Mumbai day 1

Bungled into an overpriced taxi, we dragged slowly through the impassable morning traffic into the southern districts of Mumbai, passing incredible colonial and art-deco buildings. The main attraction, however, became Starbucks: part of the taj hotel complex (which was besieged by terrorists in 2008) we entered through airport-style security - never has a frappucino felt such a big deal.

I went searching for a hotel (assisted by Sarah for her bargaining talents), as the others headed with for breakfast inside the taj. "Anywhere but the Salvation Army", instructed Lissy. Well, to be fair to ourselves we did try countless hotels which were more horrible and crumbling, but the Salvy it was - Lissy looked ready to cry into her scrambled eggs when we broke the news. The Taj was fantastic, so much so that I removed my fanny pack to feel more stylish.

We visited the gateway of India - an arch built to commemorate George V's arrival (to think my welcome was only acknowledged by a sign for "Sack Down"!) - which was extremely impressive, but overspilling with people selling bizarrities: Eiffel Tower keyrings and 2-metre balloons being my personal favourite.

Leaving the gateway, I momentarily feared my hallucinations were returning - there, in the distance, stood a Pizza Express sign. Unfortunately, the staff wouldn't accept my Orange Wednesday 2for1 code, and so it was phenomenally expensive. Worth it? Is the pope catholic.

We then toured the museum of modern art (set in an awesome, Roundhouse-style building), allowing po-mo comments on the exhibits - Issy seemed particularly enthralled, sitting head in hands in front of one painting for most of our duration...

Frustratingly, I fell into a vicious fever as we settled in the Indigo deli to eat cake - crashing in the Salvation Army was a low point, all the more so as it meant I was unable to give the girls a fine send off: we parted ways as they were bound for Bangkok, leaning "forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies".

With love

Vagator - rats to riches

The next morning we migrated northwards to Vagator, settling in the Ally Pally guesthouse, at which urine for a good stay, barring the faint smell of pee. Vagator is a stalwart of the Goan hippy scene, as reflected in the wrinkly, tattooed faces loitering.

Heavy on the stodge of the German bakery - a peculiarly common phenomenon throughout India - we stopped for some ping pong on the way to the beach, hoping to recreate the thrill of earl's court Ping.

Vagator beach was fairly disappointing, a shapeless mass of grubby sand giving way to the murky ocean. After a while spent sunbathing, playing with our new rubber ring, and being ogled by locals, we returned to town to book our sleeper bus tix for Mumbai. A slightly barmy, cross-eyed and one-toothed man booked us onto his "super deluxe" bus, whilst we stifled our hysterics as he chased dogs from his shop wielding a broken chair above his head. Seems legit.

That evening we ballooned ourselves at the fantastic Greek restaurant "Thalassa" in honour of Tali's greek roots, struggling back to our hotel bearing food triplets.

The next morning, recovering from our food comas, we taxied north to Morjim beach, and to La Plage restaurant - it felt as if we'd taken a wrong turn and arrived in St Tropez, such was the ridiculous degree to which it was not a legit gap year destination. There really is no justification for such behaviour, but at least Issy was able to put her French (employed earlier to the confusion of many Indian waiters) to good use.

Morjim beach was just as awesome -humungous, rock-pooled and near empty (except for the necessary French topless sunbathers). We spent the remains of the afternoon relaxing, most content apart from the occasional haranguing by jack-of-all-trade touts: coconut, bob Marley cd or foot massage, your choice.

In the evening we gravitated once more towards Thalassa for a more subdued dinner, before a Good Night's Sleep.

On our last day in Goa we returned to La Plage, at which an Indian wedding was taking place: P-A-R-T-Y? Cos we got to. Who am I trying to kid - of course we didn't fulfil our dream of being invited to an Indian wedding, but we were there.

At which point do you start worrying about whether your sleeper bus is late/missing? 20 minutes before its meant to arrive, according to Issy. We boarded le bus with the bounciness of a cartload of fat people being dropped onto a trampoline, snapping cards and selfies aplenty. The excitement wore off rapidly after we stopped in a manically depressing "service station", the food at which was so abysmal that one had to pay before it was served - never an encouraging notion.

