badger would like an Indian wife and then start a hot air balloon business to take us over this incredibly lunar/space oddity landscape. I’d settle for supplying hammocks – so many palm trees and nothing but plastic chairs to sit on. I point out they need educated wives if they want business help/partners so the gypsies are out unless they are fake gypsies with college degrees. But the problem may be that educated Indians, like Bombay girls for example must aspire to a well dressed professional man not someone who models himself on Keith Richards despite not being born until the Stones fifteenth alum release. Not sure they know the Stones here. But then we hit another snag. Bombay girl is unlike to dig Jack Kerouac and Dylan and whatever else are our cultural reference points. And they’d chuck the boys out if they kept a diet of Old Monk rum, the local firewater they’ve taken to drinking.

20 January - Miscreants & Jails

It’s working! Remember I asked the universe to send me some criminals? Just to make life a little more interesting? Well, Leela, who came to join me from Bombay where she is with Boyfriend on important business, revealed that she’s done time for some cheque book fraud back in the 80’s? or was it 90s? Not much time, 6 months in a continental jail, she says they let her out early because she's posh, but I must ask her for more details. We also had a very satisfying couple of days in top end establishments courtesy of her credit card. This proved however that Indians service in five stars is similar to indian service in one star hotels. They just don't like to ever say 'no' and disappoint you so they 'lie' about everything. 'Yes we have your reservation but we don't appear to have a room for you' type scenario. Leela and I also passed the time discussing hot flushes which she has regularly and am terrified may be starting. However the good news is that hot flushes have nothing to do whatsoever with your libido. Hurrah! Leela is not far from fifty but she's a most enthusiastic shopper at Coco de Mer and can afford things like the 'horse'. Ok am not describing it but it will take pride of place in her new apartment. For now am just coveting a knuckle duster sort of ring which has pearls in a straight line all across the top. You twist it round so that the pearls are on the underside of your hand and, well, imagine what you they can do to his penis. Wonders. But I digress. So.

Check this out, only a day later as I wait for my moto rickshaw to take me from Hospet to Hampi at dawn, am accosted by two remarkable looking characters as I drink a much needed sweet tea after 9 bumpy hours on a coach. They claim to be Mexican miscreants but turns out their passports are USA. They live in Tjiuana but that doesn't make them Mexican much as i agree allegiance to any other flag is betther than their own. One is very tall and wears a wide brimmed had. One is just 6ft and both are wearing sort of LA punk gear and proper laced up leather shoes, none of your hippy sandals thank you. Their torsos are topped by remarkably large silver necklaces bought on the beach in Verkala. Thankfully no silly skull rings adorn their fingers so I decide to let them ride with me, especially as their baggage consists of small knapsacks and an MP3 sound recorder, and once we arrive in Heaven/Hampi, they get a room at the same guest house. They owe that to my air of respectability which wins over the suspicious lady proprietor. They won’t give me proper names, only Jovi and Badger. They claim to have respectively two wives and to be a recent dumpee. They have the addicting air of trouble about them and sure enough Jovi is wearing Badger’s hat as he’s recently cut his long hair for a court appearance and has done about a year in jail for … drug related offences. Nothing to do with his normal job as karate teacher and voice coach. Seems Badger is actually a wholesaler of herbs from a sweet smelling farm in Oregon. This is going to be fun. Thank you universe.

19 January - Traffic & Countdowns

Genius. The traffic lights in Chennai and Bangalore all have a LDC countdown! How cool is that? No more fretting, you can switch the engine off knowing you have 55 seconds to go before it turns green again. Use the phone, put lipstick on. Read front page of newspaper. Why can’t we have that in London? And why do I care? Why is it that as tourists we focus on stuff that is totally by the by in our regular life? Would we find traffic in Bradford endlessly interesting? Certainly not. Actually a visiting man from Chennai would find it fascinating. He could sit at a bus shelter marvelling at the soundlessness of it all: just a hum of tires on the tarmac, no ferocious honking (see the top tip re. Earplugs at all times) roads smooth, no holes, no bikes hardly, every vehicle shiny, not dented or damaged or faded. Ok make that Milton Keynes, not Bradford. Drivers keeping to their lanes, no inside overtaking wildly and the black cabs would seem to him as stylishly uniform as we think their old cream Lincolns are.
Then he’d marvel at the price of petrol in the UK, treble of what he pays back home, and that would make him want to reach for a freshly fried 5p samosa only to be left…wanting it really badly, but there is none to be had by a shack on the side of the/any road. Not freshly fried and soft and crispy squishing out peas, carrots and potatoes with every bite. He would also be getting wet and cold by this point…

