Almost the best view in Sri Lanka

On the tear-dropped island of Sri Lanka, it is claimed that the best view can be found atop the mighty Adam's Peak, with a vantage point of 2243 metres.

Adam's Peak is religiously schizophrenic, with Buddhism, Hinduism, Islam and Christianity claiming a piece of the pie. The rock formation at the summit is revered as the footprint of the Buddha, in Hindu tradition of Shiva, Muslims believe it to be where Adam first set foot and Portuguese Christians claim it belongs to St. Thomas, the disciple of Jesus.

Hindu and Buddhist pilgrims scale the mountain in swarms from December to April as for much of the rest of the year dense clouds smother the peak. So, we rock up at the end of July; the term 'off peak' has never been more appropriate!

Nonetheless, we decided to climb the peak of Adam, Shiva, the Buddha and St. Thomas in the way all pilgrims do - reaching the summit for sunrise. Setting off in a small group at 2.30am - laden with biscuits, smothered in leech repellent and clutching metal torches - we perpetually stepped upwards for two and a half hours in the dead of night. The stray dogs from the small village of Delhousie also accompanied us all the way to the top, negotiating twice as many legs up the big steps despite their joint problems induced by years of pilgrimages.

Conditions grew worse as we ascended and I thanked Adam, Shiva, the Buddha and St.Thomas simultaneously for the waterproof coat I'd purchased on a market stall the day before. It may have been coloured yolky yellow and white and nick-named 'the fried egg', but at that moment in time it was the best item of clothing I had ever owned.

We couldn't see more than a metre in any direction as the mist enshrined the holy mountain to protect it from the wind and rain. Another interesting addition to the climb was the small river that had started to flow down the steps. We squelched and slipped upwards and upwards, stopping only briefly to catch our breaths.


Meeting just two other small groups on the way up, we made it to the top (first, if you are wondering) at 5am. Out of nowhere, a small door opened, bathing us in light so bright it hurt our eyes. A barely clothed man told us to come inside for tea as the gate to the summit would not open until 6am. We were wrongly sceptical and, after climbing up to the gate to realise it was bolted shut, we sheepishly returned to escape the worsening weather.


Inside the small room sat two men with just a cloth around their waists. There eyes were fixed on a fuzzy black and white TV set that intermittently spurted out ceremonial music and white noise. They were displeased to see us but dutifully offered us sweet, hot tea as more intrepid Westerners squeezed in their isolated home. I lapped up the tea and the atmosphere. Before me were complete strangers, water-logged and windswept, drinking tea and sharing biscuits up a mountain without a care in the world.

As the clock hands crawled to 6am, we braved the elements, leaving our damp hue behind us in the house. What should have been the best view in Sri Lanka was only mist and murk and mystery. Not a soul stepped foot on the very top to see the contested footprint or temple. The prospect of removing our shoes and plunging through puddles was not a tempting one.

The descent back down bashed our knees and our spirits and we were overjoyed to return to the hotel and hot shower.

For days afterwards, I could still smell the herbal leech repellent and my body froze at the sight of more steps. But our challenge was unforgettable and we proved there's no such thing as 'off peak'!

A lovely cuppa

After my surfing exploits and my now overwhelming desire to liberate myself from sand, I escaped to the hills and slowly chugged - by bus - into enchanting Ella.

Ella is blessed with some of the most beautiful views I have ever seen. The sleepy village, which only received electricity in 1984, is nestled in a valley peering straight through Ella Gap to the plain nearly 1000m below. Alongside dramatic mountains, Ella is enveloped by tea plantations, which roll and ripple as far as the eye can see.

And so, dedicated tea drinking commenced. Teapots and teapots of the hot, leafy goodness that calms the senses and clears the mind.

Sipping from chipped china cups and hugged by waves of tea plantations, I could feel the blend of civilisations between the British colonial past, the Tamils who were forcefully moved from India to pick the leaves and the ancient layers of Sri Lankan history far beyond.

To break up the tea drinking and work up a thirst, I took myself off on treks through the hills and plantations - meeting only poverty-wage tea pickers and the occasional rosey-cheeked tourist. The view from the top of Ella rock was worth the uphill scramble (and downhill tumble), as the hills stretched away into the distance, popping up like little islands in the morning mist.

Despite filling up on oodles of tea, I did sample the hill country's culinary creations, tucking into regular banquets of garlic curry (containing 18 cloves of the potent plant - I counted), sweet and sour aubergine, tomato curry, mint potatoes, dhal, beetroot, pineapple chutney, tamarind, spicy coconut sambal and an alien looking vegetable called a bitter gourd which was very tasty indeed.

Now, I needed to find myself a bigger mountain to climb to work off some of those indulgent calories!

Surf's up; Sally's down

Surfing - how hard can that be?

Very, it turns out.

Don't be fooled by docile, laid back, 'life's a breeze' surfer bum types, it's probably because they've been bashed over the head with their board so many times they've got constant mild concussion.

After a brief stop at Batticaloa (which sadly seemed to be having a harder time recovering from the war than Trincomalee), I headed to Sri Lanka's answer to Australia's Gold Coast: Arugam Bay. The locals, and the surfers there, will tell you the bay is in the top 10 surfing spots in the world - and I didn't (and still don't) know any better. I do know that the waves were enormous, though, and were getting bigger by the day according to local surf reports. Excellent, just what a total surfing beginner wants to hear.

I didn't do myself any favours either, deciding to go out partying until 4.30am the night before my 8am surf lesson. With Lion beer still pumping around my body, I fought my way into the surf with my board and started with lesson 1: paddling. This was all about balance and strength, and so this bit I could do. It was the next bit that was the struggle. Lesson 2: surfing a wave.

I know I shouldn't blame my instructor, or my unsuitable board, but I will just a little bit. Our teacher was a tuk tuk driver turned surf instructor and clearly had more interest in catching his own waves than helping me catch mine. The epitome of hopelessness was when he surfed over my head - yes my head - and nearly drowned me. But I persisted; I'm no quitter.

A series of set backs ensued and I went from being able to get up on my feet on day 1, to barely being able to get in the water by day 4. And then there were the scrapes, bangs and bruises caused by the surf board dealing me blow after blow until I ended up beached on the coarse sand like a clumsy whale.

On day 5, I switched instructors after a few frightening encounters - in and out of the sea. My new instructor talked me through everything properly and I really enjoyed the surfing despite now being alarmed every time a big wave appeared on the horizon. But, after 5 days of trying to surf twice a day, I was exhausted and decided to end on a high on day 5.

My dreams of being a surfer dude would not be fulfilled on this trip, but I was just pleased to have not sustained any serious injuries at the hands of an incompetent instructor and monster waves. If surfer cool really is minor head trauma, I'm at peace with being a clumsy beached whale.

Civil and tsunami war: The aftermath

We were among some of the first tourists to visit the north east coast of Sri Lanka. For years, the north and east of the country has been dealt blow after blow by civil unrest, the Asian tsunami, and yet more civil war.

Starting in 1983, there was an insurgency against the government by the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE, also known as the 'Tamil Tigers'). The LTTE are a seperatist militant organisation who fought to create an independent Tamil state - named Tamil Eelam -

in the north and the east of the island. After 2 decades of fighting, a ceasefire agreement was signed in 2002.

Then, the tsunami hit in December 2004, killing more than 30,000 people and destroying homes, businesses and agriculture on a staggering scale. The recovery was slow and still ongoing.

In 2005, the next blow struck as civil hostilities renewed. The government launched a series of major military offensives in 2006 and the LTTE declared they would resume their freedom struggle. The civil war continued at full strength with huge humanitarian fall out.

Just over a year ago, in May 2009, the LTTE surrendered and its leader, and many other members, were killed. Many thousands of civilians also died amid the horrors of this last battle, bringing the civil war's death toll somewhere between 80,000 and 100,000.