We settled down for a Quiet Night rolling northwards, before we were rudely awoken by the probing hands of Scarface (the ticket collector with a tendency to stroke legs - there's a joke to be made about saying hello to his "little friend") on the outskirts of Mumbai. Bewildered as the taxi men argued over us, and without a hotel to head to, a brave voice suggested the Taj. And so it was.

With love

Anjuna (Goa) - life's a beach

Whilst certain our vetoing of a ride in the girls' car to Goa was wise, we hadn't anticipated how gruelling an 8 hour taxi would be - this was no Add Lee. The journey was torturous, more so as I was falling into a fever, hallucinating before we'd even arrived in trippyish, hippyish Anjuna.

On reaching the Elephant Art Cafe I soon crashed in my tent - we were sleeping in large canvas tents just off the beach, behind the 'art cafe' which had an awesome restaurant. It was run by Fez, who was first to admit "I do F- all all day", except for create odd paintings - "I'm not really sure what it is, not so sure what I'm doing".

Annoyingly, I was feeling increasingly rubbish for the rest of the day, and went a little insane: having vividly dreamed the girls were conspiring against me, I was suspicious of their nursing me... The others had a fantastic time nonetheless, eating steak etc, and exploring the area, which Tali described as "a more classy Maga".

"Bacon sandwich". Even the words reinvigorated me, although I wasn't sure whether I was in a feverish daydream. It was real enough, and for a few hours the following morning I felt better, before returning to my tent of self-pity. I rose in the early afternoon to dominate Scrabble #downbutnotout. Anjuna beach was fairly beaut, but it was covered in nasty restaurants and Russians.

Ousted from the EAC by a trance-blasting wizened DJ ("your gap year ended 30 years ago mate") we dined at a grim neighbouring restaurant whose waiter was bizarrely hell bent on us ordering the daily catch. It wasn't an option, it was an order.

On the third day I rose again, feeling almost hilarious again. Spent the afternoon relaxing, maxing, not too taxing, much to the embarrassment of those around me. The sea was fairly grubby, but purgative following my days of bed-boundedness.

We had an awesome last dinner at the art cafe, served by the chef whose tendency to taste the food was apparent from his meteoric shape.

To complete my return to form, I chased a rat from the tent as Sarah cowered. Amateur heroics.

With love

Hampi - monkeys, ruins and bodybuilding

11 hours, 5 buses (one incorrect), a horde of angry beggars, and one huge sigh of relief as we rolled through the ancient gateway of Hampi are the lasting memories of that first day. On arrival, I led us to our hotel using the lonely planet map: after a couple of turns we came across a huge pile of rubble. Surely not. Thankfully not - part of Hampi bazaar is being bulldozed in order to save the ancient buildings, the residents supposedly being relocated outside the site boundaries.

Checking into our hotel (the Pushpa guesthouse) we couldn't help notice the photos of the manager in a bodybuilding contest, bronzed in speedos etc - no messin' 'bout. What is rather odd is that, on entering Hampi, tourists have to register with the police: not wanting to join the long list of those who had signed their occupation as "unemployed", we vouched for "poet/artiste". It was a little disconcerting to find the police watching a CSI program on tv, perhaps.

Too hungry to sleep but not too tired to eat, we had a cracking dinner at Mango Tree (very cool destination despite having to walk through a creepy banana plantation) and headed to bed. Our friends from London - Sarah, Issy and Tali - were supposedly joining us the next morning, if they survived their night drive from Goa...

Enough suspense. They made it, although one of their wing mirrors was not as fortunate. Having overcome our disbelief, we headed for banana pancakes (possibly our first actual breakfast in India?!) at the Gopi rooftop.
At the police station I was kindly likened to one of the "wanted" bandits by a policeman - Issy, in one of her "is the black guy from Blue Lemar?" moments, was sure that one of the thieves worked at our hotel.

