Job the New Driver

'I’m new driver.'

Oh god.

The boy who picks us up from Kochin airport hasn’t yet told us him name and I daren’t enquire about his age but he’s immediately clear on one thing; he’s clueless.

I assume this to be the reason behind his quiet manner (when he does make comment, it’s always preceded with ‘the agency tells me..’) but after almost two days of silence he suddenly speaks up:

‘I like you two. Until day before yesterday when we started I was sad. Now I feel happy.’

Neither one of us is quite sure what to say. We’ve done little to deserve his happiness; in hindsight, we gave up attempting conversation far too easily but we’re nonetheless happy that we’ve somehow cheered this little chap up.

But from what?

‘Last week, my family suffered a death. My sister’s husband had an attack on his heart. He was very young.’

And his sister is even younger. A widow at 25, her prospects are poor to say the least. We know from Manu that the family will have paid a great sum for her to marry her husband and there’s little chance of receiving compensation now he’s passed.

‘I was in Saudi Arabia to make good life. Now I return to India to support my family.’

Job took the first opportunity offered to him which just so happened to be driving. Over the course of the next few days I question many times whether it’s the career for him.

Drivers in India earn so little that they sleep in the car to save on expenses. Job, on the other hand, prefers to take a room each night and uses the small remainder of his daily salary on joining in on the activities we fill our days with. On the odd occasion he negotiates local rates, therefore saving us money but still spending his own. He never lets us pay.

I feel riddled with guilt knowing that he’ll be making no profit from our trip but my concerns seem not to be shared. Each morning, Job greets us with the biggest smile and his growing happiness begins to ease my heart. Perhaps that really is more valuable than money.

We see many wonders with Job over the next few days, from the Table Station viewpoint, to the Madupatty Dam and incredible Punarjani show but my favourite stop of all is the very last.

‘On way to final destination, we pass near my home. It’s possible to stop?’

It’s the least we can do and although it turns out to almost an hour out of our way, we’re more than happy to make a diversion so Job can see his family. Only when we arrive, do we realise that’s not the prime purpose of the trip. Of course Job would like to see his parents and sisters but what he really wants is for them to see us.

Job beams with pride as he presents us to his father on the doorstep of his home.

‘Welcome friends.’

We step inside the quaint little house and are seated immediately down at the table. We’re still introducing ourselves to Job’s elder sister and her husband when the mother emerges from the kitchen with an armful of dishes.

‘This like chicken. Bigger. Clurrrrrk. This one biggg…’

The guessing game with Job’s father lasts a little while until we eventually settle on turkey, buffalo, a vegetable dahl, coconut rice and chapatti. It all looks delicious and I’m dying to tuck in but we wait patiently for everyone to take their place at the table.

Only they never do…The family gather around us but nobody sits down.

I sense my eyes widen in panic as I realise this feast is all for us. The family have already eaten and I can’t know for sure but I have a strong feeling they didn’t eat so well. Meat is a particularly special treat.

Again I feel torn between not wanting to take yet not wanting to offend and knowing that out here, the two are mutually exclusive. These people with such enormous hearts find the greatest pleasure in pleasing others so we eat as much as our stomachs can handle and return their smiles between each bite.

In broken English, we learn all about the family’s lives. Job’s father is a pastor, having converted from Hinduism to Christianity in early adulthood and now travels around India delivering sermons. He’s even been paid to go to England! His widowed sister is staying with her late husband’s family further South whilst his other sister and brother in law live here with his parents and their young baby. On cue, Kutu comes crawling in demanding love and attention.

‘We must take photograph. Our English family!’

Before I know it, there are arms around us everywhere and I’m being handed Kutu to pose with. Somewhere in a small town in Kerala, there is now a brilliant photograph of a horrified English girl holding a screaming baby stood proudly on a mantelpiece.  

Manu in Paradise

Manu greets us at the gate to Clouds Land and shows us to our room. His welcome is short and sweet (and incredibly apologetic) as he must attend to his wife who has a ‘baby inside’ and is expecting soon. We agree to meet in the morning and I look forward to it.