Arriving in Trincomalee on the east coast, it was clear to us that the military retains an

oppressive grip on the port town and there were soldiers with guns on every corner and checkpoint. We were warned to expect shop doors to be bolted up and an atmosphere of 'Baghdad-on-sea' as the wounds of the war had yet to start healing.

Thankfully, it was a slightly brighter story and we were glad to see that the town is limping back to life and the hotels are receiving lots of inquisitive guests who, like us, want to see what life is now like in this battle-scarred paradise.

We surrendered to the crisp white crunchiness of the Uppuveli and Nilaveli beaches, blocking out the military men with sunglasses and Factor 30. The navy had recently relaxed its strict regulations and, on my Dad's last day, we were able to take a 5am boat to see leaping dolphins and then headed to Pigeon Island to snorkel its coral reef (where the only work the navy had to do was to scold me for not wearing my life jacket!).

After my Dad had left, I befriended a few NGO workers who were on weekend vacation from Jaffna - the capital city of the northern province and at the heart of the ethnic conflict as it was once a stronghold of the LTTE. It would appear that the problem now is not one of terrorism but of good governance. The country may be developing after the war, but democracy is still very frail and the NGO workers are fearful of a renewed insurgency as inhabitants of the north grow restless.

Let us all hope that the future is golden for Sri Lanka and democracy prevails at the same rate as tourism and commerce.

Elephantastic!

My Dad's Birthday in Sri Lanka was certainly one he (and I) will never forget.

We decided to take a jeep to Kaudulla National Park, a 6,656 hectare forest centred around the Kaudulla tank and part of the elephant corridor.

Late afternoon, we stood up in the back of the jeep for the bumpy journey through the forest, spotting chameleons, storks and jackals as we dodged the low-hanging branches. As the sun

cascaded down, we entered an expansive clearing around the tank.

And we lay in wait.

Numerous small herds of elephants inhabit the park for most of the year (the number fluctuates throughout the year as the elephants move up and down the corridor) and gather together in the evening on the open bed of the tank to graze, drink, bathe and socialise.

Thankfully, it wasn't long until the first trees started to shake and crack as one of herds ambled out of the forest into full view. There were about 20 in the group, with the young being fiercely protected by the older females. They appeared to be completely unaffected by the presence of our jeep and took time to feed on the forage, quite silently.

In the distance, we could see more herds slowly emerging from the dense green as if they had all been waiting for another group to make the first move. No one wants to be the first guest at the party. The numbers of elephants were swelling around us and our jeep slowly moved into new positions so we could see other herds come forward. The drivers were sure to keep away from the lone male elephants who seemed to enjoy their solitude, on the prowl for females.

Our knowledgeable guide suddenly got our attention to point out a new born elephant that was just a few day's old. This was the first sighting of the baby and we were only given snatched views of the little one as he or she was ferociously guarded by all the females in the herd.

We now had around 90 elephants in our view and the evening sun filtered through the cloud-flecked sky, glinting off the surface of the tank and bathing the herds in its gentle glow. We watched on, hypnotized by the spirit of the wild. It is a heart-swelling, dizzying sight like no other.

Reluctant to leave this moment behind us, we headed back as the sun started to set. A storm struck and we had to swiftly pull on the cover of the jeep - watching the fork lightening tear up the sky.

And how do you finish a Birthday like this? A surreal 'party' with your hotel's underworked staff involving a strained rendition of 'Happy Birthday' and a plethora of handshaking - that's how.

Who is Mr. Bandulla?

Before we left Anaradhapura, I rang and booked ahead for a hotel at our next stop: Polonnaruwa. This is when Mr. Bandulla leapt into our lives.

Speaking to Mr. Bandulla on the phone about the booking, he arranged to come and pick us up from the bus station in the town and I was to call him when we were getting close. But he called us first. Then again, and again. Which led us to ask the question: who is Mr. Bandulla?

He rang once more, telling us he was ready and waiting at the Polonnaruwa bus station for us. He's keen, we thought. But things got even stranger as we stepped off the bus to be greeted by 2 people claiming to be Mr. Bandulla. Confusion ensued.

One of the gentlemen then changed his tact and focussed on telling us, very calmly, that the other chap was lying to us and that he wasn't the real Mr. Bandulla who owned the hotel - that was a different person altogether. The other man - with a roguish face - was still earnestly trying to prove he was the real Mr. Bandulla, waving his phone at me with my number on it and pulling out a faded and torn identity badge. Quite convincing. However, the other man was reassuring us that he was telling the truth, that we shouldn't go anywhere with this man and that we should just make our way to the hotel on foot.

'Mr. Bandulla', by this point, was getting exacerbated and his voice was raising and eyes

widening. I decided to ring the hotel and ask who was the real Mr. Bandulla. The confused woman on the phone suggested that if he wasn't there, we should walk to the hotel or take a tuk tuk.

I looked around in despair and my eyes fell on the line of tuk tuk drivers who were sat watching the entire 'Mr. Bandulla' performance. Bewildered by the past 8 minutes or so, I headed over to them and asked if they knew what was going on and could one of them take us to the hotel. They all looked over at the dueling men and one of them suggested we walk, and gave us directions.

And so walk we did, with 'Mr. Bandulla' hot on our heels - still waving his phone at us and telling us to believe him. As we neared the hotel, the owner's car drove to pick us up and confirmed that, yes, this was indeed the real Mr. Bandulla. This left us even more confused as a) why didn't Mr. Bandulla just call his sister, the hotel owner, or ask to speak to her when I rang and b) why was there a respectable looking man telling us not to go with Mr. Bandulla and to walk to our hotel. The answer lies in The Lonely Planet.

Mr. Bandulla is featured under the hotel's description in the guide and it seems that some of the locals are jealous of his new found fame - something he isn't particularly shy about. It seems his immodest pride has angered one or two men in the village, who are now trying to make life as difficult as possible for him. We did feel guilty for not believing him at the bus stop but, would you?

Mr. Bandulla was then glued to our sides for the next couple of days and called us constantly when he had to leave us to help other tourists. Really, it was very sweet but Mr. Bandulla did become a figure of hilarity during our trip. Wherever we turned, his cheeky face would be there to help us when we didn't even know we needed it!

Discovering it was my Dad's birthday, he promised to bring a cake and have a party for him - and he didn't let us down. In the pouring rain, he arrived at the hotel in his tuk tuk with an iced orange sponge cake an arranged candles on top in the shape of '53' (sorry, Dad). Naturally, recognising another way to make money from his tourists, he charged me double for the cake and candles but, because he was Mr. Bandulla, we forgave him.

What a character!

So, if you ever in Polonnaruwa...watch out, Mr Bandulla's about!

The Cultural Toblerone

Unfortunately, this is not a tale of a classically educated chocolate bar, nor an account of my Dad and I visiting temples and museums munching on Swiss chocolate (not recommended during an Asian summer).

Instead, it is an attempt to make my tale of Sri Lanka's Cultural Triangle slightly more entertaining for those of you who aren't that bothered by ancient ruins or for those of you who, like my Dad and I, are interested for the first day but start to dwindle in enthusiasm on the second and third days.

And so, The Cultural Triangle will from this time forth be known as its chocolatey counterpart.

First stop on The Cultural Toblerone was Dambulla's cave temple - the largest and best-preserved cave temple complex in Sri Lanka. We looked around the 5 caves, each ornately adorned with countless Buddha statues and paintings, some enormous in size. (NB do not have your photo taken standing next to one of these images, you will be nothing short of rugby tackled to the ground.)

Hurling our backpacks with us, we then headed to Sigiriya rock, an even more impressive affair! Also known as the Lion's rock, this ancient fortress - standing at 370 metres - once had a palace perched on top and is surrounded by the remains of an extensive network of gardens and reservoirs.

After being dropped off at the gate, we decided to walk to the public entrance with all our bags, assuming it couldn't be that far from the main gate. How wrong we were! In the piercing midday heat, this walk was akin to military training...and then we had the rock to climb. Someone get us a towel!

