Munnar

I don't remember how I found Munnar. I was wandering through my Lonely Planet guide when I found a small town at an elevation of 1,500m. I decided it would be a wonderful way to escape the heat of the coast and find more mountains. I spent an afternoon in Fort Cochi to see the Chinese Fishing Nets that are the unofficial emblem of the Keralan backwaters. Which I didn't do because I don't like boats, mosquitoes or heat. After leaving my hotel, I jumped into a auto and asked to be taken to the bus stand. I had barely settled onto the duct-taped seat when the driver asked me if I was going to Munnar. I never said anything about Munnar. It was a very astute guess. I guess my ridiculously over sized hiking boots gave the game away. For the duration of the ride to the bus stand, he tried to convince me to let him take me to Munnar in an auto. He was looking for exorbitant amounts of money for a mode of transport I wouldn't spend more than half an hour in. The trip to Munnar was a minimum of four hours. I finally got on a bus that took me back into the Western Ghats. It was cramped and noisy but I had the wind in my hair and I didn't care. After five hours, I arrived and went in search of the guest house I had booked two days previously. I was directed up the hill to a building that looked to be in the intermediate stages of construction. I was amazed when I discovered that it was the place I had booked and it had no rooms. After spending most of the day on a bus, I was in no mood for excuses from the proprietor. It didn't matter as it looked like a dump anyway. I walked to another place nearby and got a much better room with a balcony. I was sorted for the week.

On Monday morning, I went to the post office to return a book to its owner and send some postcards. While I was there, I met a Liverpudlian named Jonny. He had just arrived in Munnar and like me, had no itinerary. We arranged to meet later and I headed off into the hills to explore some tea plantations. I asked a few locals if it was ok to walk through the area and I got no objections. I was woefully unprepared for my excursion through the hills. I had no suncream, no water and I was wearing flip-flops. I'd be shot for that kind of behaviour back home. It was worth it though.

Myself and Jonny started Tuesday with the best intentions. We were going to hire a motorbike and a scooter to see the countryside. However, the communists had other plans and put the entire town on strike. We sneaked in a furtive breakfast of eggs and paratha before returning to our respective rooms. There was nothing to do. The place was like a ghost town. For some bizarre reason, the only people that weren't on strike were the persistently annoying rickshaw-wallahs. One of them told us that the strike would be over after 6pm so we could get dinner. However, we had no such luck. Indians go out of their way to be helpful, even if the information they give isn't actually very useful. We found a restaurant outside town that was pure vegetarian. It could've been worse. At least it was open and the food was filling.

We went back to the bike hire shop on Wednesday morning only to be told there were no bikes available. Guess one can't take Indians for their word then. This time, we gave the owner 100 Rs. to book the bikes for the following day. We walked back into town with the intention of climbing Anamudi, the highest peak in the area. Before getting into a willing rickshaw, I asked a local if it was possible to climb it. My face fell when he said the peak was off limits because it was a protected area. So, myself and Jonny walked into the Tata Tea Plantation only to be told that that was off limits as well. We made our way back to Munnar and then took a sneaky detour towards the river. Our destination was the mountain on the other side of the valley. After battling with the undergrowth, we crossed the shallow river barefoot. Rather than walk away from the mountain in the direction of town, we walked along the road, looking for a way up. We found a rocky gorge and decided we'd give it a go. It went grand at first until branches and slippery rocks impeded my progress. Jonny seemed to have an easier time of it as he was only wearing trail shoes. I had my bulky hiking boots to contend with. At one point, my bag got stuck on the branches while I was clinging desperately to a little sliver of rock. My legs were shaking, my heart was thumping and I slipped a little bit only to grab onto some roots. I hadn't been that terrified since I climbed Carrauntoohil over two years ago. Once I got past that hurdle, I dragged myself to the top. I felt extremely unfit and the clammy heat didn't help. But I made it with only a few scratches on my hands and knees to show for the first scary part.