Sure enough, Manu appears bright and early with a plateful of coconut and banana pancakes to match the sweetness of his smile.

‘You like avocado?’

Yes! After almost two weeks of nothing but curries, I’ve been craving exactly that.

‘Here, I bring avocado juice. My uncles has an avocado plant. Actually, I have so many avocado I don’t know what to do. Kilos and kilos but  nobody in India knows avocado.’

I’m astounded. If Manu could sell his avocado at even a fraction of the price we pay fo it in the UK, he could probably afford to shut up shop. This accommodation is costing us the equivalent of about three fruits.

Sipping on our fresh juices, we ask after his wife and unborn baby. Is it a boy or a girl?

‘Actually, we do not know. It is not allowed to know in India.’

Oh. Is it seen as an unnecessary expense, perhaps?

‘No not that. Actually it is thought that too many peoples want only a boy.’

I see. They’ll abort if they know it’s a girl.

‘It is difficult for girls in India. We prefer to bring a boy into this life.’

The worry in his voice is unmissablee.

‘That is my reason. Actually, for others it is money. When a baby girl grows older and becomes a bride, the father must pay the husband’s family. It is very expensive.’

A phrase surfaces in my mind which now suddenly makes sense: I wish you ten daughters and may they all marry well. It’s an insult, not a blessing.

We finish our breakfast and Manu takes us on a tour of the surrounding tea plantation which he adores.

‘Actually, I’m in paradise.’

I smile at the unintentional sass in his voice as he, like many others in India, begins every English sentence with ‘actually’, but staring out at the inifinte maze of intertwining tea trees I know I couldn’t have put it any better myself.

As we lose ourselves in the fields o Munnar, Manu shares his story of how he found his way here.

‘I was living in the city where nobody smiles. Then I had a plan; a plan to be happy.’

I ask how he decided on Munnar. Has he visited much else of India?

‘No it is too expensive for me to travel but this is good. Actually, for me this is like travel because I meet new peope every day and hear their stories. Actually, it is very good.’

And actually, I agree J

Luigi at the Periyar Lodge

'Many Happy Returns.'

A short Indian man going by the name of Luigi greets us at the Periyar River Lodge. A little birdy has called ahead to tell him it's my birthday. 

And what a place to spend it!

We take the opportunity whilst Luigi is unloading the car ('I insist') to explore the grounds and find our bearings. It doesn't take us long. The small plot of land is set just a few metres back from the riverbed and home to a beautiful wooden lodge with an open atrium at the centre, a dining room and small kitchen on one side and two bedrooms on the other. 

'The other bedroom is empty this evening. You are our only guests.'

Beside Luigi stands Eldon, a toothless giant with little comprehendible English but the widest smile which requires no explanation; they’re delighted to have us to stay.

When the pair disappear to go and prepare dinner, we stretch ourselves out on the veranda sipping two fresh coconuts and admiring the view. The silence of our surroundings is blissful following the chaos of Bangalore. 

‘Dinner is served.’

In contrast to Eldon, Luigi’s English is impeccable and he has a way with words which one would only expect from a mother tongue. 

‘Did you see the bed of weeds upon the river? Cast your eye early in the morning and you will find them covered with a purple blanket of flowers, as though the forest has tucked them in for the night.’

As we set off in the long boat the following morning, we discover that Luigi speaks as truthfully as he does beautifully. Both he and Eldon join us as we glide through the water disturbing the peaceful stillness with our wooden oars. At first glance, we appear to be the only movement for miles around but Luigi teaches us to see with our ears as well as our eyes. 

‘Tunk tunk tunk. Do you hear it? Greater racket-tail drongo. There! There it is!’

Sure enough, a small, black bird with twin tailed feathers swoops down from the canopy. She’s beautiful but I lose sight of her as another bird in an erratic flight path steals my attention. 