Described by my Dad as "the stuff of heart attacks", we made our ascent up this huge rock - a hardened magma plug from an extinct and long-eroded volcano. Two adorable wrinkled Sri Lankan ladies in front kept turning around and putting their fingers to there lips, pleading with us to be quiet. We were bemused between our heavy breaths until we saw the sign: 'Noise may provoke hornet attacks'. We looked up to see huge hornet nests clinging to the edge of the sheer rock face and continued to the top sheepishly.

To our delight, the top of Sigiriya provided incredible 360 degree views of the surrounding, untouched landscape and was more than worth the sweat-busting walk up. Just don't pick a fight with the monkeys! I learned that the hard way.

Next on The Cultural Toblerone was Anaradhapura - one of the ancient capitals of Sri Lanka and a place name that took me 3 whole days to remember correctly. We hired some bikes from our hotel to explore the town - they didn't have functioning breaks or gears but I did get a basket on the front of mine. You can't have it all!

Anaradhapura is a popular destination for Buddhist pilgrims because of its many ancient Buddhist monuments - and we were to witness this in its full glory! The town is scattered with dagobas (or stupas), which are huge mound-like structures that contain Buddhist relics, typically the remains of the Buddha or a saint. So, they're Buddhism's answer to the pyramids.

We cycled up to the Sri Maha Bodiya (a sacred Bodhi tree grown from a cutting of the tree the Buddha gained enlightenment under) and it's neighbouring dagoba. We were swept up in a bustling crowd of white pilgrims who were here to make offerings to the Buddha, known as snana puja. The pristine cotton and the white of the towering dagoba was blinding and we were disorientated by the heaving, busy crowd. Near the Bo tree, the pilgrims sat shoulder to shoulder, chanting and worshipping the tree with such intensity and number that we hastily made a quick exit.

Around 6 dagobas later, we were hot and heavy-legged so we bid farewell to Anaradhapura and headed to Polonnaruwa - further east.

Bananas, tea and Kandy

A contender to the 'jewel of the Indian Ocean' crown, Sri Lanka is a geographic explosion of palm-fringed beaches, dense forests, wild hill country and rolling national parks.

In the midst of the hills lies Kandy, which proved to be as sweet as its name. Home-from-home guest houses, haphazard markets and temples cluster around the town's grand, peaceful lake (although the lake's history is a little squirmish with impalings and slave labour at its foundations).

From our little guest house with stunning views of the lake and Sri Lankan's answer to Basil Fawlty for an owner, we were left to explore the banana and tea plantations, temples and hills.

North of Kandy, we made a day trip to Knuckles Range - so named because it resembles the shape of a clenched fist, if you squint, eat some poisonous berries and stand on your head (not necessarily in that order). Beautiful views, fauna and flora aside, the trip proved memorable for other reasons.

Firstly, none of the nearby town's locals appeared to have any clue where the mountain range was and our tuk tuk driver was among the most clueless of the day. From there, we embarked upon a steeplechase expedition where we fought off whiplash, kept repeating ourselves loudly like true 'Brits abroad' in the hope our driver would understand us and picked up a random follower on a scooter. Thankfully, our tailgater eventually introduced himself as a forestry official (still doubtful) and (for money) would be our guide. Feeling like we were the only tourists to ever step foot in the range, we gladly handed over our (Dad's) rupees.

The views were spectacular, the walk was refreshing...but the leaches were not! Despite pulling up our socks and keeping a quick pace, we still encountered a few too many of the blood

sucking brutes and even in the safety of the tuk tuk I had leach paranoia. Give me spiders any day!

We also visited Kandy's infamous Temple of the Sacred Tooth Relic. Just like the dusty little boxes parents collect their children's baby teeth in - except a thousand times bigger, lavished with gold and with more protection than Her Majesty the Queen.

Hidden inside a golden box, inside a small room, inside a bigger room, inside the temple, lies the tooth of the Buddha. I've yet to mention Sri Lanka's Buddhism roots but, as you can imagine, this is quite an important tooth box that not even the tooth fairy herself can gain access to. We did get the briefest glimpse of the golden box, though, before they hurriedly slammed the doors.

We bid a fond farewell to Kandy and got back on the buses, heading north.

Sri Lanka - best explored by dilapidated bus

Dad and I hit the ground running in Sri Lanka and I was determined that he would have a trip to remember.

Before planning my trip, Sri Lanka was known to me because of 3 things: tea production, the civil war with the 'Tamil Tigers' and cricket. I later realised it also exports coffee, rubber and cinnamon, it elected the first female Prime Minister and has a rich cultural heritage dating back to the Paleolithic era. Not to mention a

cracking curry.

The backpacking lifestyle certainly didn't stop when I met my Dad and we planned to take the charming ramshackle local buses up to the tea hills, around the cultural triangle before finally hitting the war-torn north east coast. A brief summary could read: bus, elephants, bus, hills, bus, temple, tea, bus, cave temples, bus, big rock, bus, ancient ruins, bus, wild elephants, bus, beach, sea, aaaaahhh. But I'll take the time to expand...

First stop was the Pinnewala Elephant Orphanage for a larger than life welcome to the country. There is something momentously surreal about being so close to these enormous land mammals and we stood wide-eyed, cameras poised, like the rest of the tourists on day trips. Sadly, after this initial awe, we started to question the reality of the orphanage and the regular contact the elephants had with the public. For an extra charge, visitors could feed the babies bottles of milk, which had the essence of a popular fairground attraction with the pushing and shoving to boot! We also saw a few elephants tied up, throwing up another morality check despite the obvious good the orphanage does.

Thankfully, bath time down by the river was an all more pleasurable experience as the elephants were left to roam and play away from the crowds and boundaries of the sanctuary. We sat near the water's edge in admiration, anticipating what else Sri Lanka would have in store for us.

It was then back to the bus, each journey throwing up a new story as we interacted with the benevolent locals and bounced through the exotic jungle terrain. Every single person on these buses seemed to make it their principal priority to ensure Dad and I got off at the right stop, never exasperating the friendly ticket master with constant reminders of where the 2 tourists were heading.

Every journey was a carnival, serenaded by Singhalese music, honks and food sellers and I was delighted that my Dad was enjoying it even more than me! It's these experiences that characterise the true adventure of travelling and leave the lasting impression on all those who take the ride.

Goodbye Hindustan, Ayubowan Sri Lanka!

So now I say goodbye to India, hoping that our paths will cross again soon. This country that was once so strange, unruly and distant to me has left a lasting imprint on my life and on my soul.

It's the spirit of India that wriggles right under your skin, frolics with your senses and then nestles in there for the long run, refusing to budge. A spirit that is alive, bold, strong, creative, colourful, loving, determined, thankful and living in every single one of India's extraordinary inhabitants, permeating ever aspect of their lives.

From the ceremony of the Ganges to the docile Keralan backwaters, from the rubble of Hampi's lost world to the adventure playgrounds of the Himalayans, I have unlocked and delved into a culture so formidable and incomparable to my own. And yes, at times, it was arduous and frightening and the biggest challenge I have ever faced but mainly it was wonderful and fruitful and meaningful.

I'd like to share my grandfather's final thoughts as he left India, as he was my whole reason for this journey. He wrote:

"I was absorbed and totally fascinated with a subcontinent which seemed to defy the realism of nature. Where millions survived dad by day, often when there was no sign or obvious provision that they should.

"It was clear to me that an important and influential part of my life was now over. I had grown up a great deal during my time in India, having seen and experienced many things I had not previously encountered, nor would I ever have encountered in my own home environment. I knew that I would miss India very much."

With my head giddy with these reflections and memories of my Grandfather's tales of India, I arrived in Sri Lanka: my next travel destination. And there at the airport was the familiar, beaming face of my Dad, who was to join me on the backpacking trail for the next 2 weeks.

Flower power!

My lungs had grown accustomed to the fresh, Himalayan air and I was in no hurry to head back to the city for my last days on Indian soil.

