A mosquito just bit me on the spot on the head where you go bald from. Oh god there's another one! Eugh it tried to go in my ear. I've got biriani belly, my water tastes like chlorine and this computer is old enough to be confused by how grandmas work. That's right, I made it to India alive! (even more impressive when you consider that I've had to cross the road SEVERAL times in order to get here).
Stepping out of Chennai airport it's immediately obvious that we're in somewhere completely foreign. The humid air presses all around, much like the crowd of taxi drivers, vagabonds and a hoard of other staring brown people. After making several passes through the throng we eventually find our driver man. He quotes a mega rip off price, fine, it's what I was expecting. What came as a far greater shock was the liberal approach to any form of traffic rules followed by one and all. HONK HONK HONK HONK HONK honk-honk HONK etc. Smaller vehicles give way to bigger, (please don't mess with that bus brave little tuktuk man), and a honk of the horn is a sufficient warning that you're about to career through a junction between pedestrians and heavy perpendicular traffic. (Someone motorbiked on my leg today, painful but he only really gets dickhead points in my little book of 'notes for revenge: a tally of naughty points for all the silly people' for this for not honking. The positive side is that the tyre marks, of course, look pretty hench). Other than this anything goes. To cross the road is to run a gauntlet through honking weaving wheels and metal. (I have adopted the approach of waiting for the biggest of the busses to pass and to shuffle forward slowly and allow the river of tiny 'honda hero' motorbikes and rickshaws to wash around me and pray that I come out the other side alive. I usually do.)
At the hotel the bell boy demands a tip. Yes, demands. In confusion over exchange rates I accidentally give him about 20 times too much. probably a couple of days wages. no wonder he's so eager to part foreign chumps from their cash.
Next day we manage to navigate the queues at the train station and catch a train to Puducherry.The ticket costs about 50p for a 3 hour journey. Hear that London Midland? 50p! no not GBP 50 you money hungry waistcoated mini-ogres.Though in fairness I would have paid a little extra to avoid the smell of wee wees...
I've no time for more - another train to catch! I shall continue next time I can find an internet cafe.
Cheerio for now!
Gordon
Stepping out of Chennai airport it's immediately obvious that we're in somewhere completely foreign. The humid air presses all around, much like the crowd of taxi drivers, vagabonds and a hoard of other staring brown people. After making several passes through the throng we eventually find our driver man. He quotes a mega rip off price, fine, it's what I was expecting. What came as a far greater shock was the liberal approach to any form of traffic rules followed by one and all. HONK HONK HONK HONK HONK honk-honk HONK etc. Smaller vehicles give way to bigger, (please don't mess with that bus brave little tuktuk man), and a honk of the horn is a sufficient warning that you're about to career through a junction between pedestrians and heavy perpendicular traffic. (Someone motorbiked on my leg today, painful but he only really gets dickhead points in my little book of 'notes for revenge: a tally of naughty points for all the silly people' for this for not honking. The positive side is that the tyre marks, of course, look pretty hench). Other than this anything goes. To cross the road is to run a gauntlet through honking weaving wheels and metal. (I have adopted the approach of waiting for the biggest of the busses to pass and to shuffle forward slowly and allow the river of tiny 'honda hero' motorbikes and rickshaws to wash around me and pray that I come out the other side alive. I usually do.)
At the hotel the bell boy demands a tip. Yes, demands. In confusion over exchange rates I accidentally give him about 20 times too much. probably a couple of days wages. no wonder he's so eager to part foreign chumps from their cash.
Next day we manage to navigate the queues at the train station and catch a train to Puducherry.The ticket costs about 50p for a 3 hour journey. Hear that London Midland? 50p! no not GBP 50 you money hungry waistcoated mini-ogres.Though in fairness I would have paid a little extra to avoid the smell of wee wees...
I've no time for more - another train to catch! I shall continue next time I can find an internet cafe.
Cheerio for now!
Gordon
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