Fishy fundraising

Chinese fishing nets in Kochi

We make an escape from our mosquito cultivation lab of a hotel room and head out to see what Kochi has to offer the discerning sightseer. The city is the third largest in the state of Kerala, on the south-western coast of India, and according to the brochures, it’s home to some giant Chinese fishing nets which are well worth a look. 

Kochi was the first of the European colonies in India, and over the centuries it has been occupied by the Portuguese, Dutch and British, all of whose influence is pronounced in the city’s architecture and culture. There’s also an international feel to the touristy area of Fort Kochi, where the 20-metre Chinese fishing nets are located. The nets are huge mechanical gadgets consisting of a cantilever, an outstretched net hanging over the sea, and large boulders suspended (somewhat dangerously) from ropes as counterweights. The weight of a man walking along the main beam causes the net to descend into the sea, where it’s left for a couple of minutes before being pulled up so the catch can be retrieved and sold. Some of the local restaurants even let you bring your fresh fish in and they’ll cook it however you like. 

The nets are fun to watch for all of five minutes, but then we head off to walk the city, feeling like we need something else. With the help of a local auto-rickshaw driver, we work out which bus we need to get to the airport the following day. He asks where we’re from, and before we can finish saying “Zealand”, he exclaims, “Ohhh! Stephen Fleming!” He’s clearly a big fan. He goes on to list Adam Parore, Chris Cairns – all the big names. The driver introduces himself as Sainu, and then offers to take us on a tour of the city for just 50 rupees each. With not much else planned, we decide to give it a go, and he leads us to his Spiderman-decorated rickshaw – known (possibly only to him) as the ‘Kochi Ferrari’.

Joyriding in a rickshaw

Sainu, who's been driving rickshaws for 13 years, is a pretty cool guy. He insists we each have a go at driving his Ferrari, and the lesson includes the message that tooting is compulsory. We stop by the Dutch cemetery, St Francis’ church, and – randomly – an outdoor laundromat. There are bays of people knee-deep in pools of water repeatedly rinsing clothing and slapping it dry on stone blocks in front of them. We see dozens of piles of white sheets being ironed with an original, heavy, wooden-handled charcoal iron, and I’m then asked to pose for a photograph with the iron. Clearly India still thinks women belong in laundries and kitchens only.

Women's work

Sainu tells us that Kochi’s hospitals and hotels get their washing done here, and when Barn and I walk out to the field and see hundreds of washing lines full of tourists’ smalls, we realise the laundry we’d had done the day before was almost certainly slapped to buggery on slabs of stone. We both agree we won’t be sending off our Icrebreakers for the washing torture treatment any time soon. 

We also visit temples, a spice shop and a Catholic church that Sainu points out was named after Pete, and then the tour concludes with a few stops at Government-approved souvenir shops. Sainu openly admits that if we stop at four of them, he gets to collect Government petrol vouchers, even if we don’t buy anything. So, armed with the knowledge that we do not have to purchase any souvenirs and that we simply need to walk into the shops and out again, I promptly go and get sucked into buying scarves and trinkets at three of the four. Reverse psychology of some sort, I suspect.

Mastering the art of chapathi

The day ends with a cooking class recommended by all the guide books at a guesthouse called Leelu’s Homestay. Leelu, the woman of the house, teaches us how to cook a Keralan fish curry, pumpkin masala curry, a sambar, dahl curry and chapathi bread. And then we get to eat it all – easily the best part of the lesson. 

On the way home, Pete and I stop for a beer at one of the only bars in town – actually, it’s the first real pub we’ve come across in India. It’s already well into the second week of January and I haven’t yet made any New Year’s resolutions, so over a drink we hatch a grand plan to help raise funds for Illam Trust’s new school buildings. We decide we’ll cook all our new South Indian dishes and charge our friends an arm and a leg to come over and eat them, and then we’ll donate the proceeds to the Dream School. I feel a new fundraising focus coming on – looks like it’s out with the African camels and in with the children of Tamil Nadu for 2012.

Everything in moderation

Long story short: we made it

The interstate journey over the Western Ghats from Tamil Nadu to Kerala is one of the more harrowing afternoons of my life. Alleppey, our next destination, is around seven hours away, but the distance seems infinite right from the minute our crazed taxi driver accelerates into the path of an oncoming bus as we leave the tranquillity and loveliness of the Karunai Illam children’s home. 