Instead, I was coerced into making the eventful journey to land less trodden and, so, the Valley of Flowers expedition began!

After an overnight bus journey from Dharamsala to Rishikesh (where The Beatles got their guru on), without rest, we took a jeep for 9 hours to make the perilous climb up to Govindghat - a small town used as a spring board for thousands of Sikh pilgrims heading to Hemkund, a holy shrine located at 4200 metres above sea level. Our jeep swept past steep cliff faces, where the remains of fresh landslides had recently fell. As day turned to night, the circuitous road became more treacherous and for the last part of my journey I held my breath and closed my eyes like only the brave do.

After the kind of sleep where your body simply collapses with exhaustion, it was up early to join the pilgrimage up 14km of steep, rocky mountain to Ghangaria - where we were cut off from the rest of the world for 3 days. The 6 hour climb could have been a lot more fluid had we not been stopped every few metres by jolly Sikhs with hand-carved walking sticks. They asked for photographs, details on where we were from, where we were going, were we married, had children, what job we did, what we thought of India and any other questions their very articulate English could dream up.

And then of course we were nudged and trodden on by the mules and stretchers carrying fragile ladies, the deceased and portly adults and children who really could do with the exercise. Not to mention the porters carrying oversized bags (including our own), swaying and buckling under the strain. For many of them, retirement was long overdue. It was an exhausting climb but our spirits were high.

Ghangaria, at an altitude of 3049m, was a series of crumbling guest houses in desperate need of clean bed sheets, lashings of paint and correctly fitted windows and doors to keep the mountain chill out. The restaurants all had duplicate menus, competing to have the highest number of bizarre spellings and staff with quirky bobble hats. But, for India, this small village was amazingly functional considering its isolation from the rest of the world.

Ghangaria was a true symbol of survival against the odds as, despite its sublime beauty, everyday life for its inhabitants was clearly a struggle and I can only guess what the winter months behold.

The Valley of Flowers, a 3km walk from the village across mountain streams, is a glacial corridor carpeted with beautiful wild flowers, which paint the valley blue, purple, pink and red during July and August. The valley, at 3650m, was only discovered by the Western world in 1931 and we really felt like we were discovering it for the first time, barely seeing another soul over the 3 days, and absolutely no Westerners.

Surrounded by towering snow-capped mountains, I was reminded of my own insignificance compared to Mother Earth. Never had I felt so small yet so in awe. And the valley seemed untouched by people, and unaffected. And what would be the perfect way to finish our days of trekking and warm up as the temperatures drop? Beer? A glass of wine? Or maybe something stronger? But, alas, we had to settle with hot chocolates and chai as Ghangaria is a strictly alcohol free settlement.

Tired, but happy to have fallen well and truly off the tourist trail, we made our descent down, once again dodging the pilgrim paraphernalia and porters.

Part of me wanted to stay cut off from the world so I didn't have to say goodbye to this country that I had fallen in love with. I was soon thumped back to reality, though, with a deadly bus journey back along the snaking road.

Land of Contrasts: A patchwork of religions

When you think of India, you might think of the huge Hindu population and pockets of Muslims, Christians and Sikhs. But you might not think of Jains, Parsis, Baha'is and Jews.

They are all woven into the textured patchwork of Indian culture, stitched together by mutual respect and spirituality but kept divided by different customs, places of worship and superstitions.

The country prides itself on being a secular religious nation that gives equal rights to all and its people accept that there are many paths to God. This vibrant and tollerant mix of religion and culture characterises the allure of India.

As my grandfather noted in his memoirs:
"Economically , India is a poor country, poor in the extreme for millions. It is, however, very rich on religion. All the people, each worshipping in their own way, add their quota to the culture of the mother land. There are a multitude of shrines, temples, mosques and churches. Anything of real value in the lives of the masses is linked to religion."

There was never a truer word spoken, even 70 years later. The cacophony of festivals and religions rites, so colourful and extravagant, bring the cities and villages to life. And it is true that, for many, the religious rituals enable them to wallow in escapism and forget the unrelenting hardship of everyday life.

Of course, I have only scraped the surface with my encounter with Amma, the hugging mother, being thrust into temples to give puja, feeling intrusive observing prayer at silent mosques, gatecrashing a Jain wedding, being proudly shown a kitsch collection of Virgin Marys in someone's home and being treated like a celebrity by hundreds of Sikh pilgrims on their way up a mountain.

But what is clear is that religion is what makes India 'tick'. It is a livelihood, a fashion statement, a celebration, an arranged marriage, a shared prayer and the foundations of family life.

A helping hand in Himachal

Escaping the hot dust of Delhi, I headed for the Himalayan foothills for a few weeks of volunteering and fresh, mountain air. It was a welcome change from my travelling momentum.

Ispiice is based in Sidhbari village, just 10 minutes from the town of Dharamsala - famed for being the place where the Tibetan Governemnt is still in exile some 60 years on and the visiting place of Buddhism's Dalai Lama. Despite the well established Tibetan community, the village

was primarily Indian and I spent a rewarding time with Ispiice, helping the rural population.

Over the beautiful farm house where we were staying, towered the huge Himalayan mountains. I was overwhelmed by the natural purity of the place after Delhi - my Indian nemesis.

We were greeted every morning by the best looking cow in India (she didn't have much competition) and her shy, clumsy calf. Our resident chef, Neereg, fed us with wonderful food and we were very well looked after by the hard working Ispiice team.
My days were filled with 3 different - but equally fun - projects: in the morning, I helped out at a day care centre for 2 and 3 year olds; early afternoon, I taught English to grades 4 and 5 (ages 8 - 12) at a Government School; and lastly,

I supported a group of young women as they gained computer skills to empower and equip them for the world of work and advancing

technology.

I am not a teacher and I admire all those who are, including my own incredible mum, for the relentless patience they have. At times, the projects were tough and at moments, heartbreaking. Yet, fundamentally, they were a privileged snapshot of India and its patchwork of people.

Day care was held in a dark, damp and sticky room that was bare of toys, and fun. The only sign that it was a place for children were the colourful pictures on the wall, lovingly painted by previous volunteers. When we first arrived, the wide-eyed children were sat with their backs against the wall, looking too solemn for young tots (not to mention grubby). We brought toys, made playdough, sang nursery rhymes, used my bed sheet (!) as a parachute and got them learning numbers and the alphabet - just the stimulation these gorgeous children needed. They soon proved to be far from shy and became our friends, demanding hugs and attention which we gave to them by the bundle.

At the primary school, sadly it was a similar story, teaching English in a classroom that was bare, and barely lit. The children, who had such willingness to learn, sat on the floor on 2 long, narrow mats facing a dusty chalk board.

In India, in my experience, the Government schools are far behind the private schools in terms of academia, facilities, resources and staff. When I first stepped foot in my school, the children were left without work and the teacher wasn't to be found in the classroom (it's also worth noting that the children weren't running riot like you'd expect in an unattended British classroom). It appeared that the lesson I was teaching for just 1 hour a day was the only structured lesson for the children and, while friendly, the teachers were idle and overpaid (some 5 times more than their private school counterparts). It seems that a teacher in India had the choice between being paid a good wage at an underachieving Government school or taking a substantial pay cut to make a difference at a private school. A challenging dilemma in one of the world's poorest countries.

Despite my frustrations, the children's beaming smiles, cheeky giggles and ample 'high fives' lit up the classroom and I was delighted to see all of their English improve during my time there.

My last group was perhaps the biggest eye-opener. These young women were aged between 20 and 30 years old and each had their own reasons for coming to the computer class, which also provided a platform for them to practice conversational English: some of the younger, ambitious ones were there to further their career aspirations; others, particularly the full time wives and mothers, were there to give them an outlet; and there were one or two who I think

were there for a village gossip!