Thursday morning gave us an excellent example of Indian bureaucracy. I went to the bike hire shop alone. Jonny locked his keys in his room by accident and had to wait for the manager to show up to open it. After an hour and a half, he showed up and told me there was a key behind the desk the whole time but they "weren't allowed to use it." What are these people afraid of?! We eventually hit the road. I had a scooter, Jonny had a more temperamental motorbike. The day almost ended when Jonny's bike couldn't make it up the first steep hill it encountered. Turns out the owner had given him incorrect instructions on hos to operate the clutch. The roads were smooth and there was tea plantations everywhere. It was magical. Our destination was a place called Top Station, on the border between Kerala and Tamil Nadu. We were promised stunning views of the Western Ghats and they didn't disappoint. I'd put up photos but the internet cafes I use are either too slow to upload photos or won't allow me to. I left Munnar on Friday afternoon. I would've stayed longer but I had a train to catch...

Wayanad District, Kerala.

I entered Kerala by bus. Not the classiest way to enter a beautiful state but I didn’t have many other options. I arrived in Sulthan Bathery one hot afternoon. It took four hours of winding, bumpy roads before I arrived. I didn’t see any signs announcing the transition from Tamil Nadu to Kerala so I wasn’t really sure what state I was in. Eventually, the bus arrived and I peeled my t-shirt from the leather seat. It was hot, damn hot. I was beginning to think I should’ve stayed in the hills. An Irishman’s melting point is approximately 32 degrees Celsius. As most people know, I sweat worse than Robin Williams doing stand up. It was a relief to reach my hotel room and escape the sun. That evening, I met a German named Frank who recommended a few places to go in Kerala. He also told me that it’s even hotter along the coast. On Saturday, I went to see a 700 year old Jain temple. The guide was very interesting but I didn’t understand much of the symbology associated with this religion. That evening, I got on another bus to a nearby town called Kalpetta as the hotel in Sulthan Bathery was booked out. It was a shame as I never even got to use the swimming pool. The towns weren’t much to write about. I was staying here because I wanted to see the Wayanad Wildlife Sanctuary.

On Monday morning, I got up at the unearthly hour of 6am to get a jeep to Tholpetty, one of the two sanctuaries. It was foggy but the driver assured me that it would lift once the sun came up. The jeep was a really cool Mahindra something or other than looked like a Land Rover Defender. The windows were made of plastic and the doors had sills that had to be climbed over to gain entry. Once I was in, it was comfortable enough until the roads turned bumpy. The tour took nearly two hours and I saw loads of spotted deer and the swishing tail of an elephant. It was better than no elephant. I also saw enormous spider webs and I had to wonder how big the spiders themselves were. I was then taken to Kuruva Island, which was a forested island surrounded by a river. I was given two choices: take a boat across or walk through the river. Naturally, I chose the latter option. It only went up to my knees and I managed not to fall into the water. I paid an entrance fee and began walking through the forest. I began walking down a side path and quickly left the hoards of Indian tourists behind. I felt completely isolated, which is a wonderful feeling in a country of over one billion people. I did see one raptor that was probably just another black kite but other than that, nothing attacked me. I decided to turn back when the track I was walking on petered out among the trees. On my way back through the water, I was stopped yet again by Indians who wanted to take a photo of me. At this point, it’s gone beyond flattery.

I was up again the following morning to do a hike up Chembra Peak, the highest mountain in the Wayanad District. I was joined in the jeep by a trio of affable Londoners. The walk began just after 8am, an hour I would normally only be getting up for a hike at home. It began at a height of about 800m and ascended to 2,100m. It was hot but there was a cool breeze to offer some relief. After about two hours, we reached the top and had lunch. The terrain of rocks and dry grass reminded me of Connemara. I found going down tougher than going up as the dusty path was steep and covered in loose rocks. The lowlands were obscured by haze but the views of the surrounding mountains were still impressive. I was the only one wearing hiking boots but luckily, there were no injuries. That night, I went to dinner with my fellow walkers. I got more useful tips on where to go next and I also offered them some suggestions on places to see. I decided I had seen enough of my stuffy hotel room and caught a bus to the coast. Where I melted just a little bit more…

