Brothers and sisters

Studying after school

It's almost dinner time at the Illam by the time we return from our delightful afternoon tea at Banu's place. Children are dotted all over the centre on any floor space they can find, studiously completing their homework and testing each other, rote-learning style. The boys are still in their khaki and white uniforms, but the girls have changed into beautiful coloured, sequined saris. I don’t know how they manage to keep everything so clean sitting on the ground outside all the time, but I get the feeling everyone here works hard to keep things spick and span.

Jenny’s been staying at the Illam for the past week, and tells us how impressed she is with the children’s work ethic. “They wake up at 4.30am every day – even the youngest ones – do their yoga and prayers, cut up vegetables for the day’s meals, clean the place top to toe and then study. All before school!” she says, incredulously. There's no denying it puts the TV-watching, internet-using generations of our home countries to shame.

We join in the children's pre-dinner prayers at 7pm, which begin with some “omm”-ing and morph into a more melodic Tamil song that the house warden Nagarathinam tells us is translated from a traditional Hindi hymn. The Karunai Illam Trust is non-denominational, but the prayers each day include elements of five different religions (such as Muslim, Hindu and Christianity), each of which are depicted in decorative tiles adorning the walls of the dining area. The prayer session ends with the children standing up one by one to share a proverb with the group – some in English, some in Tamil. Finally, before the children disappear for their evening meal, they each stand up again and tell us their name and what standard (class) they’re in at school. It’s a lovely welcome, and worth the pins and needles we get sitting cross-legged on the concrete.

Later in the evening, we chat to some of the boys about their school work, and they delight in showing us their books, affectionately calling me “sister” and Pete “brother”. We’re impressed with the level of English they’re expected to know, and admit that some of the words on their vocabulary lists challenge even us, with communications and legal backgrounds. The boys have great hopes for the future – careers in graphics, economics, the list goes on. With the incredible support they receive from the Trust (even into the early years of their tertiary education), I’m sure they’ll be well equipped to take the economic powerhouse of India into the future – whatever that looks like for this incredible, insane country.

Setting the prayer table before dawn

When the boys leave for their home down the road, the girls set to work making a garland to welcome Jasmine (“the other madam from New Zealand”) who arrives at around 11pm. Taken aback by the energetic welcome from the girls, and suffering jetlag, she heads to bed and so do the children.

Pete suggests we rise at 4.30am to partake in the girls’ daily rituals. It’s no secret that I’m not a morning person, but after two hours’ sleep, I climb out of bed anyway. When we try to help out, we’re ushered away and presented with cups of tea, so we talk to the other visitors and quietly observe the children as they do their yoga, clean, prepare vegetables, do homework, set up the prayer table, light candles, say their morning prayers and plait each other’s hair – just as Jenny had told us.

Cutting the day's cabbage

The spicy breakfast of vegetable sambar with the Illam staff couldn’t be more different from my usual Special K in front of the computer screen at work, but it’s certainly a very special and authentic experience not even Lonely Planet has notched up. We chat some more to the house warden, Nagarathinam, who tells us in broken English that she’s not from here – she says she goes home “monthly once” to her own house, 70km away, but lives here most of the time. “I am working in the programme 17 years, but here for four,” she tells us.

Our farewell garlands

Before the children leave for school, they give us a lovely farewell, presenting us with woollen, floral garlands they’d secretly made for us that morning, on top of everything else they had to do before school. They line up in their immaculate uniforms (a different colour for each standard) and march off to school like the children in Madeleine, warmly waving goodbye to their new “sister” and “brother”.

Tamil Nadu's Madeleine

Small English, big heart

We depart our temporary home in the hills for our next port of call, having changed our plans at the last minute. Instead of going to the beautiful beaches of Goa, we’ve opted for the much more rewarding experience of visiting Karunai Illam children’s home in Nilakottai, Tamil Nadu. Pete’s parents are friends with some of the trustees of Illam, so we’d emailed the centre before we left New Zealand, but hadn’t heard back from them until yesterday. 

The Karunai Illam Trust, as it’s officially called, is a New Zealand incorporated charitable trust that also supports a primary school and vocational training community college, in addition to the children’s home. The aim of the trust is to look after and educate children and youth from disadvantaged families across the region, and its initiatives are managed on a day-to-day basis by the Trust’s local partner, the DHAN (Development of Humane Action) Foundation, a leading development organisation operating in 12 states in India. 

We google-map Illam to see if a visit is feasible, and realise that we’re only 50 minutes away by car. We can’t possibly pass this opportunity up – especially after the heart-warming email we receive from Mr Khader, the Magaing Director of the home: 

“My Dear Peter Barnett. Greetings from DHAN Karunai Illam and its collectives. We have been informed by Mr Sankar that you are interested to visit our Illam and enjoying the activities. We are extending a warm welcome to you and your friend,” it reads. 

The email includes the details of where we can find them, and it’s singed off: “With happy greetings and anticipation from Children. Thank you, yours sincerely, M. Khader”. 

Yes, that’s right, happy greetings and anticipation from Children. Children with a capital C, even! Oh, imagine the guilt if we don't go. We definitely have to now. 

We tell Mr Khader we’re not far away, and by the time we arrive, there’s a room ready for us. Mind you, it’s a room with just the one bed for the two of us (three-quarters the size of a double), a bucket for a shower, and geckos crawling up the bathroom walls. But it’s a room nonetheless, and we’re grateful for the hospitality, even if it means top-and-tailing in our sleeping bag liners for the night, or staying awake to ward off creepy crawlies.

Mr Khader greets us a short time after arriving, and he tells us more about Illam’s work. The primary school is for younger children (up to around the age of 10), but the 35 children (24 girls and 11 boys) who live at the home are aged between 11 and 18, so they attend other schools nearby – the girls go to private schools, and the boys, public. During the day, when the children are at school, local women come to Illam to take courses at the community college, known as the LIFE (Livelihood Initiatives with Functional Education) Centre. We stop by the LIFE office and meet Deva, who enthusiastically tells us about the courses Illam offers in clothing, tailoring, embroidery, beauty therapy, jewellery making, and computers – to name a few. 

Poor Pete gets a lesson he’d probably rather not have in the various types of waxing, bleaching, threading and facials that they teach here. The one to three-month Illam programmes cost between Rs. 1500 and Rs. 2500 – much cheaper than other comparable courses in the region. Deva tells us that a full Indian wedding make-up and henna session would earn one of the girls more than Rs. 2500, so the course is relatively inexpensive, considering they earn the total cost of their tuition back on their first job. 

Deva or diva?