18 January - Disrobing & Swimming

Considering the dress restrictions for women in India, and as a responsible tourist I try to blend in and wear my long skirts or trousers under skirts (remember the contours of your ass as displayed in trousers are tantamount to showing your underwear), it’s pretty hypocritical of Asian MTV to show Indian women in various stages of undress/short dress – I notice the pop promos are filmed in the streets of London though or even some Bavarian town I kid you not, so perhaps the crew and stars would be stoned if they filmed locally.
In some of the film/music magazines I buy, it’s the same thing. Sultry, stunning women in skimpy party outfits and they’re all very light skinned contrary to their sisters on the streets. One of those things that make me risk saying very non PC stuff. Who controls the media? Why do they all get fed an 'I wanna be white' diet? Same thing for Latinos/south americans and so on. The emerging stars are always not a million miles away from caucasians looks wise.
After a while of course I crave some nudity of my own. It’s pretty stifling for us to wander about in ot weather unable to wear a boob tube for example. So I head for an open air hotel pool. Finally I can take it all off, mostly. A quick look around and we’re all tourists. I will spend two days here hardly moving away from the water and it’s just us foreigners. Wonder if the pool attendants think it's like working for a non stop soft porn channel as they view us westerners disrobed and sprawled on loungers or in the pool. And if their male friends envy them the job. I have yet to see an Indian in a pool. I guess they’re barred, even at 7am when no guests but me are here. Feel like going up to reception and say 'Would be very pleased to share pool water with you, Sir'. Or do they really not like swimming? Didn’t see many in the ocean a few hundred yards away either. You remember how many more women than men died in the tsunami because they are/were fishermen and swimmers whereas the women can’t learn because they’re only supposed to dunk themselves in the sea fully clothed which sort of restricts any movement.
Don’t you just hate men and their stupid, medieval rules? Don’t even argue with me, of course somewhere in apparently tolerant India there’s some codified tradition in all the faiths: muslim, Christian, hindu, that says ‘women must be covered up and certainly not enjoy one of the few sports in the world that costs zilch ie. Swimming’. And there’s another top tip for travel. One thing you should bring with in several variations is bikinis as they don’t sell those here. Nor do they sell decent underwear. I know because I left it all at home bar what I travelled out with and eventually had to do without as I object to wearing my granny’s pants, which is all I ever saw on offer. I have a deep suspicion that somewhere there is a special kind of store that sells amazing undies to complement the amazing saris, but I couldn’t find it. Though maybe lacey stuff is not great for sweaty weather but who knows. Talking of saris... I think it's just the fabrics that change, update the clothes. The style and way in which they are draped seems to be the same since.... Indira Gandhi or those old movies like Pater Panchali. That's weird. Could this be the only 'dress' that is impervious to fashion? Do rich women here buy their Chanels and just stare at them hanging in wardrobes? Ok so in Bombay it's different but how come nobody wants to try something else apart from that schoolgirlie style salwar kameez combo?

17 January - Girl & Girl

Forgot that one extreme result of hot climates on my constitution is galloping horniness. Which is hardly possible to indulge in as am meant to be seing Toph and especially as there isn’t a single man I find attractive in these parts. They just are not my type, though I do like sinewy limbs. So as I lie naked under the comforting whizz of a ceiling fan, and half glance at the Asian MTV channel with its beguiling pop tunes, it seems the book am reading is clearly failing to hold my attention. I have a sudden vision of the new best girlie friend and her cushiony pale pink lips and shaggy blonde hair. The fantasy starts with making her strip for me and in a few easy steps she’s playing Barbie to my Ken and then we get a few fantasy visitors joioning us and change roles around till I have to crank up the ceiling fan to max and turn the volume up on the TV. Why her? Why not some recent lover or the current beau? No, he wouldn’t do right now. I seem to have dislocated this fantasy away from other men as it technically doesn’t involve any unfaithfulness if you do it with a girl… Must ask NBF when I return, just to check if I had a number of facts, sequences and times right. I don't think she's going to be that surprised.