‘Hornbill. He flies like a rollercoaster. Up, then down, then up, then down.’

The hornbill’s reputation precedes him. A skilled thief, he’s known throughout Kerala for robbing the market men of their daily fruit supplies. The crickets jitter in response. 

Luigi’s ears prick up at the rustle of a nearby bush as flashes of bright blue reveal themselves between the leaves. I know this one; Kingfisher!

Led by the red tip of its beak the Kingfisher darts across the river, narrowly missing a poised Snakebird drying out in the sun.  

Something howls deep in the forest. What was that? A monkey? An elephant?

‘Perhaps a bison.’ 

Luigi’s voice is calm but it does little to comfort me as the horns of a large beast break the surface of the water in front of us. 

A bison?! No, a cow…dozens in fact! 

We watch on in confusion as a whole herd of cattle doggy paddle between the riverbanks. 

‘In this instance, the grass really is greener on the other side.’

Luigi explains that the farmers encourage their cows to cross every morning to enjoy the fresh grass which is yet to be touched by human life. They return by themselves each night. 

This morning has been full of surprises but there’s still one more to come and it descends upon us in a flurry of fluorescent green. What is that?!  

It’s Luigi’s turn to look confused now.

‘That? That is just a pigeon. Many, many pigeons in this area.’

It certainly doesn’t look like any pigeon I’ve ever seen. 

‘There is another like the normal pigeon but ash in colour. He’s very rare.'

I smile to myself, realising that ‘normal’ for him is green and the ‘ash colour’ he describes is grey – Luigi is referring to a wood pigeon.

He’d have a field day in London, just as I am here in India. 

Gooru & Bengaluru

It's late when we board the train at Hospet, much later than it should have been. The mosquitoes are out, the dogs are prowling and the moon is glowing unusually pink. 

The additional hour wait has at least given us time to suss out the carriage system so we don't repeat the last leg's episode. It's with confidence we step onto the sleeper train and locate our beds and with bitter dismay that we find a rather large Indian man already occupying that space. 

'Ah. Your seats are here?'

Yes. I struggle to hide the irritation in my voice. 

'Allow me to help you.'

He shifts his own bags to make room for ours beneath the horizontal shelves which become beds on the late night train services. 

'You want to sleep now?'

Um. Soon. I mumble my response, sheepish that he's returned by abruptness with kindness but still too tired to redeem myself properly. 

'Okay, soon.'

He's taken it literally, of course. In India, everything is meant exactly as it is said and so he's assumed that my 'soon' means 'not right now,' rather than 'right this second' or 'an hour ago, in fact.' 

Blissfully unaware of my Britishness, he launches into conversation: 'My name is Gooru.'

He's well dressed and speaks impeccably. We follow the usual 'where are you from, where are you going, how many days in India' routine and in turn discover that Gooru is on his way home to Bangalore after spending the previous night at his brother's house warming party a few stops from Hospet. 

We make the most of his local knowledge and inquire which of the three Bangalore stations we're best to get off at and how long it will take us to travel from there to the airport. 

Having known us now for a solid three minutes, Gooru invites us to his home for breakfast insisting that we won't find a better meal in the entire city. 

'My wife is the best cook there is! And she'll be delighted to have you. You must.'

His smile was so warming that it was with huge regret, we had to decline. My mum had already booked a special breakfast for us as it would be the morning of my birthday. 

'Ah wishing you the happiest of birthdays! Well then you must at least let me book you a cab. If I book it, you'll get a much cheaper fare.'

We'd noticed the last couple of days that tourists are charged up to double the locals' fees for train tickets, temples, tuk tuk journeys, accommodation and even food. When it's so cheap though, it's difficult to mind and in a way it's nice that the Indians all look out for one another. They're like one big family. 

Gooru is keen to make us part of that family too. 

'You're a guest in my country and I want you to love it like I do. If I look out for you, you will leave India with happy memories and maybe one day you will return again.'