Deva then shows us the wedding jewellery he and the students have made, and he tries some on himself – laughing it off as if he’d never seriously wear it. His obvious love for the sparkly jewels suggests otherwise. Noting my pearl earrings and bracelet, Deva kindly gifts me a necklace to match – a string of yellow pearls with a pendant made of fake diamonds and rubies. It’s not something I’d usually wear, but it would have been useful when I dressed up for the Bollywood-themed young professionals’ ball last year. I graciously accept his kind gift, though, and wear it right away, pleasing the students in the beauty therapy course we meet shortly afterwards. 

We introduce ourselves to the girls, and as I’ve found in India, no-one here can say ‘Rebecca’. Being a classic, biblical name, and a relatively common one (I was one of four or five Rebeccas at my old workplace), I’ve never had a problem before. But it’s a different story in the Subcontinent – my name is totally perplexing. They seem to get ‘Peter’ okay, but I get endless blank looks as they repeat variations of Roooopika, Rubooka, Rubka and Reeeepka. One of our drivers even said, “Ohhh, like rrrupees! You must be verrrry lucky!” 

The girls in the beauty course motion for me to sit down. They not so much ask if I’d like a henna tattoo as tell me I’m getting one. They try to get Pete to get one too, but he firmly protests. He backs away and slowly but surely says, “No, thanks. No. Allergic. Skin reaction. No.” I ask when on earth he’s had a henna tatt before, and he reveals that when he was volunteering in the Philippines, he and his friends had intricate designs printed on their backs for a bit of a laugh after a long drinking session one day. Sounds like a load of B.S. to me. “Whatever,” I reply, egging the girls on to ink Pete up. 

Inked up

He gets away with his allergy claims (just), and I continue chatting to the girls about their families, their lives and where they’re from. In the meantime, one of the girls whose name sounds something like Daisy copies a pattern onto the inside of my forearm and palm from a photo on her mobile phone. The girls try to tell me something about the materials they’re using, and Deva translates that they’re using their best (and darkest) ink because we’re special guests. I semi-concernedly ask how long the design will stay on my arm and hand, and they enthusiastically reassure me it will be there for at least two weeks. I wonder if it will be longer on my comparatively pale skin. 

Jenny, a physio from the UK (who knows Jean, the founder of Illam, from meditation courses she’s done in New Zealand) is also visiting, and gets inked up at the same time as I do. As she and Pete chat later in the afternoon, they discover that Jenny grew up in the same neighbourhood in the UK as Pete’s Dad, and her parents were great friends of Pete’s grandparents. We all shake our heads in disbelief, and say over and over again what a small world it is. We’re told that “another madam from New Zealand”, Jasmine, is arriving tonight, and we discuss degrees of separation, wondering how long it will take to find a connection.

Smiling for "Auntie"

After lunch, Pete and I visit the nursery and primary school over the road. We meet some of the teachers and the principal, and venture into one of the tiny classrooms where we’re absolutely mobbed by the relentlessly energetic kids. It’s near the end of the day, and we get the feeling that no more learning is going to be done that afternoon. It’s most definitely play time, and like the Indian roads, it is chaotic. The children are extremely cute and we have a ball taking photos with them and listening to them as they yell every single English word they know at us. “Telephone! Watch! Clock!” they cheer. They fondly call me “Auntie”, and Pete “Uncle”. One of the boys gets hold of my smaller camera and runs around taking photos of his mates and us, captivated by “Uncle’s” height. 

Sapped of energy from our school visit, the invite of afternoon tea at Mr Khader’s daughter Banu's house next door comes at just the right time. I feel another Julian and Camilla moment coming on as we sit cross-legged on a mat on the floor eating spiral-shaped biscuits made of egg, coconut milk and rice. Banu shows us her kitchen and Pete surveys the jars of spices while she makes us a pot of tea with hot milk, black tea leaves, ginger, cardamon pods and plenty of sugar. Banu invites her neighbour to join us, and soon Banu’s daughter Najiha and the neighbour’s children (possibly called Karthik and Yuvraj) appear in the doorway.

Ginger tea with Banu and the neighbours

Karthik’s English is exceptional, and we’re told he got first place in his class. He acts as chief translator, because “Banu has only small English”, she tells us several times. Pete entertains the boys with his iPhone, Fruit Ninja being a major hit. One of the boys gets a high score of 299, and Pete enthuses that he’s done very well, but can’t help adding – only semi-jokingly – that they might like to check his own high score. 

We’re shown the family photo albums and hear countless stories about other visitors to Illam, particularly about the legendary Danny a Wellingtonian who’s just finished a two-month stint volunteering there. We have the standard New Zealand conversation with Banu, and after Danny’s visit, she seems to know a bit about our country. “Joe Key. Your President, Joe Key,” she smiles. Banu talks about herself in the third person, and towards the end of our visit she’s saying “Banu love having Roopka and Peter. Roopka – you come back and stay one month with Banu family, yes? Come India again, see Banu?” 

Banu’s English may be small, but her heart is one of the biggest I’ve ever met. We leave Banu’s place the best of friends, and happily agree to return for more tea the next day.

Candy from strangers

On our way down the hills of Kodaikanal, we stop to take more photos of the vista that’s like postcards of Santorini, but much more colourful. The homes dotted all over the hillside are an impressive sight. A man walks out of a house we’re standing by, and invites us to climb on top of the garage in front, to get an even better view. He tells us a bit more about Kodai, and then insists we come into his home. 

It’s like an episode of Julian and Camilla’s World Odyssey, my favourite Travel Channel programme about two Kiwis on an OE. People rave about those ‘real life’ experiences of being welcomed into strangers’ homes, and now I’ve finally got my chance. The man is called Haizer, and he introduces us to his mother and sister-in-law – two of the many family members who live here. The women immediately set to making us coffee and bringing us biscuits, which we accept, even though we can barely move after our embarrassingly extravagant breakfast. The women tell us we’re the very first guests into the newly refurbished home – the place has been in the family for years but they’ve recently spruced it up.

Haizer had spotted my Canon and brings out his own Nikon D3000 and an impressive array of lenses – one longer than my finger tips to elbow. He’s a technician who worked in Bahrain and Abu Dhabi until he had to return home to his dying father. Haizer now runs the family electronics business with his brother, but he’d love to return overseas and tells us he’s applying for jobs in the States. He loves photography and is a total whiz with cameras – something passed on from his father many moons ago, so we look at some of the photos he’s taken of wildlife in the area and he then brings out his sister’s wedding album. Pete must have missed the part where Haizer said it was his sister’s wedding, as he enquires as to where Haizer’s wedding had taken place. Haizer replies, “I am unmarried. By the grace of God, my two younger sisters and brother are married, but I am not.” I sense it’s a bit of a sore point. 