Ooty

After spending a night in the Nanda Lodge in Mettupalayam, I got on a bus the next morning for Ooty. It took two and a half hours of winding hairpin bends and psychotic drivers before I arrived at the bus stand. But the views of the forested mountains made up for the sheer abject terror of riding the bus. I don’t like buses but for twenty rupees, I couldn’t complain. Once I emerged into the sunshine, I took a few moments to get my bearings, ignored the wallahs and walked down the road towards the guest house I had booked a day before. I walked in and was hit by the usual fear that there would be no room available. It seems I don’t put much faith in a simple phone call to reserve a room. I was greeted by what I assumed was the woman of the house who welcomed me into the living area. I was asked to wait for my room to be prepared so I started reading a battered book from a café in Goa. Finally, I was shown to my room on the top floor of the guest house. The building is built into the side of the hill and I got a terrific view of the artificial lake below me. Ooty is also known as Ootacamund and Udhagamandalam. The lingua franca of the town is Tamil, a language completely different from Bengali. Not that my few miserable phrases of Bengali would have gotten me far. I have decided to add my own name to the town. I call it: Hooty. I thought I was going into the hills for some peace and quiet. But I reckoned without Indian’s fondness for horns louder than ambulance sirens. It does get a bit trying after a while. But at least the air is a little cleaner, even the vehicles are not. The town is situated approximately 2,240m above sea level. I haven’t been this high since California! On Sunday, I took a long walk through the botanical gardens. They were much more impressive than Bangalore, mostly because it was set on the hillside. I spent over an hour wandering through the forest above the main gardens. It was quiet as most people basked on the lawns near the entrance to the gardens. On my way out, I came across the monkey puzzle tree. I had heard about it before I visited the gardens and knew that it was so called because monkeys couldn’t climb it. The reason became obvious when I saw the bark was covered in sharp thorns. I also saw a fossil tree reputed to be 20 million years old. I’ve seen more impressive trees in the bogs at home.

On Monday, I went in search of the rose garden and the post office, in no particular order. I never made it to the rose garden as I met an Indian named Daniel who advised me that there was nothing to see. The roses don’t flower until May and by then; I will be at home, freezing to death. I did have a good chat with him and learnt that he’s doing an MBA and is going to work in Dubai. I eventually found the post office and had great fun affixing my stamps with dried-out pritt stick. The following afternoon, I walked into the bus station, looking lost as usual. I found the bus I wanted and paid three rupees and fifty paise for the fifteen minute trip up to Doddabetta Junction. Doddabetta is the highest peak in the Nilgiris and is located at the junction of the Eastern and Western Ghats in South India. I was dropped off after a winding road trip through tea plantations and hillside houses. I started walking down a forested path but had no idea where I was going. After about twenty minutes, I came across an eco farm and realised I was going in the wrong direction. I didn’t mind though. I walked back to the junction and laughed when I saw the sign for Doddabatta Peak. Had I looked closer after getting off the bus, I would’ve seen it. I began the uphill 3km trek along a badly paved road. At one point, a jeep beeped at me and the driver asked me if I wanted a lift. I pointed at my boots and said I was walking to it. I enjoyed the walk more than I enjoyed the peak itself. It was full of lazy tourists who drove up and the telescope house was an eyesore. The views weren’t as good as I hoped, thanks to the distant haze. But it felt great to be at a height of 2,634m. I didn’t get the same sense of achievement that I might get after climbing Carrantuohill but it was enough. The highlight of my day was walking back to Ooty. I walked past tea plantations, farmers watering their vegetables and workers making reinforcements along the winding roads. After two hours, I made it back to the guest house. I could barely climb the stairs to my room and consoled myself with the fact that I hadn’t hiked properly since I left Ireland.