Each of the women, who previously would not have been able to work outside of the rural village, were learning touch typing and we made sure this was interspersed with practice on Microsoft World. We also had the pure privilege of taking the women to an internet cafe for their first ever glimpse of the world wide web. It was a rare opportunity to see those fresh pairs of eyes on the Google home page, realising they had the world at their fingertips for the first time.

During my time with Ispiice, I was also lucky enough to go trekking and camping in the Himalayas and make it up to the snow line - no mean feat! Proving even India isn't as big as it feels, I bumped into some friends from Mumbai around the campfire where, for the first time in the country, we huddled for warmth.

I also journeyed to Amritsar, in the Punjab state. Our first stop was the high-kicking frenzy of the Waghah India/Pakistan border ceremony - a daily extravaganza at sunset where the guards high-kick, stamp, speed march and bawl their way through a choreographed routine. It ends in the lowering of both flags and the slamming of the border gates.

The crowds were swaying and cheering in a way that would supersede the energy of any football or rugby match. I've since heard the guards have had to tone down the belligerent display as it was determined 'too hostile' by Indian officials. Other rumours suggest that the aggressive moves was thought to be injurious to the soldiers' health. I wouldn't be suprised if the latter were true.

We then paid two visits, one by moonlight and the other by sunlight to one of Sikhism's holiest places: The Golden Temple. And gold it was - a beautiful golden island surrounded by water and blindingly white buildings. The temple attracted even more people that the Wagah ceremony, confirming the prevalence of religion above everything in India.

I left Ispiice and beautiful Himachal Pradesh wishing I could stay for longer and hoping I would return in the not too distant future.

A dusty dislike for Delhi

My train arrived over 10 hours late, so Delhi and I did not get off to a great start.

A dusty smog blurred the edges of its highest buildings, choking the city as it frantically prepares to host the Commonwealth Games in October this year. The people of India are eternal optimists; from what I saw and heard, the city will never be ready in time.

Areas of the city could be mistaken as recent war zones, with the fronts of many shops, hotels and houses now heaped - haphazardly - on the streets.

I dusted down and headed for the city's main sights, including the pearly white Lotus Temple of the Baha'i faith, the Taj-like Humayan's Tomb and the spot where Mahatma Gandhi took his final footsteps before he was assassinated - a martyr for peace and democracy. But I could not escape the dust and dirt and it was a feeling a great relief to escape after just a couple of days.

Meeting Mother Ganga

The holy river of the Ganges (Ganga), India's national river, winds through what is considered to be India's holiest and oldest city: Varanasi.

Hundreds of pilgrims come to bathe on its banks every day, which is thought to absolve all sins. Others come to burn their dead as is the wish of every Hindu that their remains enter the river, meaning they will take a straight path to Nirvana and be liberated from the cycle of birth and death (reincarnation).

I was confronted with this reality before I'd even reached my hotel. While negotiating my bags though the tangled streets of the old city, large groups of men appeared out of no where, processing their dead to the river on a elaborately decorated stretchers.

The next morning at dawn, we took a small wooden boat down the river to witness the Ganga in its best light. We sailed along the side of the ghats (endless series of steps leading down to the water, divided into different groups), past the day's first pilgrims, the holy men engaged in a cocophany of chanting and morning puja and the dhobi-wallahs - the laundry people - who slap the wet cloth with gusto on stones at the water's edge.

The pilgrims and locals were performing a series of tasks including bathing, yoga and cleaning their teeth - with nothing more than their finger and the water Mother Ganga provides them.

Seeing the river in the pale, morning light did help me to understand its spiritual appeal and significance, but I certainly had no future plans to brush my teeth in it! Sadly, praised initiatives to clean up the holy waterway seemed to have fallen astray as we saw noxious, filthy water being incessantly pumped into it - just metres from large groups of bathing pilgrims.

Of equal concern are the 'burning ghats'. There are two of these in Varanasi where millions of people gather every year to cremate their loved ones, with up to 300 ceremonies per day. They appear to operate in a physical and financial tiering system, still based on 'lower', 'middle' and 'upper' caste boundaries. The ghats are scattered with huge stacks of wood and the family of the deceased, according to their means, buys one of the many funeral packages. These include a certain quantity of wood based on the weight of the body (sandalwood is considered the best wood, and is naturally the most expensive) and other ritualistic paraphernalia including ghee (clarified butter).

After being dipped in the river, the body is placed on the pyre. The priest and family perform holy rituals, ghee is poured on and the pyre is set alight as the men of the family watch on. Women are not allowed at the ceremony as sorrow and tears are thought to obstruct the deceased's ascension to nirvana, and widows have been known to throw themselves on their husbands' funeral pyres as it is thought to grant them sainthood.

A few hours later, the ashes and bits of bones (rather grimly, the chest bone of a man and the hips of a woman don't burn) are gathered by the eldest son or senior male of the family and consigned to the waters, where 'untouchables' (a group from the lower castes feared by many) dredge up the ash and mud, hoping for a gold tooth or nose ring that has survived the fire.

Not everyone is cremated in this way though. Children under 5, lepers, sadhus (Hindu monks), pregnant women, and cobra bite victims are offered directly to the river.

Despite witnessing this up close, I was coerced into joining the pilgrims the following morning and taking a fully-clothed dip in the Ganga. I felt very uneasy about not being able to even see my hand a few centimetres below the surface, let alone the bottom, in the murky water. The river bed was uneven and sharp (I imagined from human bones) under my gingerly placed feet, so I preferred to swim than stand and was relieved to hop in the shower shortly afterwards.

Meeting Mother Ganga is not something I'll forget in a hurry and after a few days I began to appreciate its mysticism - bones, bodies and all!

Lucknow, for Grandad

Some of my grandfather's greatest Indian moments were spent in Lucknow, the capital of Uttar Pradesh. Off the travellers' trail, this was a place I felt compelled to visit and take some time to read his stories of India.

On the train into Lucknow, we passed through Kanpur - where my Grandfather was based for 2 years. I couldn't begin to contemplate how he was thrown into a more hostile and uncivilised India, still in his teenage years. But it also made sense of the great and humble man he became and following in his footsteps was the ultimate show of respect and admiration for him. This is what brought me to India.

He wrote in his memoirs: "India is a place where patience is a necessity, not a virtue" and never was that more true than in Lucknow.

Without the usual Western frills for tourists, the city was difficult to negotiate. Limited English was spoken by the general population and the rickshaws were constantly heaving with locals. Some of the rickshaw-wallahs from the tourist cities should really consider relocating!

I took myself and my grandfather's memoirs to the huge Botanical Gardens, to find that they only opened from 6am - 8am every day - classic India! By some act of fate, I ended up wandering to The Residency, the ruins of the old British Raj that were besieged in 1857. As I sat reading, I realised my grandfather had enjoyed this very place on more than one occasion with his friends. He wrote:

"There were a number of ancient Muslim temples to see, formidable and awesome in size and structure. We joined the throng on one occasion in our stocking feet, with our shoes left lying in the entrance."

70 years on, and there I sat. I felt an overwhelming connection to one of the most important people in my life.

Big and Baby Taj

When you think of India, you think of the Taj Mahal, which the Indian's will tell you is one of the seven wonders of the world (it isn't). But the city of Agra where is stands is somewhat overlooked.

My plan to bypass Agra (until later), for Lucknow was put on hold for the day as I was unable to make it through the maze of India's northern public transport network until the following day. I took this as a gift to see Agra, and realised that Agra boasts a little more than just the Taj.

We headed to the Red Fort, the rouged cousin of Jaipur's Amber Fort. Another triumph in architecture from India's glory days that we would have appreciated more if there were proper signs! From here, I got my first glimpse of the Taj. The creamy, marble domes (yellowing from pollution) had an ethereal presence on the sparse horizon and everyone's gaze was transfixed.

I wanted to get closer to this tombed monument,

which my own grandfather had caught site of on a 4 day train journey from Karachi (now in Pakistan) to Kanpur, near Lucknow - my next stop.