He tells us about the work he does – mainly fixing tourists’ expensive cameras. He says the tourists are often surprised at how cheap it is to get work done here; he recently fixed a camera for Rs 2800, and the tourist had said he got a quote back in the UK for the equivalent of Rs 12,000. “I fix a lot of old cameras. It would be cheaper for them to buy new ones, you know, but a lot of the time it’s sentimental. They want to keep using a camera that’s special to them. And I understand that – my own father gifted me this camera and it’s very precious to me,” he says.

Haizer talks to us about our lives back in New Zealand, and asks if we’re Christian. We say we are and he smiles approvingly. He tells me he grew up a Catholic, but has since converted to Pentecostal. He starts a spiel about Jesus’ second coming in India, and we patiently listen, nodding and making false promises to start reading the bible every day. On that note, we graciously thank Haizer for the hospitality and take our leave, making a more truthful promise to visit him in his electronics store before we leave Kodaikanal.

At sunset, after a much-needed nap and a late afternoon lunch of thali, we meander along Coaker’s Walk, a stunning path around one of the highest hills. I have to pay an extra 30 rupees to get my camera in, but the battery dies after one or two shots; the landscape is too wide and too incredible to be captured on film anyway, so it’s a memory to be etched only in our heads. As we walk, Indian tourists keep approaching us wanting photos of themselves with us in them too. I’m not sure if it’s Pete’s height, or simply our white skin – whatever it is, we are a huge deal here. The sign at the end of Coaker’s Walk says, “Come back after 6.30pm to see the evening jewel box” – referring to the lights of the city by night. It’s getting darker, but we don’t wait around, instead pressing on to tick off all the must-sees in Kodai.

We make our way to the eponymous Bryant Park, landscaped and stocked by a British officer; we haven’t brought our jerseys with us and it’s getting chilly, so we pay 100 rupees each for second-hand, David Bain-style woollen ones from a stall by the lake – mine a bright purple and cream zig-zag, Barn’s decorated with sparkly Christmas wreathes and baubles. He looks very Colin Firth in Bridget Jones' Diary. Interestingly, no-one seems to want photos with us anymore; “Incognito,” Barn reckons.

Our third travel companion, the Lonely Planet, says, “If you’re sappy in love like a bad Bollywood song, the thing to do in Kodai is to rent a pedal boat (Rs 50 per half-hour) or row boat (Rs 120).” It goes on to say, “Screechy crooning to your significant other is entirely optional.” We’re neither sappy in love, nor each other’s significant other, but here in India everyone thinks we are – so we decide we may as well just go for the boat ride. We see other insignificant others doing the same – groups of guys in their early twenties hooning around on honeymoon boats and cheering in Tamil. Apparently a lot of the university students come here – I gather it's a bit like the Queenstown of Otago. I don’t know how the man rowing our boat takes us seriously in these outfits, let alone how he remains so polite. He ends everything with ‘sir’ or ‘madam’ – almost to the point of irritation; “Yes, Madam. No, madam. Certainly, madam. Madam, madam.” I’ve never been called a madam so much in my life. 

After our late lunch, we skip dinner and crash early, glad we didn’t wait around for the evening jewel box, as there’s a power cut in the city – not a jewel to be seen tonight. We head out the next morning on a tour of the hills, and our driver warns us, “Bad luck today. Thick fog.” We visit Silent Valley, which is not at all silent (with all the Indian tourists around), and the fog is relentless – a total repeat of the weather when I visited Jungfrau, the highest mountain in Europe, a few years back. Bugger. We can’t see a thing, but according to the pictures on the signs, the view is excellent. Back in the car, our driver asks us how long it takes to fly from New Zealand to India. 

“About twenty hours,” Barn says. “But worth it.”
“Wife?” our driver replies, not understanding “worth it”.
“Ahhh, worth the long flight, to get to India?” Barn says, more slowly.
“Long flight, wife, India?”

Here we go again.

We continue on to Caps Valley, at an altitude of 2350m, and finally to Berajim Lake, before going back to Kodai to work on our itinerary, which is getting exceedingly more difficult to plan, with the Indian Railways overnighters being booked up weeks in advance, not to mention with us changing our minds on an hourly basis.

After reading an article in the Air Asia in-flight magazine about Makar Sankranti, the Indian national kite festival, we immediately want to change our travel plans. Visions of an Indian version of Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner flood our imaginations, and we talk to locals in Kodai about whether or not we should try and get there. A man in a bag shop describes the experience in Ahmedabad as “unforgettable”. “If you go to Makar Sankranti, you will remember it always. It is just magical; thousands of colourful kites filling the sky. The biggest ones two hundred, three hundred…five hundred metres wide!” he enthuses. “The smallest ones, just tiny! Tiny!”

Haizer working by candlelight

We look at each other and nod. We must get to Ahmedabad. We spend the afternoon rearranging travel plans, and trying a host of Indian lunch dishes like dosai, gobi and paneer panatha, chani masala and dahi puri. Before dinner that night, we make good on our promise to Haizer to visit the family business, Robert Electronics. When we arrive, Haizer is working by candlelight fixing a Nikon camera, as the power has been cut once again. I get the feeling I should come to expect this of India. In his shop, Haizer tells us more about his business and the AV equipment he hires out for conferences, as well as the photography services he provides for large group events. He also tells us more about his plans to go overseas again, and asks our opinion on a cover letter he has drafted. Attached is a brief CV, which he has headed up “Bio-data”.

As nicely as possible, we suggest this may be better received in countries like New Zealand and Australia if called a Curriculum Vitae, and as we walk out the door, Pete says, “When I saw ‘bio-data’ I half expected a tissue sample to be attached.” After a brief joke, we discuss how hard it must be for those with English as a second language to get a job in a Western country, and I suddenly feel bad for laughing, and for all the previous times I’ve done the same. We’ve seen that Haizer is an absolute guru, but if I’d been the recruiter on the receiving end of a bio-data, it would have probably been binned at first glance. In atonement, I promise myself I’ll keep an eye out for camera technician roles in New Zealand and to email Haizer if any come up.

Regrettably, we leave Kodai early the next day after waking up to yet another picture-perfect sunrise view from bed. As we wind down the hills in the morning sun, we pass Rattail Falls, the impressive agricultural Manjaralu Dam, and endless plantations of coconut trees and mango trees. I think about the highlight of Kodai – being welcomed into Haizer’s home – and think that sometimes it’s not all that bad to take candy from strangers.

Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!

On the climb up to the hill station of Kodaikanal, the temperature drops considerably. We’ve come from the sweltering heat of Thailand and Malaysia, and then Chennai, Mamallapuram and Pondicherry in India, and now goosebumps are appearing. The Icebreakers that were exiled to the bottom of my bag when we arrived in Asia are now incredibly appealing, and the pain in my shoulders from my heavy pack suddenly disappears.