He's digging out his phone to arrange a cab when suddenly he stops. 

'Oh wait! You have Uber?!'

Do you? I can't hide my surprise that something which I consider to be so modern-world has made its way to India. 

'Yes, we have Uber! And it's the cheapest way to get around. We have Uber X, Uber XL like you. But we also have Uber Moto and Uber Go, perhaps not like you? These are small cars and bikes or tuk tuks?'

I smile at the thought of me ordering an Uber in London and a tuk tuk turning up. Amazing. 

We're so grateful for the tip and continue to listen to Gooru's teachings on India, including the different types of rice in every region and what temperatures we can expect to be met with in Munnar. 

'It's okay if you're used to sweating.'

We're getting used to it fast. 

Almost mid-sentence, he realises he's run over his parameter for 'soon' and must leave us to sleep. 

'Goodnight girls.'

Goodnight Gooru. 

Happy Holi, Happy Hampi

‘HAPPY HOLI!’

The chorus of a dozen, excitable young voices accompanies the explosion of colour catapulting into the side of our tuk tuk.

Whoooosh. And another. And another. 

It's not yet 7am but already, my once white t-shirt is decorated beyond recognition.   

Holi began as a Hindu festival to mark the beginning of Spring but this care-free, free-for-all carnival of colours is now enjoyed and celebrated by everyone wishing to express love, frolic and colour throughout India. The festivities start early in the morning when those taking part take to the streets and chase one another with dry powder, paint, water balloons and all sorts else.

We start out with powder which we purchase in haste as our tuk tuk leaves us fully exposed in the centre of Hampi square. The colours are all so enticing, I buy one of every colour and am suddenly swarmed by young children who are only too happy to show us how it’s done; ‘mix with water and whoooosh!’

Within seconds we’ve gone from having every colour of the rainbow to none at all. At least not in our hands; it’s now all over our face, hair and body instead! We’ve been well and truly hustled but I can’t help smiling as we follow the frenzy down to the river, covered in hundreds of tiny handprints and the blessings of a Happy Holi.

Drumming echoes throughout the narrow streets, growing louder and louder with every step. We weave in and out with no particular route in mind, allowing ourselves to be swept up in the parades of people dancing and splashing in the coloured puddles. I turn to check my mum’s still with me and burst out laughing at the state of her attire. Then I catch my own reflection in her sunglasses; I’m so covered in paint that it takes me a moment to even realise it’s me! There’s something wonderful about the anonymity that the paint gives us. Today, nobody is white or brown – today, we’re all multi-coloured.

At last we reach the river and on the crossing over, begin to realise the extent of the festivities on the other side. The parade is at least ten times the size of any we’ve come across yet, led by a group of men playing exotic instruments and dancing wildly. We find our spot in the midst of the madness and shuffle along with the crowd. I begin to lose count of how many times we’re struck with a colour bomb or unruly limb. It’s not long before I lose all concept of time completely.

It’s a surreal day, to the point where it could almost be mistaken as a colourful dream were it not for the remnants of Holi spread throughout town for days following. My stained skin serves as proof too, smudges of purple and green still very apparent even after my eighth shower in two days. No matter how long the colour lasts though, the memories will definitely outlive them. 

A Man Named Mowgli, Hampi

I follow the boy up to our hut, skipping to keep up with his strong pace. He has an air of indifference about him which surprises me. In any normal circumstances, I'd barely notice but we've quickly become used to locals' keen interest in us as foreigners; where we're from, where we're going, what we're doing in India. I realise I don't even know his name. 

'Mowgli,' he responds, 'like the jungle.'

As he looks back, I notice how intensely different he is. Whilst he shares the jet black hair and copper complexion of his many brothers, he appears to glow as the sun's rays reflect beautifully off his smooth skin and brighten the white of his eyes. 

'You're from England.'

It's more of a statement than a question and I'm impressed that he can so confidently distinguish between the many tongues which share our language. 