On my last day in the hills, I took a bus to a nearby hill station called Coonoor. It’s even busier and more populated than Ooty. However, I wasn’t there for the people as I wanted to see Sim’s Park. As my legs were still crippled from the walk on Tuesday, I got an auto to the park. It was similar to the botanical gardens but it felt smaller somehow. I was amazed at the number of catfish in the lake at the bottom of the park. I kept an eye on my watch because I knew there was a train leaving from Coonoor to Ooty at 1.35pm. I wanted to be on it. I got back into an auto that rolled most of the way down the hill. I made it with ten minutes to spare, paid three rupees for a second class ticket and squeezed myself into the seat. The journey exceeded all my expectations even though the carriages weren’t being pushed uphill by a steam train. I passed through three tunnels, one of which was hewn out of solid rock. I saw endless tea plantations below me, interspersed with small houses. But after an hour, it was all over. For the price of the ticket, I felt like I was robbing Indian Rail.

Bangalore

I arrived in Bangalore airport just after 9am. The weather wasn’t as warm as I expected and then I remembered that I was 900m above sea level. After ignoring countless taxi-wallahs, I got on a bus that took me into the city center. I had a vague idea where I wanted to go so I asked the conductor to drop me off near Mahatma Gandhi Rd. He dropped me on a road adjacent to it. It took me the next two hours to find my hotel after asking numerous locals for directions, all of which were wrong. I eventually acquiesced by asking an auto driver to take me to the hotel. The weight of my bags was becoming too much in the midday sun. The temperature read 28 degrees Celsius but the breeze kept me cool. I spent the first day getting my bearings and looking for a place to eat that wasn’t vegetarian. I found a small restaurant that served pepper steak and bottles of imported Belgian beer. It was my little discovery that no travel guide could bring me to. The following day, I had lunch in a café that served me soup inside a round bread roll with the center hollowed out. It was delicious. Afterwards, I got an auto to the Visvesvaraya Industrial & Technical Museum. I found it fascinating. The mini tornado was very cool. The electronics section was incomprehensible and the science area was being decorated with gaseous paint so I left quickly. I spent my last day in the city wandering through the Lalbagh Botanical Gardens. It was peaceful and I got a great view of the city from a peninsular gneiss reputed to be over three billion years old. For some reason, the locals have begun approaching me and asking me to pose in their photos. I’m slightly flattered but I only hope I don’t end up online as that grinning Irishman surrounded by Indians.


After a strange dinner of minced lamb lathered in pepper sauce, I got an auto to the train station. I don’t remember telling the driver I was in a hurry but he drove that three-wheeled motor as if his life depended on it. I arrived at the station, quivering slightly. I found my train with little difficulty and settled down for a ride that would have me in Coimbatore at 5.30am. I had no accommodation booked for a city that’s described as being the Manchester of India because of its textile industry. I emerged from the station and blinked stupidly at my watch, wondering what all the commotion was about. There were people everywhere. There was also a power cut, which meant I was slightly spooked by the darkness and throngs of swarthy locals. I found the hotel I was looking for, discovered it was booked out and tried my luck at a plush-looking place called the Legend’s Inn. I never got to find out just how legendary that was because it was full as well. At that point, I decided that Coimbatore was a toilet and got out of there as quickly as possible. I got on a bus to Mettupalayam, where I wanted to take a train that I’ve been raving about for ages. It’s a rack railway that ascends the Nilgiris in the Western Ghats to a height of over 2,200m. And it was cancelled. When I asked why, I was told it was due to a landslide caused by heavy rain. At that point, I had already paid for a room across from the bus stands, thinking I’d be able to leave the next morning after 7am. I should’ve stayed on the bus that would’ve eventually brought me to Ooty. But I didn’t.

Goodbye Kolkata!

