All’s well that ends well

Miraculously, we make it to Mamallapuram without running over a cow or being hit by an oncoming bus. Our driver takes us to Laksmhi Lodge, which is indeed by the beach and with a swimming pool, as promised by the supposed airport coordinator who cornered us upon arrival in Chennai. Our driver waits until we’ve handed over the 1300 Rupees for the room, and we realise he’s waiting for his cut of the cash for bringing us to this hotel.

The room is large, but leaves a bit to be desired for the price. An enthusiastic young boy helps us to our room, shows us the balcony and says he can bring us Kingfisher beers if we’d like, before handing over one damp, musty towel for the two of us. We’ve definitely been duped, but we needed a bed and to get out of the chaos of Chennai and its unruly roads.

Dinner with a view in Mamallapuram

Mamallapuram is also known as Mahabalipuram and Mamallapattana – one of the many places in India with several variations of its spelling. Several lengthy variations. Before Barn and I work out how to pronounce it, we refer to it simply as ‘M’. It’s believed to be the ‘city of great wrestler’ and has a gorgeous beach-town feel to it. It’s the Mount Maunganui of India. We dine on delicious Indian cuisine at a picturesque open-air restaurant on a balcony decorated with fairy-lights, and each gladly finish a 650ml bottle of Super-Strength (8%) Kingfisher, toasting to our lives after making it there in one piece.

Toasting our lives

The next morning, Pete wakes up early and gets ready for the jog we’d flagged the previous day. He asks if I’d like to join him, and while my honest answer is ‘no way’, I see the sun rising over the beach town, and get up anyway. We head down to the beach and come across the Shore Temple, built in the 7th Century, which showcases the movement from rock-cut architecture to structural building. We arrive at the same time as a group of school children and pay the entry fee (10 Rupees for Indians, 250 Rupees for “Others”, according to the sign).

The sari swimmers

After checking out the stone carvings, we continue on to another beach and happen upon a carnival being set up. Hundreds of locals mill about on the sand; some are having rides on ponies and others are swimming, dressed head to toe in beautiful saris and suits. We attempt a beach run, and last 25 minutes in the blazing heat before coming across even more stone carvings, and some ancient-looking ruins similar to those in Rome. Indian tourists stare at us – either because we’re out jogging, or because I’m inappropriately dressed in my Nike lycra ensemble.

Spot the odd one out

A group of women see me taking photos and ask me to take one of them. I oblige, and then they want photos with me in them. And after that, they want individual shots, and to see them on my camera afterwards. I play along for a while, until it’s time to head back to town for breakfast and to find a driver to take us to Pondicherry (also known as Puducherry).

The owner of the taxi company says our driver’s just grabbing some food, as he hasn’t eaten in a long time – “He’s been up all night doing airport pick-ups at 1am, 3am, 5am, 7am and 9am.” This does little to instil our confidence in the driver’s abilities. The 100km drive down East Coast Road is nearly as harrowing as the previous night’s, and I’m given a bemused look when I ask if there are seatbelts: “There are no seatbelts in India, madam.”

And this time, there’s also no air-con, but at least it’s day time, so, the cows and other obstacles (of which there are many) are much more visible. I cross my fingers and hope for the best, remembering the mantra that got me to sleep last night – all’s well that ends well. Just as long as this one ends well, too.