'Yeh I can tell, innit.' His lips flicker with a wicked smile as he slips into his best cockney imitation. It's not a conversation but it's a start and I grasp at the opportunity to return the question. 

'Yuh, Hampi. Born here. Grew up here. My family all still here.' He says it proudly and he has every right to be. The place is stunning. 

I wait for him to elaborate but he doesn't. Instead I ask him where's best to watch the sunset. 

Mowgli hesitates for a moment, long enough for me to wonder how he's not memorised the directions. Did he not just say he's lived here all his life?

'Come at six... I'll show you.'

When we meet again he's shed his cloak of indifference and replaced it with an endearing enthusiasm. 

'How old are you?'

'How many days in Hampi?'

'You climb?'

I tell him I can climb but I'm not sure I'd say I do. Not very often anyway. I look back to my mum knowing her answer would be very different. 

'It's okay, I climb often. I know every boulder in Hampi.'

He doesn't need to say how many that is. We're quite literally surrounded by them, as though caught in the still shot of a raging avalanche, and as we start to ascend we see the full extent to which they dominate this land; some have been intricately arranged into temples for the Gods whilst others are balancing impossibly in placements only nature could construct. It's quite breathtaking. 

The route becomes gradually steeper and without a word, Mowgli takes my mum's arm and backpack all in one swift movement to haul her upwards. 

'You're like a mountain goat,' she calls to him. 

'No. I'm mountain lion.'

With his chest puffed out and a dark main of hair haloed by the sun, he really does look like Mowgli, King of the Jungle. He has my full attention, so much so that I’ve not noticed the emerging scene around us. 

Between the baron rocks, fluorescent green rice fields glow so vibrantly, as to slightly tint the entire landscape emerald and give it an almost ethereal sense. I'd heard other travellers compare Hampi to the film sets of fictional classics such as Jurassic Park or Indiana Jones but in my opinion, it's far too beautiful for that. This place exceeds the depths of any imagination. 

Mowgli leaves us for a moment and takes a seat next to his friend who passes him a bongo drum. Minutes later another joins them with a didgeridoo. A foreigner in hippy dress then picks up his scarves and paints the rhythm in the sky. Slowly, more and more people gather around him, united by the moment but moving to their own beat. 

As the sun disappears, what had started as a soft, steady drumming culminates in an almighty clash of motion and sound. It first occurs to me how diverse the scene is and the number of nationalities represented within it but the thought quickly disintegrates. These people aren't the kind to be defined by their country; they're each one an individual, representing only themselves. No matter my general opinion on hippies, there's a lot to be said for that.

Just as we're beginning to wonder how we'll climb down in the dark, Mowgli emerges from the crowd and leads us safely back to our room. I hope we see him again later. 

*

'Come, join me.'

We're pleased to see Mowgli is still up when we return. 

'You found dinner?'

Well no, actually. It had been our intention but a mix up at the restaurant left us with nothing but a plain chapati between us. 

'Amit! Please bring these girls some food. And beer? Come on, why not?'

I categorically do not every drink beer but for the first time in twenty-six years, I find myself giving into peer pressure. 

'It's Indian beer. Very, very good.'

And very, very big, he failed to add - twice the size of a standard UK bottle. I brace myself for the taste and take a gigantic gulp, hoping to finish it faster. 

'You see?'

In truth, I'm pleasantly surprised which sets the tone rather well; Mowgli continues to surprise me. 

'You're very lucky, you know.'

I do. Over the past few days in India, I've come to know it again and again. 

'I never take guests to watch sunset. In high season I'm too busy and in low season I go alone. You are the first.'

Surprise displays itself in the form of a smile which spreads across my face. There are a thousand reasons for why he might consider us lucky but he's chosen this one. 

'Most people when they arrive want to know one of two things; the wifi password and where to buy the best charas. You were different. You wanted to see things.' 

Whilst flattered, I imagine it's not difficult to out-do many of the backpackers who visit Hampi. It definitely attracts a certain type; the kind who claim to travel to find themselves when all they really find is cheap weed and an endless stream of strangers too stoned to object to their self-indulgent spiel.