As we wind through the hills, our driver, Mr Sidiqque, commentates. "This road was opened in 1826 for the England people," he informs. "Till now, not even damage to this road. We have cyclones and still no damage – it is very good road." He asks about our travel plans, and tells us about the best house boats to stay on in Kerala next week. Pete enquires about Berajim Lake in Kodaikanal, and the surrounding sholas (forest) area. “Ahh yes, I know this lake. You get ID and permit. This is no problem, we arrange this for you,” he kindly says.

Kodai, as the locals call it, is 79% forest, and lies in the lush mountains of the Western Ghats of India. Apparently, it’s small, misty, intimate and mountainous. It sounds like a divine respite from the heat-soaked plains we’ve just left. Lonely Planet says the area contains “an incredible array of endemic wildlife”, and Mr Sidiqque further confirms this. "A lot of bison, elephant and deer. Big forest, so they not come to road a lot, but you might see them. A lot of cheetah too. And 22 tigers, total. A lot of snakes. The python, many hill snake – very big and long. Too long,” he cautions. “They have a lot of vegetables, potatoes, 22 varieties of beans, carrots, cauliflower, organic fruits. Orange, avocado, passionfruit. Spices too. Good food in Kodai, and very good peoples.”

Mr Sidiqque says a lot of important people live in Kodai: “The DFO [District Forest Officer], the university vice chancellor, police.” There’s a “100 years old museum, owned by the Roman Catholics”, as well as a lot of schools and colleges. Apparently, 75% of the people are Christian, 15% Hindu, and 20% Muslim. A quick calculation tells me Mr Sidiqque wasn’t in the top maths stream at school, but he continuously checks that we're comfortable along the way, and is a very cautious driver. ”Much better than death-wish, crazed maniacs we had before,” Pete remarks.

Mr Sidiqque says a religious festival takes place on the 14th of August every year, and that a lot of international visitors come. I smile and tell him that August 14 is my birthdate, clearly a great day for festivities of any kind, and he says I must be very lucky. I certainly feel very lucky to be here right now.

As we wind even further up into the hills, the air cools some more and Mr Sidiqque says the temperature here is around 7 degrees at night, and 22 in the day. “Very cold,” he says. "It sounds very pleasant," Pete replies. The streets are filled with Night Queen flowers, like lilies, but they only open at night, so we're driving through at the perfect time to see them in full bloom.

We learn that nanri means ‘thank you’ in Tamil, and hear about the three lakes in the area. “No autos [autorickshaws] here and not a single factory is allowed. Only three years new vehicle, and then you must change vehicle or otherwise get big fine. And no fertiliser. Very clean here,” he boasts.

Arriving in Kodai at dawn

And rightly so. We get to the top of the hill station at 6.15am and it is beautiful. The most incredible multi-coloured sunrise greets us; I'm getting quite used to these. Birds are chirping, while prayers and chanting waft from temples. Mr Sidiqque pulls into the brand new – actually still under construction – Hotel Kurunjimeridian, with a marble staircase in the entranceway. It's perched on a hill overlooking the lakes, town and forests, and we’re the first guests to ever stay in the ‘super deluxe’ room we take. Brand new bedding and cosy woollen duvets – talk about rags to riches.

Even though we’re exhausted from the journey here, it would be cruel to waste a day in Kodai in bed, so we shower and head out into the hills in search of food, yesterday’s thali lunch now seeming like a very long time ago.

Stuffing ourselves in style

Not much is open until 10.30am, so we decide to try a hotel, and find our way to the Kodai Lake. Towering over the lake is the elegant Carlton, and we head straight for the all-you-can-eat breakfast bar. We sit in the sun overlooking the lake, filling up on pastries, cereal, fruit, toast, eggs and (on Pete’s part) some traditional Indian cuisine. After the lack of dinner the previous evening in transit, we’re ravenous and unashamedly eat to the point of explosion. We pay the extortionate price, in terms of rupees, which is a little under NZD $10, and wander the hills, trying to walk off our breakfast binge.

We come across a turkey the size of a large pig, which provides entertainment for a few minutes, and then we continue on our way – pinching ourselves as we go, and keeping a close eye out for lions and tigers and bears.

Move over, Mojo

Indian Railways GA

Our first Indian train ride is a General class metal bench-seat style carriage for the 50-minute journey to Villupuram Junction, and it costs us just 6 Rupees each – about 15 cents. On the way, we meet a tall, young Indian whose name we can’t quite catch through his thick Tamil accent. He’s traveling all the way up to Ahmedabad in the north-west to compete in the Indian National Athletics Championships in the high jumping event. I try to imagine New Zealand’s national athletes travelling like this, and remind myself for the umpteenth time how good we have it back home.

At Villupuram, we have a four-and-a-half hour wait, and there’s not much to do but read, write and avoid making eye contact with beggars. I take photos of the sun sinking behind pink clouds, and the train tracks disappearing into the horizon both north and south. Pete surveys the rest of the station and finds out which platform our next train departs from. When he returns, he tells me he's just been mobbed. “What do you mean? What kind of mobbing?” I enquire. “General whooping, hurraying and handshaking from a group of boys,” he says. “Some women surrounded me, too, but stood at a distance.” At six-foot-something (and white), he does stand out.

In the first class waiting area, another lovely Tamil man befriends us and helps us with the language barrier when a short-tempered lady checking tickets doesn’t approve of our e-ticket via iPhone. The man asks what Pete does for a living, and then looks at me, asking Pete, “Is madam a lawyer, too?” I smile, bemused. It’s a question I get asked all the time in New Zealand, as well, with 90% of my friends being lawyers. “No, she works in a bank.” Pete replies. Like Geoffrey, the Malaysian friend I made last week, it turns out that this man works in a bank as well. “The main bank in India,” he proudly tells us. I consider one-upping him and saying that my bank creates truly unbeatable shopping experiences for its customers.

The Tamil Nadu contingent of the Peter Barnett Fan Club

As we board, we see the whooping, handshaking boys of about 12 or 13. Safety in numbers, they come over to chat to us again – Pete and I being an attraction as the only European people in sight. “Where are you from?” the ringleader enquires in his best English. “Ahh, New Zealand?” Pete replies, wondering if they’ve heard of it before. Their faces light up. “Cricket! Daniel Vettori!” they cheer. “You are the captain! You are Daniel Vetorri!”

The boys tell Pete they’re a hockey team, also off to the nationals, and then they look at me. “Are you two married?” I tell them we’re not, and shake my head, laughing. They’re confused and wonder why we’re travelling together if we’re not married. “Ahh, soon to be married.” Pete lies. I grin and hide my left hand, which clearly has no engagement ring on it, and make a mental note to purchase a fake diamond.