Allured by its 'cute' name, we headed to the Baby Taj. Despite being, well, just a baby, this monument on the edge of the holy Yamuna River was a sight in its own right. And the best part was having to put on white, cotton booties to protect the stonework from our destructive feet.

Next, we headed to the 'backside' of the Taj Mahal, as the 'frontside' isn't open on Fridays. Through the beautifully laid out gardens, the close-up view of the Taj was breathtaking. It towers over a wasteland, frequented only by water buffalo and a few local people. It was incredibly peaceful and every bit as magical as I had anticipated.

We then headed to the other side and found the highest rooftop cafe (naturally, with the slowest service) to watch the sun go down on this spectacle. All around, the rooftops of Agra were alive with people - and a sprinkling of monkeys. Children and families launched handmade kites into the air, where they dashed and dived in front of the Taj and the hustle and hassle of the street was out of reach. Pure, unforgettable bliss!

Roasting in Rajasthan

Rajasthan, the desert land of India, is not a place you want to be during a heatwave. But to Udaipur I travelled - a whitewashed, fairytale city that brought a welcome change of pace, and a throat infection.

And boy, it was hot! As I wandered through the winding, disorientating streets, every breath I took was hot and dry. I had never experienced heat like it and my befreckled body felt the

strain. The lake, which engulfs the majestic lake palace, was also a victim of the heat - with much

of its bed exposed, moss-green and spongy.

Despite the heat, the people of Udaipur were exceptionally friendly, but clearly bemused by the persistence of tourists visiting the slowly roasting city. Our response was simply "this is the real India" as, after all, extreme weather is just as much a part of the country as its temples and its trains.

Lingering days went by, spent gulping iced drinks and watching children and water buffalo bathe in the depleting lake - the entire scene made enchanting by a hot, dusty glow. Attempts at sight-seeing gave way to a day by the pool, and even watching the Rajasthani folk dancing one evening left us wet with sweat. But we did make an effort to see some of the sun-bleached sights, taking a 'pimped out' rickshaw with huge speakers pumping out a 90s 'Now' album with hits I shamefully knew all the words to.

Jaipur was a similar story, with dust storms sweeping through the 'pink city' by night. Jaipur is the largest city and capital of Rajasthan, but it still manages to retain a good measure of antique charm. The highlight was the spectacular Amber Fort - beholding an ancient, ochre world of Rajasthani Maharajas. It was a lesson in extravagance and our knowledgeable guide painted a picture of the kings who once adorned the group of palaces - some with as many as 12 wives.

After that, there was nothing left to do but head to the solace of a nice hotel pool. The heat was a force to be reckoned with, and I surrendered!

Land of Contrasts: Wealth and poverty

As I have talked about before, and am reminded of every day, India is a land of great extremes - with opulence at on end of the scale and abject poverty at the other.

My grandfather put it best:

"India is said to the a land of fantasy and dreams, a land of colour and variety. Whilst this is no doubt true, it seemed to me it was also a land of great realism, with millions of human beings involved in the most basic forms of survival. Many of the fantasies and dreams are link to the need to cope with the rawness of daily life."

The lines of separation in India's caste system are still perceivable, as are a good measure of its intrinsic social restrictions. The splendour of palaces and temples is at times difficult to enjoy when, just outside, you witness unfathomable poverty and despair.

Beggars, many of which suffer from crippling deformities, are an every day reality in the cities - testing the consciences of passers by. Tourists are discouraged from giving money to them, but ignoring a tiny, barely clothed child's plea for money to eat is one of the most difficult and

saddening things I have ever experienced. The guilt clutches at your heart strings and there appears to be solution.

The slums of India are everywhere. After a battle

with my conscience, I visited the Dharavi slum in Mumbai, said to be Asia's biggest. The sprawling acres of the slums are patched together from scraps of metal, warped plastic, old bricks and bamboo, with narrow lanes winding between them. Seeing the slums, you would be forgiven for thinking this was a temporary fix, but they are a very permanent reality for their inhabitants.

A guide took us through the outer edge of Dharavi, which softened and moulded by initial reaction to seeing the thousands of tin rooftops from above. People were hard at work, being incredibly resourceful with the humble things they had and we were greeted warmly. The slum dwellers had little in terms of possessions, but were rich in so many other ways and could certainly teach the rest of the world a thing or two about recycling!

As the slums continue to thrive, the middle and upper classes are growing in line with India's global industry and consumerism. India's rich and poor continue to operate in separate world's, kept divided by marriage traditions, land ownership, education and, I think, fear. The poor live outside, enduring the sun and basic survival, while the rich are circulating in their air-conditioned lives and eating in new, flashy restaurants and buying into Western culture. I have struggled to consolidate the two and I have met the most heart-warming and honest people from both ends of the spectrum.

Bombay dreams

Before arriving in Mumbai, I had anticipated not enjoying this rapidly growing city after the natural beauty and pace of life in southern Indian. Happily, I was wrong.

I joined the travellers' trail in Colaba and quickly fell in love with the tree-lined streets and epic buildings and made firm friends with my fellow residents of the very basic - but buzzing -Salvation Army Hostel.

My grandfather walked his first Indian footstep

s in this part of Mumbai, or Bombay as it was then known, and described it as a city of tremendous zest and vitality - in all its chaos.

"My first impressions were that a good part of the whole population were on the street together, at the same time; it was seething with swaying bodies and incessant noise from the people and the traffic."

The first thing I visited was The Gateway of India, Mumbai's celebrated waterfront landmark. This was the first and last thing my grandfather saw of India:

"The last view I saw as we sailed away from the dock area was our first when we arrived: the Gateway. I remember looking back for a long time as it faded into the distance of time, and space. Time I would never have again, yet the space I hoped I might well encounter again someday."

In its shadow, or arguably the other way round, is the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel - one of the sites of

Mumbai's terrorist attacks in 2008. Shamefully, myself and a friend, went to one of its grand restaurants and shared nothing more than a bottle of mineral water - but India's finest and most expensive bottle of mineral water, don't forget! I failed to place this magnificent hotel in the context of the India I had known up until this point.

Over the next few days, just about surviving the sweat-inducing humidity, a group of us visited the sights of the city and caught a Bollywood film

at Regal Cinema. Chowpatty beach was a highlight, where flocks of people succumbed to its magnetic pull to enjoy the hazy light of sundown. The beach is a hive of activity at this time, with food sellers, chai-wallahs, games and fairground rides and hundreds of people playing in the surf. The high rise buildings were perfectly sillouhetted in one direction (with the throngs of people creating a subsidiary skyline), and, in the other, you could see the southern-most curl of Mumbai's reclaimed coastline.

We joined the social scene at the infamous Leopold's Cafe (which still bore the bullet holes from that fateful day in 2008) and became 'Bollywood extras' for an Indian soap opera, named 'Geet'. This involved two of us dressing up as air hostesses (my badge name was 'Nancy Drew' - classic) and dabbling in a bit of acting on an airport set - how we laughed!

I quickly became comfortable in the ebb and flow of Mumbai life and understood why the many ex-pats had settled there.

Of course, for all the glamour, there is the grittier side of Mumbai and some of the people I spoke to, many who lived on the street, reduced me to tears. Mumbai is a city of great dreams, found in its developing industry and increasing wealth but also on the streets and in the slums.

I tried to embrace all of it: meeting the men who, in God's name, throw bread rolls into the sea at night for the fish; having my photo taking holding bare-bottomed children; befriending mangy dogs; and dancing in the street with a wedding party.

Getting from A to B, Indian style

Travelling around India is a battle of wills, a test of patience, a shared seat or bed, enormous acts of kindness and throws up just about every scenario you never thought possible.

The cornerstone of local transport is the autorickshaw - a mechanised version of the traditional rickshaw. It is customary before each journey to undergo the haggle, where the cheeky driver gives you a starting price of double or even triple what you should pay. You must then give a

price less than half of what you are willing to pay and after a weary exchange of rolling and pleading eyes, a fair 'tourist' price is reached. Everyone relaxes. The rickshaw then jerks into motion and you are thrown into the stutter of traffic, surrendering your trust to the driver as he dodges and weaves his way with expertise - and often complete recklessness. Nevertheless, it's the best way to make short journeys.

