… you’re lying in bed reading and try to balm you lips with you trusty tube of Lucas paw paw ointment and end up getting an ointment facial. Remove the lid and turn it upside down and the entire contents flow out like water. 48 degrees in Fatehpur Sikri.

Hello!

India is intense, tiring and spectacular. I have been lulled into that fabulous holiday state of not knowing what day it is and have somehow failed to tell my stories here. I have been writing some things down though, to be posted with pictures later. Speaking of photos, I’ve taken a heaping helping of them and some aren’t half bad.

To say it has been hot is a bit of an understatement. Stepping outside is like being blown by an enormous hair dryer. The temperature barely drops when the sun goes down, so nothing had a chance to cool down. The walls heat up and the bed is warm before you even lie down. This would all be ok if it weren’t for the power cuts. For the last 10 days the power has gone out every night. I know, because I’ve woken up bathed in sweat, unable to go back to sleep. Cold showers are the best, even when it is just a bucket of cold water thrown over your head. Don’t worry about drying off, that would defeat the purpose. Unfortunately though, watertanks being on the roof the cold tap often emits a scalding stream. But I am getting used to it, I’ll have to because I’m heading further into the desert.

I just arrived in Jaipur, a short train trip from Agra, sleep deprived and starving. It’s time for lunch.

I wasn’t happy about coming to India. I rally wanted to, but the actuality of visiting terrified me. I dreaded the plane landing, dawdling as long as possible in order to delay the inevitable. Happily waiting in line for the sole money changer to complete endless paperwork, rewarded with my very first head wobble.

Then to the taxi coupon window, waiting again and studiously ignoring the group of men who always seem to gather on the fringe of allowable at airports world wide, just past the armed guards. Harmless enough, just trying to catch an eye to communicate their wares. I ignore them, take a deep breathe and emerge into India.

What scares me about India? Where do I start? Mostly it is the unknown. This is an enormous country that I know little about and bears little resemblance to the other Asian countries I’ve visited. What about the food? Elsewhere I’ve always been able to fall back on boring but reliable noodle soup for a meal. I don’t have an Indian equivalent.  I’m scared of getting sick, scared of getting hassled and groped, scared of offending people. Just scared. But the tickets have been bought ans I’m on the cusp of knowing what I’m so scared about.

Outside Kolkata’s Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose International airport gather the usual gaggle of touts. I adopt my coping mechanism, pay attention but don’t show it, and make my way unmolested to the line of waiting yellow taxi cabs surrounded by men.

The whole process is painless enough and with little delay we are zooming through the outskirts of Kolkta, windows down, horn blazing and bumping along suspensionless on bench seats, brakes squealing. I’m used to this kind of driving from Hanoi, but there taxis are new (cars are a recent addition to the roads of Vietnam) air conditioned bubbles bumbling along at low speed. Here, these old ambassadors are getting run down by smoking creaky hulks of buses, wile the drivers indicate by sticking their arms and heads out the window,  yelling to each other to move.

The driver takes an unexpected right turn (I have no idea why I have expectationsbout this journal) and we depart ‘Salt Lake City’ to bowl at full speed through tiny alleys and around blind corners, dodging people and oncoming cars, bikes and rickshaws. Just as I’m starting to enjoy the ride and have relaxed enough to realise we aren’t going to hit any pedestrians, I start to recognise street names. All too quickly I’m out of the car and the driver is asking me for something, a tip. In the chaos of my first hour on Indian soil I have failed to properly sort my money out. I know the exchange rate, but have no idea about how much is an appropriate tip. I apologise profusely, but I’m not about to open my wallet here on the street, surrounded by hordes of passers-by and try to sort out the thousand rupee bills from the hundreds, from the tens. I fear I may have upset the fine balance with this horrendous failure on my part, but if so, I’m yet to see the outcome.

Landing in Malaysia feels comfortable, like home for me, almost. This is strange because I’ve only been here twice before. After moving to my own private 3 seats on my Air Asia flight from Hanoi, we land and before I know it I’m on a bus hurtling towards the city. I drift off, waking a few moments later to the muslim woman next to me breastfeeding her super cute toddling baby. With not an inch of skin exposed, I wonder how she did it. I sneak furtive glances, but can’t get good enough of a look to see the process when she changes sides. Is this allowed? Is it accepted and acceptable? I know what I think, but I don’t make any of the rules.

The boy gets up, wanders the aisles and comes back for another feed just one more time. Again I miss the contortions the woman goes through.

Welcome to Malaysia.