The train itself is pretty horrendous. We’re in a first class cabin with two Indian men, one of whom starts yelling in Tamil in the dark – possibly on his phone, or possibly in his sleep. The other makes noises of another kind, resulting in one of the worst stenches I’ve been exposed to so far in India – and there have been some pretty ghastly ones. There’s a poster outside the train’s toilet door advertising the Mamallapuram Dance Festival, set to take the area by storm on January 7, 1994. Bugger, we’re just 18 years too late. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was the last time these train toilets were cleaned either.

We arrive at 3am to an eerie Villupuram Junction. Waving goodbye to the hockey team, our new biggest fans, we sidestep people sleeping in heaps everywhere we turn. On the platforms, in waiting rooms, outside on the streets. Our driver, Mr Sidiqque of Kodai Cabs is nowhere to be seen. Pete gets on his phone and battles the operator who thinks we want to make a new booking. Autorickshaw drivers corner us, and small men swathed in white cloth, nappy-like pants and with white paint smeared across their foreheads approach us. Thank God I’m not alone. Taxi drivers offer us rides in their Ambassador Classics – they’re everywhere in India, but our trusty Lonely Planet says they’re slow and to steer clear. On second thoughts, slow might not be such a bad thing on these roads.

The car Mr Sidiqque is supposed to be meeting us in is a newer, more reliable Indycar, a bit like a Suzuki Swift. Ahead of us is a three-hour journey by night to the hill station of Kodaikanal, advertised as “the Switzerland of India”, but there's still no sign of Mr Sidiqque. Half an hour later, he answers his phone, apologising profusely. He’d been napping in the car park and didn’t hear our calls. We pile our stuff into his car and before we set off, I ask if there are seatbelts. To my surprise, Mr Sidiqque says there are. He gets out, piles all of our gear out of the boot and fumbles around for the belt clips, eventually feeding them through the back seats.

We set off in the pitch black, through beautiful tree-lined streets, and we pass hives of activity along the way. Countless groups of people in matching costume march along the streets. Some carry big bags on their heads, others carry sparkly shrines on their shoulders. It’s 4.15am – what are they doing chanting and singing at this hour, we ask Mr Sidiqque. “They’re walking 120 kilometre to Palani, the most famous temple in India, miss,” he tells me. “They will walk it 20 days, 15 days.”

Tamil Nadu street coffee - a treat for the tastebuds and eyes

There are throngs of people sitting around drinking chai and standing in the doorways of bakeries and shops. Mr Sidiqque pulls the car over and asks if we’d like tea or coffee. Having not had dinner the night before, we gladly oblige and witness the most incredible coffee-making stunts known to man. I capture it all on film and the Tamil street barista laps up the attention, pouring and mixing the coffee from jug to jug like he’s competing in the 42 Below world champs. One jug above his head, one below his knees, coffee flowing from vessel to vessel. He’s more interested in smiling for my camera than looking at the coffee, yet he doesn’t miss a drop.

Pete and I look at each other, jaws dropping once again. This is much more impressive than the fern or love-heart I get on top of my trim flat whites in Wellington. Move over, Mojo, I think we have a new favourite coffee shop. The coffee is served in tiny paper cups and is sweet and delicious. It provides just the caffeine hit we need for the next stint of the car ride – a climb to the Kodaikanal Hill Station, 2100m above sea level.

As we turn off the busy main road, with its midnight marchers, chai drinkers, and shoppers, I’m amazed at how much activity goes on throughout the night here. If New York is the city that never sleeps, India is certainly the country that doesn’t. And I love it.

J’adore Pondicherry

Pondicherry is a city I’ve wanted to visit since I read Yann Martel’s Man Booker prize-winning novel, Life of Pi, a story about Pi Patel, the sole survivor of a ship-wreck who lives on a lifeboat for seven months with a Bengal tiger from Pondicherry Zoo, where his father is proprietor.

Living the Life of Pi

It’s lovely to finally be here, and from the minute we arrive in Pondicherry, or ‘Pondy’ as the locals call it, the city’s French presence is obvious and enchanting. We open the double-doors to our room off a shared conservatory and reading area at our hotel, the gorgeous Les Hibiscus B&B in the French Quarter on the east side of town. The Hibiscus’ four-poster beds, matching furniture, and mod-cons are a very welcome sight. The French part of Pondicherry is incredibly quaint, with its cafes serving crepes and pain au chocolat, and a French Riviera-style boulevard leading to a giant statue of Mahatma Gandhi (who also has the main shopping area named after him – ‘M.G. Road’ to those in the know). Its cobbled streets use the French Rue, and we’re told that 70% of the population here speaks the language of love.

From Rues to ruins

Sadly, there’s something not quite so lovely about Pondicherry right now. It was hit badly by Cyclone Thane that swept through Tamil Nadu last week, and there are signs of destruction on every corner we turn. Its central park has been completely ripped to shreds and is cordoned off. Every tree in the park has been lifted from its roots, and bushes, branches, debris and tree stumps lie over the Rues we traverse. The people of Pondy remain upbeat and are working industriously to clear the rubble, and some local boys enlist Barn’s help to pull a fallen tree over a church fence, tug-of-war style. The boys laugh candidly when they fail in their attempts, and happily persevere, but it’s a heart-wrenching sight. The crumbled red brick walls we see are an all-too-soon reminder of Christchurch. The damaged churches, too.

Tug of war with nature

Pondy is a city of more than 220,000, and so it doesn’t quite escape the maddening Indian road culture. We lunch at a café called The Little Big Shop at the newly built Villa Shanti hotel on the east side, before venturing further into town to the Pondicherry Bazaar, on the busy M.G. Road. We’re swept up into the frenetic traffic, but slowly gain more confidence in walking out onto a street with hundreds of scooters and autorickshaws heading straight for you. I’ve now worked out that the majority of tooting (a couple of short beeps every 5 or 10 seconds) is more of a courtesy – an ‘FYI, I’m right behind you’; it’s when you get the 10-second long hand-on-horn that you know you’re really in the wrong.

I drag Pete into a fabric shop and survey at the array of colours and styles of scarves on offer. I decide on a paua-shell bluey-green, but it’s not hemmed, so the owner of the shop takes us down underground, beneath the shop, to have his tailor finish it. We watch him work the machine practically with his eyes closed, and have the obligatory conversation about New Zealand, and ask a couple of questions of our own.

Dinner later in the night is at the Satsanga, as recommended in Lonely Planet, but we arrive late and there’s not much choice left. The vegetable curry I end up with is delicious, though, and we both polish off more large bottles of Kingfisher. I can see a worrying trend here. Those who said I’d lose weight in India were completely mistaken.