Intermingled in the congestion are wooden wagons, drawn by bullocks, horses and camels, unmarked taxi drivers, bicycle rickshaw wallahs (for an even more perilous journey than the auto), cows, goats, the occasional elephant and general motorists - persistently using their horns to demand right of way, even when the traffic is stationary.

And of course there are the local buses, heaved around the towns and cities by drivers chewing and spitting red betel juice, or paan. Their aging engines roar and shudder as they drive around at alarming speeds, crowded with people that double their capacity.

On India's roads, accidents and mishaps are common and arguments ensue over blame for bumps and hold ups. Overtaking is the norm and at first I found myself closing my eyes and holding my breath for large parts of the journey - but it does get easier!

The long distance bus journeys, both Government and privately run, do not get any easier however. Flying down roads of rubble in the dead of night and roadside stops at 3am for sugary chai and to use the toilet (field or bush) is not for the fainthearted - or sane. I still have yet to recover from a particularly bad 'sleeper' bus that resulted in me throwing up out of the bus window countless times in the early hours of the morning; I'm not the first and I certainly won't be the last.

For long distance journeys, the India train network is the desireable way to travel. As my grandfather wrote: "Travelling on India's railways is one of life's great experiences." Never a truer word spoken.

The trains are always brimming with the over-population of India and seats get booked up weeks in advance. So, to avoid being number 187 on the waiting list (yes, the waiting lists are often this extensive - pure Indian optimism), you have to plan ahead or hope the train has a tourist quota or Tatkal (a late release of seats) available.

The long distance trains (my longest journey was 32 hours!) are sleeper trains, fitted out with hundreds of berths (beds). Naturally, and I have to say thankfully, there is a class system. The regular 'sleeper' carriages have overworked fans, more than the occasional cockroach and often people sleeping in the luggage racks (travellers included). Then there are three air-conditioned options: 1AC, 2AC and 3AC. I have had the pleasure (and in part, displeasure), of trying out each of the different classes, but my preference is 3AC (three-tiered berths of lower, middle and upper) and 2AC (just lower and upper berths) as air-conditioning is a necessity when travelling through the Indian summer.

The single best thing about the trains are the people you meet, even those you end up sharing your seat with. Often travelling by myself, I have shared many a family's food and life stories, and have been quizzed about my own. And there there is the endless stream of chai-wallahs (sweet tea sellers), snack merchants, the occasional holy man and people selling the usual Indian paraphernalia.

At night time, the bunks are set up and in the AC carriages starched sheets - that faintly smell of bleach - and pillows and blankets are provided for a fairly decent night's sleep. The talking stops and you are serenaded by the occasional mobile phone, burp, fart and guttural snoring.

Morning arrives and you are greeted by the pungent yet passable toilets, a salty nut cutlet and chai for breakfast and yet more people pile on.

Indian transport is a delight, a fright and a whole new wealth of experience.

A taste of home and lime pickle

Beyond my grandfather's inspiration, my other motivation to visit India was gifted to me by Cardiff University's Youth of India Society (YUVA). I met some wonderful people through this, who were wonderfully passionate about their Mother land, not least of which was my good friend Shree, who I stayed with for the week in his home of Coimbatore, Tamil Nadu.

Another bemusing and eventful journey under my belt, I arrived at Shree's luxurious family home and enjoyed a few days of his mother, Meera's, homecooking (founding my affection for spicy and zesty lime pickle) and Raju family life.

This was my first true encounter of an Indian home and I quickly understood the importance placed on family. Shree (or Sandip, as they affectionately call him) and his brilliantly tenacious sister, Sneha, whisked me out to dinner most days and tried to show me as much as possible of their cosmopolitan home in the few days we had together.

Sneha took me shopping for some beautiful Indian clothes and both her and the shop assistants were amused by my 'strange' colour choices and difficulty trying on the large Salwar trousers.

I was also honoured to be part of Shree's grandparents' 50th wedding anniversary celebrations. Setting off early in my new bright orange dress, I rode on the back of Shree's scooter - out of the city - along streets laced with coconut, banana and betel nut trees. We were heading to the hills and to the Esha Ashram, a serene Shiva temple where the family gave thanks for the long and happy marriage. The most memorable part of the experience for me was, dressed in just a deep red robe, bathing with Sneha, Meera and Shree's grandmother in a special pool containing Shiva's silver orb. Sneha and I helped Shree's grandmother to swim over to it and we all took it in turns to place our hands on it and feel its vibrations.

To finish off my visit, Sneha took me to a Mehindi street artist to have my hands decorated with

henna. The rich reddy brown artwork was vivid on my (persistently) pale skin. In south India, traditionally the bride and groom have Mehindi for their wedding day. In the north, all the female wedding guest join in and 2 days before the ceremony gather for a Mehindi party. Shree's family laughed at my impatience as I sat and fidgeted in my seat, waiting for it to dry.

Indian family life is built upon the foundations of love, respect, faith and good food and I was lucky to be a part of that. Thank you to the Raju family!

Chilling out in hot Hampi

After the fast pace of the city, Hampi's laid back Indian style and effortlessly beautiful landscape made for a nice breather.

Slightly hampered by the infamous 'Delhi belly' (I'll spare you the details), I allowed myself to get in since with the slow rhythm of life in the historic settlement. Hampi has an ethereal glow and you feel like you're in the midst of an epic Indiana Jones film set. Colossal rocks and crumbling ruins scatter its dusty, ochre landscape and I struggled to take in the magnitude of what lay before me.

Bewitching Hampi was chosen by Telugu prince Harihararaya in 1336 as the site for his new capital, which grew over the next couple of centuries into one of the largest Hindu empires in Indian history, with over 500,000 inhabitants and busy bazaars dabbling in international commerce, brimming with precious stones and merchants. This all came to an abrupt end in 1565 when the leaders of the Muslim-ruled kingdoms in South India razed it to the ground - a blow from which Hampi never recovered. Now only a few families live in the main bazaar area, surrounded by the remnants of a lost empire.

As an exception to the relaxed tempo of Hampi, everyone who arrives in the main bazaar area has to register at the local police station, which is tucked away in a decaying ruin at the far end of the bazaar. I think the main purpose of this visit is to scare all the tourists into staying in after dark - I guess this makes their lives a whole lot easier!

On my first morning, I walked along the river, speckled with giant rocks and stones, and then through a banana plantation for lunch. As I emerged back along the main track, an Indian family beckoned me over and, before I knew it, a massive plateful of food was thrust my way. Feeling far to polite to say no to the eager pairs of eyes wanting to share their picnic banquet with me, I tucked into my second lunch of the day!

Feeling the squeeze, I headed to the figurehead of Hampi bizaar: the Virupaksha Temple. At er negotiating my way past the old women selling small bananas and the men asleep in the pockets of shade in the entrance, I left my shoes and felt the fire of the midday heat on the soles of my feet. The resident elephant, Lakshmi (named after the Hindu god of wealth and prosperity), was inside waiting for my Rs. 10 note (but naturally she accepts Rs. 1 coins from Indians) so I could receive her special blessing.

This was one of many ornately carved stone temples in the Hampi ruins and none of them failed to impress me!

The rest of that day and the next involved broken sunglasses, a knuckle fight with the fan in my room and stepping in a cowpat at 2am in my pyjamas, so I welcomed the arrival of Saturday with open arms.

An early start was called for to watch Lakshmi, India's most pampered elephant, have her twice-daily bath in the river. Well two helpers scrubbed and scrubbed her for 2 hours (so I'm told, I didn't last longer than 30 minutes!).