Even as Mowgli speaks I can hear some ginger bearded kid behind us droning on about the the parameters of the Universe and how he's constantly changing. 'I'm 26 but this is my 4th pair of feet.' No joke. 

Nevertheless, I'm glad we intrigue him as much as he does us and happily share with him my obsession with the sun. He tells us there are many other spots in Hampi to watch it rise and fall.

'Why do you only stay one night? There's so much to see. I can show you it all.'

I can see in his eyes that he's made it his mission to persuade us to stay. Had we not already booked our hotel on the other side of the river, there's a very good chance he'd succeed. I'm already onto my second beer...

'You're vegetarian?'

It's a reasonable question as Amit arrives with our dal fry and paneer kadai, neither which contain a hint of meat. 

Mowgli explains that he doesn't eat pig meat out of respect for his parents who practice Hinduism. I feel ignorant for not knowing that it's part of their religion too. 

'In India, it depends on your caste. The higher castes are completely vegetarian. Others, like me, we do not eat pig.' 

He explains that despite being a relatively wealthy man now, he can never shake his caste which was set long ago by his father's father's father who was a farmer working the fields. It's very difficult for Indians of a lower caste to find well paid jobs. He's done well for himself but it's not always been this way. 

'There have been moments in my life when I've had just two rupee in my pocket. The caste system is cruel and when you're down you're down - there's no government there to help you. If anything, they're against you.'

Mowgli built this entire guest house in less than three weeks and could only work at night - if the government had discovered it going up, they'd have tried to pull the place down. Any fairly priced accommodation on this side of the river takes business away from their fancy, five star resorts on the other side. 

'They don't like to see the poor take from the rich. It's not the way the system is supposed to work.'

An overwhelming sense of regret comes over us as we realise the contribution we'll be making to this problem tomorrow night. We'd made the decision on a whim when arriving in forty degree heat after a twelve hour journey but now the thought of AC and a swimming pool makes my heart sink. I can't bring myself to tell Mowgli where we're going. 

'The rich get richer and the poor get poorer. That's the way our country is run.'

It turns out that hospitality is not the only business that's corrupt. Even doctors, those who we'd hope to be able to turn to in a crisis, prey on the poor in India. 

'If I go to the doctors with a headache, they'll tell me I'm dying to make themselves money. It happens all the time and when people really are sick, they can't afford to be treated.'

Healthcare is evidently not free in Hampi, neither schooling. Mowgli explains that he funds his two nephews' education because his brother earns just 100 rupees a day in the fields. 

'In England, this would not be the case no? My brother could send his own children to school, no problem?

I nod, explaining that every child is entitled to education until they're eighteen. After that, they have to pay. 

'But you have scholarships no? Like in America and Australia. I got one! I studied in Melbourne for six years!'

It turns out Mowgli is not the small town Indian boy I first thought. 

Though born, raised and now back in Hampi, he's travelled well; extremely well considering he's the first local we've met who's left the country. He goes on to describe his time in Australia and later, Nepal, Thailand, and Sri Lanka. Next month he plans to make the most of low season and explore the North. 

'I want to travel more and to see the world but Hampi is my home. I'll always return to my home.' 

My mum asks then whether the guest house is a permanent venture; a valid question given that many are destroyed every year in the monsoons and not rebuilt. 

Mowgli laughs. 

'Please. Nothing is permanent. We are not permanent. My future is a bubble; light, colourful and on the way up but at risk of bursting at any moment.'

It's my turn now to laugh. Has he been hanging out with too many of these hippies? Or has he just made a really good point?

There's always a risk for anyone that life can fall apart in an instant but in India, as a lower caste man making his way in the world, Mowgli seems considerably more vulnerable. He doesn't count on his luck lasting forever but he's making the most of every minute whilst it does. 

Making our Way to Hampi (Just!)