Moove out of my way

The next day I photograph huge cows in the street, rustic old bikes leaning against brick walls, and more of the mass cyclone clean-up. I go and get passport photos taken, as I need some to purchase a sim card for my phone here, and the photo studio I go to has a roomful of Mac operators out the back, busy on Photoshop, lightening dark faces in family photos of Indian weddings. It seems strange to me that in the East they’re obsessed with pale skin, while we Westerners go to such pains to tan up in summer.

Barn and I navigate our way through the busy M.G. Road again to a Vodafone India store where a poster advertises ‘Matrimony TXT Alerts and more!’ While I’m there, it dawns on me that for once in my life, the Vodafone helpdesk is in the same country as I am. I imagine I’d still get the same poor service, even if calling from here. Before we left Auckland, we rang them to get our phones switched to roaming, and when I told the operator I was going to Nepal, he sounded completely baffled. “Nepal? What is this? I have never heard of it.” Barn received a similar response from his Vodafone customer service representative: “Is that the N-E-P-A-L one?” he said, typing a search into his computer.

After the most delicious South Indian Thali lunch (breads and rice accompanied by 10 small dishes of curry, chutney, sauces, pastes and yoghurt) at Surguru, also recommended by Lonely Planet, we farewell the cyclone-torn but still beautiful French city of Pondy, and I swear I’ll one day come back to see it in its full glory. Pondy – je t’amie.

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.

Welcome in India

Sleeper trains - not conducive to a good night's ZZZZZs

We survive our first sleeper train and arrive in KL at sunrise. After a shower at the station, we catch a train from KL Sentral to KL City Centre, have a leisurely brunch, and wander around beneath the impressive 88-storey, 450m Petronas Twin Towers. The differences between Thailand and Malaysia are marked - you instantly know you’re in a different country as soon as you cross the border. KL is industrious. It’s clean, lovely and modern, and the locals are polite. Pete ventures off to find the Bose store for headphones, while I get my last espresso fix for quite some time. 

Petronas Twin Towers, KL

Trim flat white over, I ask a man for directions back to the station, and shortly afterwards, we're the best of friends. Geoffrey, a 60-something year old banker from southern Malaysia, not only shows me the way there, but also how to buy a ticket, and where I need to go for the bus to the airport. We catch the same train back to KL Sentral, and wish each other well as he heads off to a business lunch. Pete and I head to the airport to catch our Air Asia flight bound for Chennai, and after a delicious vegetable briyani on board, I feel I’m ready to embrace India.

Blissfully unaware of the chaos ahead

We come in to land at 7pm to a pink dusk and peer down upon a vast city, which appears to have huge numbers of waterways. The international arrivals terminal is sparse - just a couple of stands and make-shift shops and a very temporary-looking customs area. Our luggage arrives amid dozens of Sony and Panasonic LCD TVs and electronics being imported by Indians who jostle at the conveyor belt. No-one apologises when they push me aside; apparently there’s no such thing as manners here.

We exit the terminal to find absolute chaos. Hordes of dark faces and arms lean through barriers, yelling, pointing, waving, holding signs. We hear the first beeping of car horns – a noise, I’m told, that is the defining sound of India. We’re immediately set upon by someone who says he's an airport coordinator and not an agent, and we tell him we've decided not to go to the centre of Chennai, but to head 70km north to Mamallapuram. He says he can get us a “good car with very good driver” for 1600 Rupees, and strongly recommends Lakshmi Lodge, a hotel by the beach, “with swimming pool”.

After exchanging a few glances with Pete and consulting our Lonely Planet guide, we seriously question the guy’s legitimacy; it’s very difficult to believe he has our interests entirely at heart. We’re probably about to be ripped off, but it’s getting dark and we need to get the hell out of this chaos, so we agree to the “good car with very good driver” and to at least checking out Lakshmi Lodge. 

The motorway, if you could call it that, is like nothing I've ever seen or heard or felt before. A couple of years ago, the Contiki bus I was on in Paris did a few spins around the Arc de Triomphe in rush hour, while the driver played the Mission Impossible soundtrack. At the time, I thought that all those crazy French people in European cars weaving in and out and across lanes was the most chaos a road could ever handle. I was so, so wrong. In a word, Indian roads are terrifying. 

Thousands upon thousands of cars, trucks, buses, scooters, motorcycles, push bikes, and people on foot are all fighting to inch forward. It looks like there should be just two lanes each way, but the traffic is at least six vehicles wide for as far as the eye can see. Everyone toots incessantly, which seems incredibly counter-productive. How can anyone tell who is tooting at whom? If everyone kept their hands on their steering wheels instead of their horns, maybe the traffic would move a little more smoothly; but this is India, and if my experience with the country’s High Commission to get my visa is anything to go by, nothing here is going to be easy. 

Our driver tells us a cyclone hit last week - which explains what we thought were waterways. He says more than 40 people died and thousands have been left homeless. To add to the existing traffic woes, the south-bound lane is closed for a long stretch further down the road, because of damage from the cyclone, so all of Chennai's traffic is crammed into the north-bound lane. The roads themselves are worse than the pot-hole ridden ones I experienced in Tonga last year; they’re more like something you'd expect in Baghdad. 

Huge holes and mounds of dirt along the way make for a bumpy ride - amplified by the fact there are no seatbelts in the “good car” Ford Fiesta we’re in. The people, shops, containers, rubbish dumps, food stalls, shacks, and cows chilling out on the sides of the road for the entire length of the journey provide distraction enough from the rough ride. We pass a Dizzee World theme park with rusted rides, and more cows patrolling the entrance. It's pitch black outside but people are everywhere. Tiny children rifle through piles of rubbish on the sides of the road, men smoke, eat, spit, yell, and sell their wares, while women in beautiful saris mill about doing nothing much. My jaw keeps dropping and my eyes have never been glued open this widely before. 

We have more than a few near misses with scooters and eventually escape the chaotic traffic to the open road. At first, it’s a relief, but then our driver speeds up to 120km/h. He puts his own seat belt on at one point, even though there are clearly none in the back. The rat. Pete and I give each other concerned looks, and on more than one occasion I find myself saying Hail Marys, sure I’m minutes away from a certain death. Pete tells me later that he’d texted his Mum from the car, saying something like, "No opportunity to pass a bus on a corner has been missed."

Assault doesn't even begin to describe the experience of arriving here. As the sign at the airport said when we arrived, 'Welcome in India'.

