Time to relax?

On Sunday I left the routine of Bangalore behind. I was more upset by it than I thought I ever would be. I guess in the seven weeks I had been there I had got used to the place. It also was the place I got to know India in a way I know I will probably never see again. It’s just not possible as a tourist.

So now that’s what I am, a tourist. And what better place to start being a tourist than Goa? It is a relatively small state of India on the coast, and as far as I can tell it solely survives on the tourism trade. I have stayed in Anjuna in the north, one of the many small towns dotted all along the coast, since Sunday and leave for Delhi tomorrow. I initially envisioned Anjuna to be a quiet beach town away from the hustle and bustle of India, but then one day while I was in Bangalore someone mentioned how people are always trying to sell stuff on the beach. It dawned on me, nothing in India is quiet and relaxed. So I then came here fearing the worst. What I got was somewhere in between. It is a small town and because of that it is very quiet, but there is still the madness one comes to expect from India.

I have spent my five days here relaxing, eating, reading, and walking. It’s too hot, for me at least, to just sit on the beach, so I’ve done a bit of walking up and down the beach, but certainly haven’t spent all day every day there. Though this seems to be what a lot of the people do here. I would say more than 50 percent of the people staying here are white and 50 percent of those white people are Russian (even the signs here are written in English and Russian). Like I say, this place survives off the tourism trade. Every building is either accommodation, a restaurant or a shop.

For me the impression I will take from this place comes from the stall owners. They are everywhere; as you walk along the path to the beach and even on the beach. And then if that wasn’t enough there are people constantly trying to sell their goods to you as you sit on the beach. Even if you have a book in front of you and blatantly ignore them this doesn’t deter them. But what I have found entertaining is how they approach you.

“Yes darling, you want to see my shop? Come see my shop.”

“Ah darling, come see my shop, just look, very cheap.”

There seems to be a script, of which there are about three variants and all begin with darling. But the funniest thing is when you ask how much something is.

“For you, I give you good price.”

“Yes, but how much is it?”

“Very good price.”

“I know, but how much exactly?”

“You want three? I give you very good price.”

“No I would just like to know the price of one.”

“How about a small one, and a big one, very cheap.”

This can go on for a while. I really can’t wait to get back to New Zealand and look at a price tag, know how much I would pay for it, and think about it, without some woman telling me how cheap everything is and trying to sell me every other item in her shop too.

So, off to Delhi tomorrow. Bring it on.

Only ten weeks, right?

When I arrived in Bangalore I drew up a calendar. 72 days. Ten weeks. I used it as a way to count forward, and count backwards - how far had I come? and perhaps more intimidatingly, how far did I have to go? Because, you see, for all travel is cracked up to be, it also has its moments. Yes, there are great highs, but there are also lows.

There have been moments where I want to throw my Lonely Planet in the air, bury my head in the sand, and scream at the man who just drove past yelling "hello darling". India is exhausting. It attacks you from every alley way, every auto driver and every store. It's easy to gloss over those travel woes and remember them more fondly, as something that contributed to the overall, amazing journey. And even now when I look back on some of those more bumpy moments I laugh. At the time, I assure you, there was little laughing going on, but now I can smile about it. My journey with the auto driver in my first week springs to mind.

A couple of weeks ago, I met a 19-year-old French woman travelling the world by herself. Without sounding too much like some spiritual guide, talking with her was hugely enlightening and empowering. One night she found herself having to sleep at a train station. She spoke of her decision to curl up in one of the seats rather than joining the others on the ground. Her reason for this - she didn't have newspaper to lie on like all the others were. As she sat there, trying to sleep with one eye closed and the other on her baggage, she suddenly realised the ground was awash with movement. Rats, cockroaches, bugs and I hate to think what else. Needless to say, she didn't get much sleep that night. As she told me this story she said it with a smile, and concluded with "well, it's all part of the adventure". And it is, but I don't think that would have been at the forefront of her thoughts as rats crawled around her feet.

There have definitely been moments when I wonder whether I am capable of travelling India as a lone woman. But then there have been those other times when I know I am capable. Some mornings I wake up feeling like I can take on the world - and in India you certainly are taking on the world, or at least a large majority of it. But on the flip side there have been times where I have felt like India is beyond my limits.

I still have four weeks to go - so my calendar tells me - and I know there will be more of those lows. But with each day spent here things have become much, much easier. In fact, just today, when some man said "hello gorgeous" to me as I walked past him, I just shrugged, laughed, and continued walking.

An Indian-style story

On Thursday this story ran at the top of Deccan Herald's front page -

It was high drama on Museum Road in Bangalore on Wednesday. Jaffer Jaweed, a 20-year-old engineering dropout, had the police and the fire force on their toes when he threatened to jump off Hotel Museum Inn. And jump, he did, courtesy Stupid Cupid. Upset that he couldn't marry his lover, Jaweed jumped from the rooftop, before he could be talked out of his dare-devilry. He escaped with injuries.

A series of four photos accompanied the story - three of him in various stages of falling and one of his face as he stood on the rooftop.

On page three there was a larger story.

