Page Title

The story follows the journey of myself, a woman in my thirties escaping from the humdrum of temporary secretarial jobs in the UK to travel alone around India for two months. After grabbing a guidebook, a backpack and a few quid I set off, at that time with my dignity in tact, for the ultimate in travel challenges and the place I had always been drawn to but never had the courage to try. My relationship with India was a torrid affair with the mother of illness, frustration, confusion, spirituality, hysterics, bewilderment, exhaustion, sunshine and torrential rainstorms. It identifies with anyone who has ever thought about escaping from 'real' life but didn't think they had the money or the courage to try; people who have travelled or are travelling around exotic locations on a budget; and people who would like to travel around exotic locations but haven't managed to get round to it yet. Each chapter is formatted as a short story and continues to include the full journey. Although it is non-fiction, it is written as a very light hearted and sometimes insightful story of India and life, using emails to friends as a means of therapy.

Foreword

My first 'backpacking' experience had been a two week visit to Thailand cushioned by an expat ex-boyfriend meeting me at the airport and showing me the ropes. Two big ones he carried in his backpack. He took the rug out from under my feet by scornfully mocking me if I ever said I couldn't do something, and annoyed me so much with his arrogance that all I wanted to do was prove to him that I could conquer the world if I so wished. I just didn't want to right now because I was having my legs waxed. I was, at last, prepared to climb this insurmountable mountain, to immerse myself in this whirlpool of colour and spice and face this nation of spirituality and extremes. I had been in training. I had worked out my travel muscles and shadow boxed my biggest fears. I was ready for the big fight.

I was about to get knocked out in the first round. Ding! Ding!

A Room with a View

I drift in and out of sleep all night, aware that my hands are boiling hot and that I am having strange hallucinations about Indian doctors taking my pulse and wiring me up to a life support machine. One of my saviours appears to be Dev from Coronation Street, and I am hastily trying to inform him that I haven't got my own hypodermic needles and so could be at risk from contracting HIV. It is now the middle of the night and, in my panic, I decide to do the worst thing anyone who might even be marginally hypochondriac should do. I consult the health section of the Lonely Planet for guidance on what it is I appear to be dying from. Perhaps it's Malaria? No, I haven't been here long enough, or actually bitten too much yet. Typhoid? Dangerous fever, gut infection, feels like flu! Could be. It says the victim has a slow pulse. I can't feel mine at all! I realise I must be alive or I wouldn't be panicking. Haven't I been vaccinated for that? Rabies? No clogs yet. Ahhhggggghhhhhhh!!!!!!! I have a rash on my stomach! It must be meningitis

Desert Winds

It gets to about midnight and despite the bumpy road and the breakneck speed the driver is pelting down it; despite the fact that the men at the front of the bus have the door open to let customers on and off and are hanging out the door shouting the name of the next town; despite the horn blowing every two minutes as the driver swerves to avoid hitting another rickshaw, cow or foolhardy pedestrian; and despite my L-shaped position, I find myself nodding off. At least I nod off until my neck becomes so contorted at an angle that cannot be possible when awake, and the bloody horn blower blows his horn once more. What else did you get for Christmas mate? But a couple of hours later and after a stop at the Indian equivalent of a Little Chef -- an atmospheric shack at the side of the road lit by coal fires and men frying samosas and making chapattis while the dogs hang around waiting for the chance of a tiny morsel being dropped or thrown nearby -- we are shouted at to change buses. I and the other exhausted tourists looking confused and very bleary eyed traipse off the bus quickly collecting our things and wondering what happened to that bus that was supposed to go directly to Jaisalmer, do not pass go, do not collect £200 Then the fight is on to find a seat and get to it before anyone else. I must be getting good at this now and my elbows have become very sharp ninja like weapons in the fight for travel survival.

Apple Pie and the Sound of the Universe

...Here I am surrounded by devout and serious listeners in a hall facing a man dressed in orange who appears to be stuffed and another man who is talking into his beard about the universe while disco lights are flashing in the background. Bizarre and almost funky

...Over the next week I settle into some sort of routine, which is kind of nice for a change. The routine rotates around my timetable at the ashram:

4.3Oam Morning Bell (Sod off, its too bloody early)

5.00-6.OOam Meditation (ditto)

6.30-7.3Oam Yoga (just about drag myself out of bed for this one)

8.OOam Breakfast (i.e. go back to bed for a couple of hours to avoid the gruel)

12.QOpm Lunch (Mmm Thali)

4.OOpm Tea (chai and a farley's rusk - luxury sweetness in this moderate place)

5.30-6.3Opm Yoga (more bendy stuff)

7.00-8.OOpm Meditation (winking orange man under disco lights)

8.1 5pm Dinner (Mmm, more of the same Thali)