Going out on a Lim

We wake in George Town and decide against going for the early morning jog that we’d promised ourselves the previous evening. Must have been the cocktails talking. It’s another scorcher outside, but armed with a freebie map from the hostel, we brave the heat to do some sightseeing. George Town is a city of more than 1.2 million people that lies on the north-east corner of Penang Island. It was founded in 1786 by Captain Francis Light, a trader for the British East India Company, and much of the city is steeped in British history, with its CBD listed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Pete and I start the day with a walking tour of the city’s heritage zone, visiting an overgrown cemetery where the town’s first Mayor is buried, along with a host of other British settlers.

The real highlights of George Town, though, come right at the end of the day. Pete has read about trishaws (like Vietnamese rickshaws) and waves one down for us to do some sightseeing the lazy tourist’s way – being biked around by a local. Our trishaw driver says people call him Lim - "That's L-I-M", he tells us. Lim is a legend of a man. The trishaw he rents is one he’s driven for 20 years. He says he loves the job, which affords him independence. But clearly he also loves chatting to tourists, as there’s barely a quiet moment. He’s lived in Penang all his life and has three grown-up children. He loves the city of George Town and knows almost everything about it, from the years that buildings were erected, to the various practices of religious and cultural groups active in Penang, the history of Malaysia and the Commonwealth, and who has reigned here throughout the years.

First up, Lim takes us to the Mosque, where we stop to take photos and are invited inside – as long as we don long black robes. It’s so hot that I don’t do all the buttons up on mine – my first cultural faux pas of the trip, I realise, when I accidentally show a big of leg. The tour guide stares me down, and motions for me to cover up. He’s very friendly though, and gets into a deep conversation with Pete about the differences between Islam, Hinduism, Judaism and Christianity.

Returning to Lim’s brightly decorated trishaw, with its plastic flowers and colourful foil windmills that remind me of the Whenua Tapu cemetery back home, he takes us through China Town, where we’re greeted by the huge banging noise of fires crackling in pots on the street outside a Chinese temple. There are traditional Chinese dances taking place, and pigs’ heads roast on a spit. It’s preparation for Chinese New Year, Lim tells us, and the smoke from the fire burning in the street is to request good luck for the celebrations. In the temple next door, Lim shows us the statue of the God of Prosperity, which is placed into an ornate gold and glass case once and year and paraded around the town.

Lim takes us to a tiny village built on the wharf, where we see families going about their day-to-day business; baskets of goods are being cycled down the wharf, children wave to us and happily pose for photos as they paint a fence in bright colours, and the elderly snooze in wicker chairs as the afternoon sun envelops the entrances to their homes. Lim also takes us to Little India, and we tell him we’re heading to Big India, the real deal, in just a day’s time. He says he’s never visited India before, and he doesn’t think he ever will. “In my imagination, I know Penang is much better place than India," Lim says. "Here, no one ever go hungry. No one ever go without food. The Malay people – they look after each other, you know. No poverty here.” We nod in agreement, and I realise I haven’t quite prepared myself for the next few weeks ahead.

The trishaw ride was meant to last an hour, but by the time we bid farewell to our new Penang friend, two hours have disappeared. We happily pay Lim more than the requested 25 ringgits per hour, and both declare it the best tour of a city we’ve ever been on.

We wander back through the beautiful colonial part of town, collect our laundry and head off for another walk. Pete’s also read about the largest live fish shop in South East Asia, right here in George Town. It turns out to be an aquarium, as opposed to a market where you go to buy fresh seafood for dinner, but we take a look anyway. Pete takes a keen interest in the Super Red Arowana, advertised as being “an excellent jumper”. There are rows and rows of tanks, and then around the corner we come across an English Cocker Spaniel puppy, some raccoons from Paraguay, hairless Russian Don Sphynxes like Mr Bigglesworth, Dr Evil’s cat, and a spiky green iguana. We ask ourselves what the hell we’re doing in a pet shop in a foreign country, and head back out into the street.

We grab a gelato and catch a bus to Pengang Hill at dusk. At higher than 800m, the lookout promises to provide excellent vistas of the city that's fast becoming one of the loveliest places I’ve ever been. It doesn’t disappoint. The cable car ride up to the top is totally my cup of tea, and the views are picture perfect. I get the chance to try out my bigger camera lens, but still need some practice getting the settings right to capture the magic outlook as the sun sets over Malaysia. We get the best seat in the house at the hotel above the lookout, which makes the ice cold Carlsberg one of the most delicious beers I’ve ever had.

Back down in George Town we sample the city’s Nasi Goreng, satay, freshly squeezed lime juice and more beer before ferrying to Butterworth to board our 11pm overnight train to Kuala Lumpur. As we pull the mustard yellow curtains closed around our bunks on the train, I remember something Mum used to tell us when we were little and couldn’t get to sleep at night – something that her father used to say to her. Instead of suggesting we count sheep, Mum would say, “Well, girls, Grandad used to say to me, ‘At least you’re not sleeping on a train tonight’.”

Tonight, Mum, I actually am sleeping on a train, so I’ve got every excuse not to sleep. But I’m worn out from our day’s adventures with Lim, and before too long I’m nodding off to the chugging of the engine and Pete’s snoring in the bunk across the aisle. George Town – you’re a dream.

Flooded streets and flooded eyes

For the next two weeks, it’s just me and Pete (aka ‘Barney’). Our shuttle picks us up at midday on New Year’s Day, just as rain starts to fall on the revellers of Koh Saumi. We make our way to the other side of the island, and board a bus which drives onto a ferry and then takes us over to the main part of Thailand. By the time we get there, torrential rain has set in, and we get drenched running from the ferry back to the bus, to then be taken to Surat Thani, a city of 130,000, near the mouth of the river Tapi on the Gulf of Thailand.

According to Wikipedia, and also now according to me and Barney, “The city offers no major tourist attractions in itself, and is thus known to tourists as a transfer to the nearby popular Koh Samui Island.” The place is dead when we arrive and check into the Thai Rung Ruang Hotel – two mattresses on the floor and what was advertised as a bathroom, for 500 Baht (about $20 NZD).

Nowhere seems to be open for dinner, but we find a coffee house advertising spaghetti. We were rather hoping for Thai cuisine over Italian, and assume that the use of the word ‘spaghetti’ is a mistranslation of ‘noodles’. But when we look at pictures on the menu (a godsend for international travellers), it does actually look like bona fide pasta, so we enquire as to the availability of a green curry. The owner of the café doesn’t speak a word of English and enlists the help of another customer to assist with translation – to no avail. A couple of minutes later, we get an, “Ahhhh!” lightbulb moment from the restaurateur, who then walks over to his computer and types in ‘www.google.com’. Success.

By the time we’ve had our green curry and found an internet café to print the following day’s train tickets, the previously-dead town is, strangely, buzzing on a Sunday night. Street markets are alive, and parents, children, teens and the elderly are everywhere. It later dawns on me that Monday is a public holiday here in Thailand, too.