As I was walking down the street one morning, I saw a woman approaching me. I nearly jumped when I saw she had a snake in her hand. I ducked under a gap in the fence running between the footpath and the road. I walked on with my heart thumping in my chest. Kolkata is scary. I try not to be too negative when I talk about living here. There are plenty others who have already written about the horrors of living here. I don’t feel the need to add to it. Yes the pollution is terrible and I may have lifelong respiratory problems to look forward to. But I’m still delighted I came here. I think of the alternative, sitting at home, freezing to death while looking for work and listening to everyone else whining. I’ll take the black lung over that any day. As I was walking to one of the projects another morning, I met some of the children I teach on the pavement. They took my hand and walked with me to the coaching center. Normally, I manage to remain pretty inconspicuous when I’m walking through the city. But suddenly everyone was looking at me. One man even uttered my perennial favourite, “where are you going?” I laughed and replied “Tollygunge!” The other night, a truck wobbled slightly on a bump and deposited a large quantity of dusty bricks ten metres from where I was walking. I raised my eyebrows slightly and continued on. I can add almost being buried under a pile of bricks to my ever-expanding list of near-death experiences. Most of which have occurred while riding in an auto-rickshaw. I’m going to miss autos. I get a peculiar thrill out of them. Mary swears off them ever since she thumped one for driving like a lunatic. When I asked her how hard she hit him, she replied, “not hard enough!” I need things to laugh about. It keeps me sane. The last few months have flown by so quickly. Some of my highlights include being doused in purple powder after being dragged into a crowd of dancers. Last week, I met Declan O’Rourke, his girlfriend Eimear and his brother/manager Edward. After feeling slightly star struck, I got on great with him and he’s managed to convince me to go to Australia. So many places to see, so little money. I’ve my bags packed and I’m wondering if I’ll be able to survive out of a thirty-three litre rucksack for the next two months. I fear I’ll forget something important. I’m afraid I’ll lose something I can’t do without, like my camera. Just like before, I’m apprehensive about leaving here. I know that once I get moving it won’t be so bad. I’m going to miss some aspects of the city. People are so friendly and helpful even if they have no idea how to give directions to where I want to go. I’ll miss the craic I had with my fellow volunteers. I’ll miss the smiles I get from the children and their inimitable cries of “Uncle!” I will be back here in April to fly home but for now, I say goodbye to my daily life in Kolkata.

Puri

A few weeks ago, Mary decided she needed a weekend away. She suggested spending a few nights in Goa but it was too expensive for us poor volunteers. So we compromised on Puri, a seaside town in the state of Orissa. I bought an overnight train ticket as a birthday present to myself! We arrived on Friday morning at 7.20am, bang on schedule. I slept reasonably well on the train. We left the station while trying to ignore the persistently annoying auto-wallahs. We wandered down the street and before long, we were lost. We ended up cramming ourselves and our baggage into an auto. It took us to our behemoth of a hotel, imaginatively called the Hotel Holiday Resort. Its redeeming features were a pool and a nice view of Puri Beach on the Bay of Bengal. The family room which Mary booked for us turned out to have two large double beds. Mary and Kate decided to get a separate room. After breakfast in the Honey Bee café (delicious but slow), myself and Ben went for a swim in the sea. Even though it was the middle of January, the water was very pleasant to swim in and the waves were great fun. Afterwards, we went for a jog and were caught on camera by a Japanese couple. I hope it doesn’t end up on YouTube. I saw my first camel on the beach. They’re huge. There’s a ladder on the side just to climb onto their backs. The feet are so big that they make hardly any impression in the sand. After a quick shower, we strolled down the smelly streets to hire a bike. One of the few nice things about living in Kolkata is there are very few cows. The bikes were old, uncomfortable but more importantly, they worked. We had no idea where we were going. I followed Ben who wanted to find the Lord Jagannath’s Temple. I began to worry when our route became a little too rural for a city. Ben came to a stop in front of a rather fearsome looking bull, turned back and then made a run for it. The bull merely sat down, completely indifferent to one terrified teenager. We found a quiet temple set into a hollow in the ground. It wasn’t the temple we were looking for but it did provide some good photos. We swapped bikes to see who had the more comfortable saddle. Mine won easily. We cycled up a street and had to turn around when confronted with a dead-end. We went back the way we came and emerged onto the edge of a large square. We had found the temple. It was an enormous brown edifice with flags fluttering on top. It was surrounded by high walls and guarded by soldiers wielding shotguns. It was more like a fortress than a site of Hindu worship. Signs informed us that the temple was open only to Hindus. Shoes, mobiles, cameras and leather goods were prohibited. That ruled out my chances of getting in. While eating a strange vegetarian lunch, I became convinced there was a partial solar eclipse taking place. Ben didn’t believe me and to prevent further damage to my eyes, I decided to drop the subject. Pictures in the paper the next day proved me right. At 4pm, we walked up a narrow stairs to the Raghanundan Library, which existed to give people like me a view inside the temple. For a donation, we were able to climb through the shambling structure and see what went on behind those high walls. I got a shock when Mary and Kate joined us on the roof not long after we arrived. They had walked a considerable distance from the hotel. There were pilgrims, workers and lots of monkeys. One of the workers waved at us and beckoned us inside. We could only reply with a miserable shrug of our shoulders.We got a panoramic view of the huge marketplace below us. The girls got an auto back to the hotel and we went back to our bicycles. We got lost again but it gave us an opportunity to pose in front of a brilliant sunset. An ambivalent cow nearly ran off me the road. Ben was laughing too hard to take what would’ve been a priceless photo.