My first impression of Madgaon Railway Station is that it resembles what I imagine Clapham Junction would be like for a foreigner except that, amongst other minor differences, Clapham Junction has signs which correspond to stations and platforms numbered in ascending order.

Overwhelmed by the chaos, we go in search of the Ticket office figuring that we'll find help there but the large red letters painted across the doorway suggest otherwise: 

'NO ENQUIRIES PLEASE'

Fortunately, we've already purchased our tickets and know where we're heading but just have absolutely no idea which train will get us there. What's more, we've been told not to rely on the scheduled departure times of trains to identify them as they're more of a 'guideline' than a definitive timetable - trains can arrive an hour late, an hour early, or when things are really fucked up, on time. 

Eventually we find assistance (at the Lost Property desk of all places) and haul our backpacks up the steep stairway to the main bridge. From above, we get our first real look at the extent of this madness. In the distance, the sun is rising casting light onto the railway tracks and the dozens of Indians scattered along it. Some are washing in water spouting from broken pipes, others taking shelter from the intensifying heat, tucking themselves away in the shadows of the sunken bunkers. 

Above ground, the scenes are scarcely better. Beggars shuffle towards us with open palms and pleading eyes, mirroring the patterns of the countless stray dogs meandering between waiting passengers on the platform. 

After what feels like an eternity, our train finally appears and small, tanned bodies fling themselves from the open doors before it's steadied to a stop. We jump on wherever we can, endeavouring to simply walk through the coaches to find our seats once we're safely on board. Simple, of course, does not come into it. 

Squeezing through the narrow corridors with our huge backpacks and the large crowds of people crammed into the suffocatingly small cubbyholes on either side is a fair mission. It occurs to me then that on this occasion, we probably deserve the endless stares from onlookers which we've become so accustomed to. This time, they're likely no more struck by our pale skin as they are our complete incompetence in boarding a train. We've clearly missed something and we're causing a mess. 

After fighting our way through four coaches and at least four hundred people, we reach a barricade which divides the different classes. At the next station, we disembark and try all over again. It's a panicked seven seconds sprinting down the platform but we do thankfully make it and we're rewarded with the air-conditioned and slightly less crowded carriage of second class. Finally we can sit back and enjoy the scenery flying past us like an old school VHS fast-forwarded from start to finish. I can quickly understand why many locals choose to sit in the open doorways for the duration of their journey, disregarding their seats which offer no more comfort and far less of a view. 

The heat of Hospet hits us the moment we step off the train, enclosing itself around us and absorbing the breath from our lungs. We welcome the little breeze the Tuk Tuk provides as we direct our driver to our homestay in Hampi. He takes us far as the river where we say our thanks and transfer onto a rickety longboat which jolts to a stop just seconds after departing the sandbank the other side. The river is not wide but with no bridge in place, it's the only way to cross with our backpacks and belongings. It costs us all of ten rupee, ten pence. 

Handing the scrumpled pink note to the driver, we step ashore. The thirty other travellers who'd shared the ten man boat with us all quickly disappear up the hill ahead. Our directions instruct us to turn right. But right? Really? At first glance we see nothing but shrubbery but on closer inspection notice a hint of a path in the form of trodden grass leading straight through the middle of it all. I guess that must be it. 

We trudge along in the unbearable heat and just as I begin to think we've taken a wrong turn, the butterflies overhead suddenly scatter and the voice of a young man booms from above. He speeds towards us and relieves us of our heavy backpacks which he pulls onto his shoulder with the utmost ease. 

With a smile, he leads us to the entrance of the homestay which overlooks the river and the most stunning view of the temples on the other side. It's breathtaking, and with little breath left from the long walk anyway, we collapse onto the cushions which constitute the reception area. 

The young man asks us if we've eaten and I suddenly realise we haven't; not since nine o'clock last night and it's now almost five in the afternoon. He disappears in a hurry and a different man returns. His dark eyes find mine. 

'Welcome...'