We then spent the rest of the day exploring the ruins that lay amongst the boulders that are piled throughout Hampi - an amazing landscape apparently formed thousands of years ago when the area was submerged. It would've been the most magnificent feat to build the ancient city here. We visited the central temple, skirting the rabid monkeys and making a beeline for the temple elephant: not only did she throw our offered bananas into her mouth, but she would pass our money to her guard before "blessing" us with her trunk!

As alcohol is illegal in Hampi, we drove outside of town for a KF - to a government restaurant where every tourist looked sensationally in need of a strong drink - and then returned to the Gopi for pizzas at dinner. After dinner we played cards until we were hustled into our rooms by the bodybuilder - I thought of ripping my shirt off to match him, but I thought I'd keep the beach bod under wraps until Goa.

Early the next morning, after soggy pancakes at the Gopi, we decamped and settled on the north side of the river at Shanthi hotel - huts set amongst paddy fields in an extremely relaxed location. We spent the rest of the day exploring Virupapur Gaddi: far more laid-back and hippyish, with the smell of weed lingering constantly in the background.

We were somewhat intimidated by the hordes of tattooed, dreadlocked spaniards who stared at us as we strolled on the search for gap trash - I think I fortunately blended in with my bearded face, as did Sarah with her penguin tattoo.

We ate dinner in a restaurant whose staff were considerably stoned - perhaps explaining the terrifying, hallucinogenic wall hangings. On leaving, we discovered that one of Sarah's converse had gone AWOL: at first we thought it was a practical joke, but then it dawned on me - I'd left the remainder of my choc croissant in her shoe, and so a hungry monkey must've taken the whole thing. Things became tense very quickly. Half-expecting to see a converse hanging from a palm, we wandered/hopped back to bed.

The next day was spent exploring the main ruins - the Lotus Mahal and Elephant stables were highlights; boiling in the midday sun, we vouched for some radioactive-looking ice creams - Tali couldn't stomach hers and so put the licked lolly back into the freezer for somebody else to enjoy. We ate lunch in the grim government restaurant, in the company of a mangy dog whose companion was most likely the meat in our curry. Having fruitlessly searched for a replacement wingmirror for the crapmobile (we considered smashing the other off for good measure), we returned to Shanthi.

Rarely have I seen a girl eat as much as Lissy did that night - trying to impress the waiter, she gorged herself on pasta, pizza and combinations of the two. For a few seconds I could swear she took on the shape of Bruce from Matilda.

With love

Belur & Halebid

Leaving Mysore, we bussed to Belur - a small town which rarely sees tourists, and has little interest in them regardless. Having spent the bus journey with a local snoozing on my shoulder (he kept giving the most shocked look when awaking and discovering what he'd done - the dribble on my shoulder was a little gross), I expected to be relieved on arriving. However, we arrived at the lone hotel in town to find a troop of police officers milling around - was it a crime scene? Was somebody important staying? We quickly deduced that, in fact, Belur is such a quiet town that the police have little else to do but chill in the hotel rooms and burp in the restaurant.

After lunch in the belching-heavy restaurant, we took a short bus to neighbouring Halebid - another awesomely intricately carved (including some pardy animal carvings, see below) temple set in beautiful grounds. A fantastic place to chill out and take lots of selfies - including one "selfie-within-a-selfie". Meta. So zen did we become that I bought my first piece of gap trash: sitting by Nandi, I suddenly heard the Titanic soundtrack drifting through the air to me - entranced, I followed the sound to a flute-seller who played the tune as I blew. I was sold. Lissy left me soon after.

We returned to Belur (admittedly I had already asked Liss to hide my flute in fear of ridicule by the locals), where we visited the temple complex as evening settled. In the growing dark, worshippers flooded to the central sanctum - we peered inside at the scenes of cymballed, flowered praise of the deity which were becoming increasingly raucous. The prayer culminated in a procession - led by two saxophone-toting monks - of the statue around the grounds, which we slipped away from, returning to the crime scene for bed.
We would leave early the next morning for Hampi, but that didn't perturb me - I had a flute repertoire to build.