16 January - anonymity & armour

Everyone should sometimes go to a place where being themselves as they know it is not possible, your clothes don’t indicate who you’re, your accent, your mannerisms don’t make you someone they want or do not want to talk to. You’re an enigma no one’s interested in solving. The lives of those around you go on without you. You’re some kind of refugee with the status of someone with cash and c/cards in their pockets. No one will run you out of town, in fact some will welcome you in their hotels and shop. You’re invisible, though you stand out in your clothes that are just so different. You’re not even attractive as you don’t fit in with national stereotypes of beauty. You’re too skinny, too white. Your hair is too lank and in some places if you’re a man with no beard you’re like some kind of unremarkable teenager. You can break any habits as you cannot reach for your toutines, your coffee like this, your window shopping like that. The paper you read every day… you wont’ miss it, the music you listen too will be the wrong rhythm for here. You can wash your entire body and soul and rinse it out clean. Or just different. This time am going to do it in Chennai and round and round in Southern/central India. The solitude and anonymity is precious and later so will be the return to ‘your’ people.

Just from the first morning out in a foreign culture, realise am sort of happiest on a bus/train coming from a place I hardly got to know and heading for one I definitely don’t know yet. Suspect am the same with people?

Wearing your old/previous travel clothes is like putting on your warrior armour, your protection. To ther people they are an average pair of green thick silk trousers, to you they’re the ones you had on when you reached the top of the plateau of Sygiria in Sri Lanka and again when you climbed the steps to the main temple in Angkor Wat. You're practically invincible.

15 January - Flying & Listing

On the plane, who wants to slee? And movies on offer are predictably standard fare. The woman at the check in desk has lied to me. After begging her not to put me anywhere near a toilet, am exactly six seats away from one. Hope it won’t be bad. Maybe it was just the one trip that traumatised me a few years ago and no amount of personal daubing of perfume could cover the whiff coming through every time they opened the door.

Boredom creeping up, so a small list, the Top Ten travel list in no particular order but #1 is #1

- Buy it when you see it. Absolutely. 98% of times you will not see the same item appear again and you’ll be forever kicking yourself for not getting it. You’re not near your local well stocked branch of M&S or something. It’s gone.
- Don’t spend all your time haggling, it is so tedious and so unbecoming. Unless it costs more than at home, just get it and be done with it.
- Don’t take everything with you. Do give some business to the locals, they do sell suntan lotion, and anti mosquito creams and headache pills and nicer towels than the one you’re dragging with. - Do take your sunglasses, most holiday destinations are lived in by locals who have dark eyes and they don’t pay much attention to the needs of blue and green eyed people who have an absolute nightmare staring at the sun.
- Bring some clothes/shoes you’re happy to leave behind. Makes the world funkier and humbles you a bit. No, DKNY doesn’t mean s hit ‘there’ or GAP or whatever, in fact they manufacture ‘there’ but the locals are not impressed.
- Get your own guide/assistant, even if it is a local kid. He’ll keep away from you a posse of other hawkers/guides who would be tedious in their hassling. You’re his little cash cow now and he’ll protect you
- Drink as much champagne as you can before heading to third world as you won’t readily find it or have a thirst for it. Sort of doesn’t go?? But two weeks without is an unnecessary deprivation
- Bring absolutely everywhere a small inflatable bum cusion. Your spine is pretty precious and roads away from civilization have potholes the size of Mars, journeys are interminable and nearly all transport has no shock absorbers left
- Always, always have earplugs in. Even plain cotton discs will screen out the constant noise of traffic in places where all motorised vehicles have the following instuction on their rear 'Sound horn' or on on roads where everytime they hit a pothole the whole thing judders.
- Don't bother with malaria tablets

And here’s what I’d really like to do and cleary have no time for. May have to revise all times given in weeks down to mere days or go the other way round and do a month of each. Book a year out perhaps:

1 week standing still
1 week doing yoga non stop till I could do photo session in yoga mag
1 week sleeping
1 week reading, but not the papers
1 week without using a phone
1 week out of it. No memory
1 week going up Everest
1 week in Antarctica
1 week finally learning to snowboard
1 week horse riding
1 week jungle trekking
1 week fucking every which way or, failing that, being massaged
1 week thai boxing
1 week of silence
1 week cooking. No, not really but it sorts of looks like am not that focused on domestic activities. Wonder why? Should I be?