On Saturday, I was dragged out of bed by Ben so we could hire mopeds for the day. Our destination was a small village called Satapada, about 55km south of Puri. We went to the same place where we hired the bicycles the day before. They told us they would be ready in ten minutes. We went for breakfast. We were still waiting for the bikes over an hour later. At last, they arrived and I was given a 70cc moped while Ben was given a 120cc scooter. Mine looked cooler. There were no gears to complicate driving, just the throttle and a rear brake. I was warned not to touch the front brake and keep within the speed limit of 40km/h. The bike was surprisingly easy to ride once I got moving. The horn was useless even when it worked. It sounded like a duck in its last moments of life. Ben was given directions, which weren’t very good. After a few wrong turns, we made it out of Puri intact.The roads were mercifully quiet and I stopped to take a picture of a pond covered in lotus flowers. The scenery was a mixture of paddy fields and palm trees, stretching into the distant haze. It was beautiful and serene.Children waved at us as we went by. At one point, I rode alongside Ben and he said to try flooring the throttle.He wailed with despair when my smaller-capacity moped left him behind. I laughed with glee. We saw a sign for dolphins on Chilika Lake and decided to take a detour. After a series of bends, dips and bumps, we arrived at the edge of the lake. We had barely locked our bikes when the wallahs came up to our faces with offers of boat rides on the lagoon. The prices were far too expensive so we declined. We had lunch in a dingy restaurant.Within a minute of placing of placing my order, my rice and dal were plonked down in front of me. I returned my dal because it was stone cold. It came back reasonably hot. We continued onto Satapada. There wasn’t much there except ferries and small boats. We had to refuse another offer of a trip to see rare Irrawaddy dolphins as we wanted to get back to Puri before dark. We did pause for some photos on the edge of a car ferry and Ben even got to climb up onto the bridge. On the journey home, we saw egrets and bright blue kingfishers. I saw an ox wading through knee deep water with a bird on its back. We made it back safely around 5.30pm. I didn’t want to give back my ride for the day as I enjoyed it so much. But I figured it was best to leave it before I became involved in a snarl-up with Indian drivers.

Mary, Kate and myself in the Sun Temple in Konark.