I then walked through the dramatic landscape to the Vitalla temple, which boasted a stone chariot with wheels that once were capable of turning. With two Australian friends, I rented bikes (probably not the brightest idea in 42 degree heat) and headed to the Royal Centre of Hampi to explore more of the crumbling landscape including the Lotus Mahal and the old Elephant stables. We also came across the unreal Underground Virupaksha Temple, built in the name of Lord Shiva (the god of destruction, and patron of the arts), which was filled with knee-deep water, and lots of bats!

All too quickly it was goodbye to beautiful Hampi, but I was on my way to see a good friend from University in Coimbatore, Tamil Nadu for a few days of luxury!

Incense, oils and foreigners

What first struck me about Mysore as we charged in by bus, was the amount of trees that lined its bustling streets. The towering walls of the Maharaja's palace and other regal looking buildings gave it a fairytale glow and I knew instantly I was going to like it here.

I found myself a dirtcheap - and regrettably dirty - hotel and set off to see the main attraction. The opulent palace was built for the Wodeyar Maharajas (kings of Mysore) and I understood the true size of it as I arrived at the wrong entrance and had to trace the outside wall to the very opposite side. Phew!

Becoming increasingly tightfisted with my Rupees, I was somewhat put out by having to pay TEN times as much as Indian people to get in, and then having to pay to put my camera in a locker and again to put my shoes on a wonky metal rack. A few deep breaths later and it was off to explore the impressive dwelling, with its intricate paintings, colourful glass ceilings and ornate carvings. I was instinctively aware of the many pairs of eyes on me as I tried to blend in with the crowd - I don't think they were fond of my leggings and the sunglasses perched on my head. Note to self: in future, try not to look like such a tragic tourist at big public attractions.

I was hit by a pang of loneliness when I wanted to share my amusement at the sign "joy rides" with a big arrow pointing towards 3 tired and gaunt camels tied to a fence. And the quickly forming queue of people wanting to have their photo with me.

That evening I had my first 'Thali' meal - a large round tray filled with small round pots full of many different dishes, served with chapati and rice. Due to table shortage, I ate with a family from Mysore who insisted I ate absolutely everything on my over-sized plate and then ordered me some refills. Who are these people that come back from India 2 stone lighter?!

I awoke early and foggy-eyed the next day to catch a bus to the summit of Chamundi Hill. At the top stands the majestic Sri Chamundeswari Temple, which was already being jostled by queues of early morning worshippers. I joined the queue and was kept entertained by monkeys playing in the trees overhead. Inside the temple, the morning puja (or pooja, depending on who you speak to) was being performed. In Hinduism, the act of puja is giving a gift or offering to a deity and many of the people in front of me were also symbolically bathing themselves in water and a flame from an oil lamp. The smell inside the temple was enough to keep me inside for some time, with incense burning and wafts of sweet Jasmine flower from the ladies' hair (a very common adornment for Indian women and children, sold everywhere in delicate garlands).

To shatter the scented serenity of the temple, I was once again asked to be in many photos. I joked with them that I charged 5 Rupees per photo, but I was beginning to think this wasn't such a bad idea.

I spent the afternoon drifting through the vibrant markets, where the exotic becomes the everyday. Mysore pumped out a different smell with every step I took. Amid the usual smells of spices drifting from restaurants, hot dust, sizzling street food, and some rather more disagreeable sniffs (fuel, urine, cow), there was also intense wafts of incense and oils such as Sandalwood and Waterlily. Mysore really is a feast for the senses.

I then went along to an incense factory, where small women sat on the floor rolling sticks to be sold around the world. Each woman methodically crafted 7,000 sticks of incense a day, working from 8am until 8pm, not once looking up from their small wooden table. I tried to ask about how much there were paid for their backbreaking work, but the guide had selective understanding of English, it seemed.

After a satisfying Masala dosa (a pancake made from rice and black lentils stuffed with spiced potatoes), it was time to head to the central bus station to catch an overnight bus to Hampi, further north in Karnataka.

Walking through that bus station surely took days off my life, with the buses spewing out thick exhaust fumes and queuing bumper to bumper, with raging honks and yells. I was more than relieved to meet two German girls also making their way to Hampi, and we became firm friends - a death defying bus experience will do that to you! To say I didn't sleep a wink would be untrue, but I was more than lucid for the white knuckle parts of the journey - rudely awoken when my whole body and bags were flung onto the hard metal side of the bus at speed.

As we arrived into Hampi the following morning, I vowed that I would never take a Government bus overnight again.

Making friends on the way to Mysore

I had prepared myself for a lengthy journey to Mysore in Karnataka, and it didn't disappoint.

I caught a train from Varkala up the coast to Calicut, some 7 hours away. I was in a 3AC carriage (more about the trains later) and its coolness was such a treat after the hot fan-circulated air I have learned to live with.

I sat with an old couple who were going to visit their daughter in Goa and they insisted I share some of their still warm home-cooked food. Then every hour, they produced package after package of fried Jack fruit, rice balls, salty banana chips and more, pouring handfuls for me before digging in themselves. Indian people love their food and they love sharing it even more!

The relaxing train journey came to an abrupt end and I found myself thrust into the brash and bustling city of Calicut. I sought cover in a taped-up taxi cab to take me to the bus station - a place best frequented by daylight. After much to-ing and fro-ing and cow dodging, I realised I would not be going anywhere that evening.

There was nothing left to do but check myself into a marble-floored hotel for the night for a bit of crisis-curing luxury. In the white sterility of that hotel, I realised just how grubby myself and my backpack possessions had become. So I got power-shower happy and indulged in television and hotel freebies.

Refreshed and cleansed, the next morning I found myself a breezy window seat on the bus to Mysore. And it was time to make my next friend of this epic journey: a girl in her twenties who, rather than go for mundane introductory chit chat, simply fell asleep for the best part of the journey nuzzling into my shoulder. Not a word was spoken between us for the entire 9 hours but I think we are now friends for life.

We flew (yes, there were definitely times when all four wheels were off the ground at the same time) through the mountains as we crossed through Karnataka state. The lush forests and deadly drops were breathtaking - as was the driver's pace and confidence. He took on hairpin bends at bonecrushing speed and the bus clanked, dodged and screeched its way to Mysore.

And by some miracle, we did arrive in the city of incense and fine silk.

A million miles in Varkala

After two chaotic and confusing bus journeys, I arrived in the paradise of Varkala on the south coast of Kerala.

Varkala feels a million miles away from the rest of Kerala, let alone the rest of India I have left to explore. Western girls walk around freely with legs and shoulders bared, Bob Marley pours out of restaurants with Tibetan, Italian and a whole host of other national cuisine, and it just looks entirely different from what I have experienced of India so far.

Of course, the main town has the typical food stalls, thriving roads and a thousand smells constantly changing with every sniff. But this was not the town, this was the cliff and beach haven frequented by many travellers, some who simply never leave.

Being about 10 shades whiter than every single person here, I quickly realised that days in Varkala were filled with dedicated sun worship. On the cliff nestles quirky hotels, great shops and of course the multi-cultural clusters of restaurants. The cliff face itself has pathways down to the main beach and along the coastline a few quieter beaches cling to the cliff edge.

On my first night, I joined an eclectic group of chirpy travellers in a sea-facing restaurant. This was my latest night in India so far, laughing and chatting as more and more people joined our group. We sat on cushions by candle light and I had my first Indian beer - this was a far cry from the 10pm curfew I had already gotten used to.

The next day, after a lingering breakfast overlooking the sea, I headed down the steep steps to the sandy beach below. I went for a swim and could feel the strong currents that earned Varkala the title of one of Kerala's most dangerous beaches. But this didn't seem to deter people and everyone, including me, was having so much fun in the flattening waves! The beach does have its own lifeguard with a solitary rescue ring, "symbolic", I guess.

I then walked the length of this beautiful coastline, a thirsty task but worth every water-swigging second. This was a completely new India and, while I didn't feel like I was experiencing the 'real India' I had come all this way for, it was paradise for a handful of days.

Varkala was a million miles away from the rest of India, but only a 14 hour train ride to my next stop...