Part 1: The flooded streets

The next morning, the rains have well and truly set in, and we can’t find a taxi to take us to the railway station. Instead, we commandeer a tuk tuk to get us to the bus station which we’re promised by the lady at reception will have a bus going to the Surat Thani Railway Station. It does, and we hop on board, pay the driver, and wait. And wait. And wait some more. I ask how long it’s going to be. Ten minutes, he says. Ten minutes later, it’s going to be another ten. The train we’re meant to be catching is the first of three connecting trains to get us to Kuala Lumpur in two days’ time, so we’re getting more anxious by the second. We’re screwed if we miss this.

No taxis are in sight, the tuk tuks are reluctant to take us in this weather. Barn eventually finds one (for a price) and the driver takes us through the torrential rain for about 15 minutes, before slowing down and finally coming to a stop on the side of the road. Saying, “Sorry, sorry”, he gestures for us to get off the back of the tuk tuk and onto the street which is now a shin-deep river of muddy water. Pete has his jandals on, but wanting to avoid slipping on the tiles this morning, I’d donned my new Nike trainers.

There’s no way I’m stepping into that water in shoes, so I’m left with no option but to pull them off and wade barefoot down the street. The tuk tuk driver tries to wave down another vehicle for us, but dozens pass us by – including, I think, the bus we’d got off in the first place – and the flood waters drench us even further. This is the first time I’m grateful for the 16kg pack I’m lugging around on my back, as opposed to my usual wheeled trolley case.

Eventually a Thai man driving a late model ute pulls over, gives us a sympathetic smile and gestures for us to jump on the back of his vehicle. We’d been told the whole journey to the station from the hotel would be around 15 minutes, but after the unsuccessful tuk tuk ride, we endure a further 15 minutes on the back of the ute in the most driving rain I have ever witnessed. Soaked to the skin, he drops us off at Surat Thani Railway Station and humbly refuses our offer of a 100 Baht note. We arrive after our train should have departed, but the flood waters have caused delays, and mercifully the train is late.

We spend the next two hours on platform 3 at the Surat Thani train station shivering, and comparing what was going through our heads as we were squatting down holding on to all of our belongings on the back of a ute driving at 100km/h through torrential rain and flood waters. Barney admits he initially thought we were being taken into a remote paddock "to be butchered”. A comforting thought. He’d clearly been quite serious, as he followed this up with: “I was actually planning our escape route. I was thinking we would have to do the ol’ traffic lights bolt.”

Personally, I was more concerned about getting my new camera wet and about what my Dad would have to say about me not wearing: 1) a seatbelt, 2) a helmet, and 3) a life jacket (considering the extreme weather conditions). Still on the platform, we chat to a local who’s drinking beer at 9 in morning. His personality grows at the same rate his beers disappear down his throat, and he gradually works up the confidence to come and talk to us. He tells us that the even drunker man swaying his way over the tracks is trying to get to Bangkok with no money. The friendly beer-drinking local has just given the guy some cash to go and buy something to eat – which explains why he’s dancing over the tracks, headed towards the food stalls on the other side. He asks where we’re from and he seems to have heard of New Zealand. Our new friend wishes us good luck, and the train eventually arrives.

Chilled to the bone, I open the bottom of my pack to pull out some of the merino clothes I’d reserved for Base Camp, and make my way to the toilet on board to get changed. I hover around the squatter, desperately trying to not get my dry clothes wet, as the window is wide open and everything in the tiny bathroom is drenched. And it reeks. Like, really reeks. This is less of a high point of the trip so far, but I make it back to my seat, narrowly avoiding hypothermia. I look out the window and see people navigating their scooters through the flood waters; some are steering with one hand while holding an umbrella in the other – a novel alternative to possessing a vehicle with a roof.

The flooding along the way is heart-breaking. Villages along the sides of the tracks washed out, homes and schools ruined, livelihoods destroyed. Four hours after leaving Surat Thani, we chug in to a scorching hot Hat Yai, in southern Thailand, near the Malaysian border. On the way in, we pass kilometre upon kilometre of rusting corrugated iron slums, and I could swear we're already in Mumbai.

We’re told our next train to Butterworth, in the Penang province of Malaysia, has been cancelled due to the lines being washed out. There hasn’t been a train to KL for two days, and they won’t be going tomorrow either. We dance with the idea of a flight and a travel insurance claim, but happen upon a travel agent down the street who says he can get us to Butterworth in a minivan for 650 Baht. We sign up, and then have a look around Hat Yai, before spending the next four and a bit hours in the back seat of a van with German tourists, me trying to use my seven years of Deutsch lessons to decipher what they're saying. We cross the Malaysian border at Betong and go through the palaver of passport control and having all our luggage x-rayed – the last thing we can be bothered doing after a total nightmare of a day.

We arrive in Penang at 9.20pm and check into the Ryokan Chic Hostels, a newly-build Japanese hostel in George Town, the capital of Penang Island, just in time for a Penang curry – the sole reason we made a stop here in our itinerary. But Mum had texted me earlier asking if I’d checked my emails lately; I hadn’t, and curiosity gets the better of me, so I quickly log onto the free wi-fi before we head out for food. Nothing on gmail, but I open Facebook to find a private message from my cousin Sarah who I grew up with (the one we met up with in Singapore on the way here), who’s more of a best friend than just a relative.

Part 2: The flooded eyes

Sarah's message says, "Bec! I have been trying to get hold of you but it seems I cannot call you. Some Thai woman gave me a spiel about your phone being out of range. This is MOST inconvenient as I have some news to share which would be way more fun to share on the phone." I skip to the next paragraph pronto.  "Mark proposed this afternoon! And I said yes!" 

She and Mark are engaged! My baby cousin is getting married! I’m squealing at the top of my lungs in the small hostel room, and with a tear in my eye, try to call her straight away. Much excitement ensues (from Barney too, as Sarah was at Knox with us, and is a good friend of all of us on the trip). I get hold of her and we discuss details of the proposal and the ring via an erratic phone connection between London and Malaysia.

By all accounts, it’s a “big dog” of a ring (her words), and Sarah was in a mixture of laughter and tears during Mark's proposal on the Thames. Dinner later is punctuated with choruses of, “Oh my god, Sarah’s ENGAGED!”, “Oh my GOD, Sarah’s engaged!” and “Oh my god, SARAH’S engaged!” Poor Barney laughs and humours me by responding with an, “I know”, each time. We finish the evening with some Tom Collins gin cocktails on Upper Jalan Penang, the Courtenay Place of George Town, to toast the newly engaged couple. A most brilliant end to a most horrific start to the day.