When the driver swerves in front of several more vehicles and pulls in to a petrol station, I insist he opens the boot so I can rummage around for the seatbelt clips. The driver barks, as all of them do, that there are no seatbelts "een Eendia". I tell him we found some last week, and turn to Pete and hiss that the driver is definitely lying. He’s not. Rummage I do, to no avail. The clips have indeed been removed from the car and only the metal springs remain. I throw as much of a tantrum as I think Barn will put up with, before realising there’s actually nothing we can do. There were no trains to get us there, and the bus was going to be 12 hours long, overnight – which is an absolute no-no on the roads we’re traversing. 

Desperately tired from a very late night and our 4.20am start, I try for hours to keep my eyelids from closing so I can scream at the driver to slow down or to not overtake, as required, but watching the tea plantations whiz by, I drift off a couple of times. For the next few hours, Pete and I take it in turns to keep an eye on the roads – not always telling each other about the close calls we see. For most of the journey we’re on roads like the Rimutakas, but at an altitude of more than 2500m, and the traffic is backed up bumper to bumper. The tooting is constant, and buses overtake other buses on blind corners at high speed. 

When we reach the very top of the Ghats at around 7pm, we suggest a stop (more for the driver’s sake than ours) and have a morale-boosting coffee and a box of the homemade chocolates that southern India is famous for – and that we’ve become quite fond of. 

The sugar hit helps us remain on high alert after a 20-minute delay caused by a car accident further down the road. We have no idea of the details, as the people running around in the dark discussing the crash speak only in Tamil and Hindi, but the concerned looks on their faces tell us it’s not good news. Incredibly, as soon as the traffic starts to move again, the drivers are back at the overtaking game. We'd like to think they would take heed, but it seems they’re more enraged by the delay, and continue to race even faster. When our driver pulls out to pass on a blind corner not long afterwards, it's the final straw; both Pete and I crack. Using our most assertive (Pete) and terrified (me) voices, we insist he is not to pass or speed under any circumstances. 

Houseboating in Kerala

Somehow, we make it to Alleppey at around 10pm, and high-five as we walk into the lovely homestay we’d booked. Nerves are still frayed, but the notion of a good night’s sleep is just what the doctor ordered. That, and the Kingfishers we demolish over dinner as we once again toast to being alive.

Our trip mimics India’s capacity for extremes, and following our car ride from hell, we experience the ultimate luxury of staying on a houseboat for a night, drifting along the backwaters – a 900km network of waterways in the area. We’re served fresh coconut drinks on arrival, and over a lunch of fresh fish that our personal on-board chef cooks us, we enjoy some of the beers we’d picked up earlier (making the most of alcoholic beverages; the next state we’ll visit, Gujurat, is a dry zone).

Living the good life

Our chef brings us coffees and banana fritters in the afternoon, and then we read, laze about on the deck and listen to music. Our captain pulls the boat up alongside a local fish market, and we choose the biggest blue freshwater prawns for our candlelit dinner. Lonely Planet is right in saying it’s “worth every rupee” (Rs. 6500) and will probably be “one of the most expensive things you do in India” (about $80 each). 

Sunset on the backwaters

After breakfast on our boat at sunrise, it’s back to slumming it on an autorickshaw, taxi, train, another auto, feral ferry, and another taxi to get to our next stop in Kochi – a garish yellow, mosquito-ridden, windowless hotel room with a cold shower. I know it couldn’t last forever, but the good life was really good. We’re back to being intrepid travellers for the next few days, and I can’t help but think Oscar Wilde hit the nail on the head when he said, “Everything in moderation – including moderation.”

Room with a view

Aliases and promises

When the children have left for school, Mr Khader, the Managing Director of Illam, returns and tells us he has organised a conference to bring together DHAN Foundation employees working in some of the outreach programmes in rural areas. The aim of all DHAN Foundation initiatives is to provide high quality education and healthcare at affordable prices for rural people, and today’s meeting is covering HIV/AIDs, anaemia, women’s health issues, back pain, alcoholism, and a number of other topics. When Mr Khader says he’d like us to participate, we’re glad that neither of us has a medical background, as Jenny (a physio) and Jasmine (an acupuncturist) have been roped into presenting a session each on back pain.

The conference is due to start at 10am, but when it’s still not underway at 10.40, Mr Khader just smiles and says, “Indian time” – obviously the Subcontinent’s answer to Pacifica “island time”. The room where the conference is set to take place is the room where the girls sleep, and it’s hard to believe they all fit in here, let alone that they sleep night after night on straw mats on the concrete floor. We sit cross-legged like the other conference delegates (around 30 women in colourful saris), but Mr Khader motions for us to come forward. Confused, we walk to the front and he shows us seats in the front row, facing the audience.