I spent Sunday morning by the pool with Mary and Kate. Although the hotel was expensive, we were only charged Rs.200 for the use of the pool and a towel. The water was refreshingly cool and clean. We left there at 1.30pm to meet a Swiss couple that we met on the train on Thursday night. After tea in a glass, Mary went to look for an auto-rickshaw and came back with a Tata mini-van that fitted the five of us far more comfortably than an auto would. We set off for Konark, where the Sun Temple was located. After a terrifying forty-five minute drive, we arrived. We walked through the tourist market and found the temple with little difficulty. We simply followed the brightly dressed locals. I arrived and found myself being crushed by Indians desperate to get their hands on a ten rupee ticket. I, being the white tourist that I am, had to fork out Rs.250. The temple is an intricately-carved monolith surrounded by lush gardens. We wandered around the site, taking photos and avoiding the edge of the dais on which the temple is mounted. As the afternoon drifted into evening, the setting sun bathed the stone in an orange glow. I grinned at the figures representing Kama Sutra. There were people everywhere yet the surroundings were very relaxing. After we had seen everything, we made our way back to the van. We arrived back in Puri before 6pm and said goodbye to the Swiss couple. We met Ben who had spent the day on a rusty bicycle doing his own thing. We had a veg thali in a simple restaurant. It was delicious despite my reservations about vegetarianism. We returned to the hotel to pick up our bags before racing to the station. We needn’t have rushed as the train was delayed. After the warmth of Puri, arriving back to a foggy, freezing Kolkata was a bit of a shock. It was an epic weekend, made all the better by my travel companions; Ben, Mary and Kate.

Christmas in Kolkata

Wow. That’s become my catchphrase among the other volunteers here. It sums up my Christmas in Kolkata. It began on Christmas Eve with a house party in what’s known as the “family” apartment. I don’t make this stuff up. The highlight of the night was when each of us received our Secret Santa presents. I was given a name of another volunteer that I had to buy a present for anonymously. The spend limit was 500 Rs. After a few hours wandering aimlessly through South City Mall, I got Kate a book by an Australian woman travelling through India called “Holy Cow!” I was delighted with what I received from Kate and Ann-Marie: two t-shirts and a book on Kolkata. Myself, Alicia and Ben were out on the (caged) balcony till nearly 3am talking. I tried to sing Fairytale of New York but gave up when I forgot the lyrics.

It was a bright, sunny morning. The buses rumbled past with their conductors warbling the destinations or whatever they say to entice people onto public transport. Taxis beeped or crawled their way down busy streets, looking for passengers. Autos whizzed by carrying far too many people. It was just another normal day in the city. Except it was Christmas Day, an event I usually associate with cold weather and calm surroundings. Nothing shuts this city down except strikes and riots. I was on my way to take an auto to the hospital. I got into the back and smiled at the sign written in front of me. “No Somking.” Naturally, the driver was smoking. I took a photo and the man sitting beside smiled benignly. I arrived at the hospital where I was met by Ann-Marie, a long-term volunteer. She told me that she was on her way to Kasba where we would have dinner and watch a dance performance by the girls there. We rushed upstairs to give the kids their presents before jumping into a taxi. On the way, we picked up Ben, my temporary roommate for Christmas while my usual apartment remains empty for the holidays. He was carrying two large cakes that seemed to be made mostly of air as the boxes were so light. We were dropped outside a water pumping station where we waited for two more girls to show up. I was dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans. The weather was too warm for my regular Christmas attire. We walked down a quiet street that would bring us to the girls’ home at Kasba. We could hear the music before we even saw the building. The roof was hopping. We were offered seats by the kids but it wasn’t long before we were called up to join the dancers. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t half as good as the girls dancing. They just laughed as I attempted to copy their moves. I had no inhibitions. I wasn’t allowed to. Dinner took place on the ground floor in the crèche. We sat around circular tables with chairs meant for infants. The plates were made out of banana leafs stapled together. There was no cutlery. We were served rice, dal, mutton, vegetables and fried potatoes. Eating with the fingers of my right hand was a messy, surreal experience. After two and a half months in this city, I have finally gone native.

At 5.30pm, I went to Punerjibon to celebrate Christmas Day with the boys there. Jitain danced to Beat It by Michael Jackson. I was told he had been practicing for two months. It showed. The cake was then cut and distributed on plates and later, on people’s faces including mine. I gave my camera to some of the boys and made sure the strap was around their wrists before letting them loose. Final tally on my camera from the day was nearly 150 photos. I was having too much fun dancing to worry about it. I did feel slightly ridiculous dancing to Barbie Girl, a perennial favourite among the boys in Punerjibon. We left before nine as everyone was wrecked. It was a memorable and refreshingly different Christmas. There might not have been turkey or any of the other things I enjoy back home. But it was worth it just for the experience alone.