With love

Mysore day 3 - animal

On the third morning we arose early and, en route to the tourist office, we passed a drive-thru macdonalds: regrettably late did the idea of taking our tuktuk through cross my mind. We had signed up to a tour of various sights around/outside the city - the guide had other ambitions, considering it as an opportunity to take us around his cousins' shops.

Having left the decaying art museum, we were taken to a silk "museum" which had a curious desire to sell its display pieces. Next stop was the zoo, which had a fantastic array of empty cages - becoming increasingly hot and bothered, I couldn't stand many more photo requests: "we're in a zoo, there are other animals to take photos of." (Note the subconscious influence of the intense German man from Kochi). On the way to lunch, we stopped outside a small palace which our guide explained was the birthplace of the last prince of Mysore - nowadays, however, it doesn't even pose as the promised "museum", and is quite plainly a tack shop. Shameless.

Post-thali we ascended the Chatamudi hills outside Mysore, atop of which sat a golden temple housing a spectacular shrine covered in garlands and silver. There was also a Humungous statue of Nandi the bull, the 4th largest in India according to our tour guide, who was clearly fascinated by it: "Get out. Take photo. We leave."

We left, and Lissy dropped out due to her illness - clutching Lonely Planet tightly to my chest, my bottom lip trembling, I ventured onwards alone. Except for the American girls, who turned their nose up at an impressive, unexpected cathedral (there was a creepy crypt in which the deceased's name was usually qualified by their job, eg: A.Patel, driver to Mr Alton).

Our last stop was Srirangapatnam, a fort town which was destroyed by the British in 1799 following a huge war against the sultan Tipu. Post-colonial guilt abounded as I was shown drawings of the battles by an impromptu travel guide, who would follow me to every exhibit and read the attached label in a wise, albeit laboured, English voice: "sword. Halberd. Destruction." The main temple in town was preparing for a festival the day after, with fantastical floats that'd be drawn by elephants!

In the evening we ventured to an advertised "light and sound" show at the Palace - although it was pretty awesome to see the palace illuminated, we didn't realise the "sound" would be a story told in hindi... The rest of the audience were loving it, literally yelling out, so it must have been pretty fantastic. At the end, the hundreds of thousands of bulbs that cover the palace were switched on - a truly awesome sight.

We finished our stay in Mysore with dinner in a beaut restaurant, stealing copious amounts of loo roll to justify the bill which (like our stomachs) was swelled by the pasta we'd ordered.

With love

Mysore day 1&2 - big fish, little fish, pitcher fish

Hurtling in "hi-speed limited stop" bus (which, in sad reality, was more like the number 49, stopping in barren fields and for lunch) we descended out of Wayanad. Crossing the Karnatakan state boarder, it felt as if we'd crossed a tropic: the dense green of Kerala almost instantly was replaced by scrubby plains of reddish earth.

Vast amounts of Karnataka seemed deserted, but the cities were massive and sensationally westernised.

Having arrived in our hotel in Mysore - the unpronounceable Aishwarya residence - we rekindled our spirits before heading for more spirits at the LP-rave-reviewed "Pelican Pub". After a gruellingly long rickshaw we clocked in, to find that their "wide array of drinks" consisted of, according to the waiter, "small kingfisher, big kingfisher, pitcher kingfisher". LP faith struck. To make matters worse, we then wandered the night streets in search of the top tripadvisor restaurant - it simply doesn't exist.

We wound up eating on a rooftop overlooking the illuminated palace - perhaps more tasty as we realised we hadn't eaten for around 30 hours.

The next day we explored the famous Souk, a compact and hugely vibrant part of town, awash in fantastic colours and smells/odours. Whereas I remained my cool, detached self, Lissy was overcome: she bought no less than 8 jingly anklets, consequently sounding like a reindeer for the next few days. Liss also bought some of the brilliant coloured powder they were selling - unsure of what to do with them, we settled with drawing tattoos.
Further along our city exploration, we stumbled upon a cultural highlight: Dominos. Although slightly disappointing, it set into motion our reunion with western food...

A most biblical thunderstorm fell on us that evening, hailing the start of lent and the stupidity of my giving up crisps - a staple to our desperate diets.

With love