Suddenly it dawns on me that we’ve inadvertently found ourselves on the panel of this rural medical conference in Nilakottai, alongside the region’s Chief Civil Surgeon, Chief Medical Officer and a host of well-regarded medical professionals. I speak for both Pete and myself when I say we’re grossly under-qualified to be in this position, and we’re not overly comfortable about sitting with the key-note speakers. Heck, any second now, we could well be the key-note speakers.

Guests of honour at a rural medical conference

Before the conference kicks off, we’re introduced as “a lawyer and bank manager from New Zealand”. I’m not sure how “I work for a bank” equals “I am a bank manager”, but in India it does. Next, I’m asked to light a symbolic candle on a wreath, while Pete is asked to place a cloak around the shoulders of the chief civil surgeon. We all pose for a host of photographs holding the conference booklet and smiling broadly with the medical experts, as the delegates look on. When Mr Khader says one of the photos is going to be in the local paper, I have never felt more fraudulent in my life. Within the space of five minutes, I’ve gone from imposter bank manager to standing amongst the esteemed special guests. The conference delegates probably think I'm also a famed medical mastermind. If only my First Year Health Sci buddies were to see me now.

The conference is presented entirely in Tamil, but Mr Khader helpfully translates some of the content for me. The surgeon is discussing women’s nutrition, signs of anaemia, and how to avoid Delhi-belly. While the delegates earnestly take in what the experts have to say, I earnestly try not to laugh in awe at how we got ourselves into this situation. Supressing the hysterics is on par with seeing Harriet being mounted by the small Thai masseuse back on Koh Samui. If I look at Pete, I know I’ll crack for sure, and vice versa. Instead I concentrate my thoughts on how this came to pass, and conclude it’s a matter of miscommunication in its finest form: the age-old language barrier.

Over breakfast this morning, we’d been discussing our jobs with Mr Khader, and he’d told us that his role within the Foundation is a consulting one, due to his professional career as a banker of 30 years. With our tertiary qualifications and cushy office jobs back home, we too must be considered ‘consultants’ worthy of special guest-of-honour status.

It’s at the medical conference that I make Cultural Faux Pas #3 (CFP #2 was a girl cycling past me in Kodai who looked at my Nike running shorts and said in a loud and disapproving voice, “Tooooo shoooorrrrt!”). CFP #3 happens when I’m adjusting the scarf I have around my shoulders and chest to protect my modesty. One of the nurses at the conference comes over to help me pin it to my singlet straps, then steps back and frowns. “Do you not have a teeeee-shirrrrrt with sleeeeeeves?”, she enquires, eyeing me up and down. “Erm, no. Just arrived. Need to go shopping,” I plead, red-faced. I want to tell her my new friend Banu had said this outfit was fine.

Cultural Faux Pas #4 happens in quick succession. We remove ourselves from the stifling hot conference room when the power is cut and the fans stop fanning. We head over to say goodbye to Banu, who insists we come in and try some of the sambar she’s making for lunch. She also makes us more tea, and we chat about Indian cuisine. She asks if we’re vegetarian, and we say we’re not (she’s not, either) and she talks about cooking the hens that are running around outside her front door. When she asks what kind of meat we eat in New Zealand, Pete lists, “Chicken, lamb, pork…” and senselessly I chime in with, “And beef.” Banu looks at me as if to ask what on earth beef is, and Pete glares at me, amused. It’s then that I remember that cows are sacred in India. Oh, shit. I mentioned the B-word. “Errrrm, yeah, chicken and lamb mostly,” I follow up with, changing the subject as fast as I can.

Saying Ka Kite to Karunai Illam

We head back to the Illam to pack up, and Banu follows us over in her Sunday-best hot pink sari. Banu and Deva say they hate farewells, and both have tears in their eyes as I hug them goodbye and climb into the taxi – as a sister, auntie, bank manager, medical conference guest of honour, Rrrroopka, and cultural faux pas queen.

We leave a donation for the children and promise the staff we’ll come back to the Illam one day. At the same time, we promise ourselves we’ll spread the word of the work they do and continue to support the Trust in some way. As we drive away in yet another seatbeltless wonder, I think about all the promises I’ve made and the aliases I’ve taken on, hoping I can live up to at least some of them. But for now, I’ll stick with being Rebecca the intrepid traveller who promises to wear Indian-appropriate clothing and not make any more cultural faux pas at the next place we visit.

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.