There have been many stories that have caught my attention while here, for various reasons - the bizare content, the extremely long and confusing introductions, the introductions that don't make one bit of sense - but this story in particular caught my eye enough for me to take note of it. For many reasons - it covers a topic New Zealand media does not touch on, suicide, and not only did it touch on it, but it included photos of this man as he tried to commit suicide. But the real gem in this story, I think, is the line "And jump, he did, courtesy Stupid Cupid." The writer clearly had fun with the story, I'm just not sure that the content really warranted a 'fun' story.

Bargaining, Hana style

There are two scenarios when I am shopping, they go something like this -

"Hi, how much for this?" I say, pointing to a shawl.

"250 Rupees ma'am," the stall owner replies.

"Oh ok, and what about this one?"

"250 also ma'am."

"Ok, I think I like this one," I say pointing to the first one, "yea, I'll get this one, 200?" I say, lowering the price because I know this is the game we have to play.

He looks at me, "225, ma'am."

I toss up whether it's worth bargaining over the 25 rupees, it's not, "Ok," I say getting out my wallet.

I hand him 250, "keep the change," I say walking off.

or

"Hey, how much for this?"

"For you ma'am, I will give you two for 400 rupees." I had seen the same wall hangings in another shop and had been told one would cost me 350.

"Oh ok, I will get two. And how much for this?" I say, pointing to a key chain.

"100 ma'am, and where are you from?"

"New Zealand," I reply, knowing we are about to have the same conversation I have had here about 100 times already.

"Ah, so you know cricket?" he says, rather excitedly and pretending to hit a ball with a bat.

"Hmmm, sort of."

"Daniel Vettori? Stephen Fleming?"

His friend, who I hadn't noticed until now, also pipes up, "Chris Cairns?"

"You know more than I know," I joke with them.

They start to wave around their pretend bats. I do my fake, slightly awkward laugh, getting out my wallet.

The shop keeper gets out a (real) calculator, "so for these", he says pointing to the two wall hangings, "400", he types into his calculator. And for these, he points to the two key chains I have decided to also buy, "200". He also types this into his calculator.

"Ok, thank you," I say, thinking I probably should be bargaining but I know I am already getting it for much cheaper than I would have at the other shop.

"But," he pipes up, "for you ma'am, I will give you discount." He types something into his calculator, and up pops 500. "Ok ma'am, 500 rupees?"

"Sure, that sounds great," I say to him, not really sure how I've managed to lower the price without actually bargaining.

"Are you happy with that?" he questions me.

"Yes that is fine with me."

"Good, a happy customer makes me a happy shop owner."

A few oddities from the newsroom

*PR people are constantly appearing in the newsroom to talk to the reporters about whatever it is they are paid to care about. Probably every 20 minutes or so another one appears. And if it's not the PR people, it's somebody who has a bone to pick about something in their neighbourhood. I still can't believe they let these people into the newsroom, it takes up so much of the reporter's time. I have seen a reporter laugh in the face of a PR person though.

* There are not enough computers for the reporters so they all play musical chairs during the day. When one person leaves to go on an assignment someone else grabs that computer, then they come back and the second person is kicked off. You can see how this can get exhausting. Also there is one telephone between about four reporters. They all use their own personal cell phones to make calls - apparently, their phone bills aren't too high.

* This leads onto my third point - often the reporters will go into the corridor/stairwell to conduct interviews. I'm yet to figure this one out.

* They have no work cars. They all use their own personal vehicle, usually a motorbike, to get around. My chief reporter couldn't believe it when I explained to him I take a work car when I need to leave the office.

* The newspaper entirely consists of hard news, particularly the front page. If it's not hard, it won't be run, simple as that. This became evident one day when someone in the office went over to the chief reporter and said a shop down the road had a real life elephant outside as part of some advertising campaign. I thought "wow, an elephant, that'll make a cool photo" (and I think that was what the woman who told the chief reporter about it was thinking), but the story the chief reporter saw in it was the elephant was impeding on public space. Stories always have a hard angle.

* My next point is of a similar vein - their stories are written very differently. They are not afraid to load intros with names, places and information. I would say the average intro is about 50 words. It's been quite hard for me to get used to, and reading a newspaper here with very limited knowledge proves to be quite a battle, particularly political stories.

* The public use the newspaper as their key source of information. India is one of the few, if not only, countries where newspaper readership is still growing. It makes the newspapers very powerful places. People pay attention to them. It does, however, make more work for the reporters as they constantly field calls from the public asking them if the petrol price is actually increasing, or if that road is actually closing for the day.

Please ma'am

As a rule I came to India telling myself I would not give to beggars. I had read warnings against it enough times to realise it probably wasn't the best idea. It may sound heartless, and don't you worry, as I walk past those beggars I feel heartless, but it comes with so many other problems that the best thing to do is to ignore.

The main problem is once you give to one, they all see and continue to hound you. Often, also, these beggars are working for someone. It doesn't make me feel any better about not giving to them though.

Today I broke my rule. As I was waiting to cross the road a young boy, no older than four, came up to me and wrapped his arms around my leg. Then another girl, about eight, came along too. What do you do when there is such a young boy clinging to you, with the most heart breaking look on his face? So I gave him 10 Rupees, and the other girl 10 Rupees.

Then I realised why I had read so many warnings against giving to beggars. Two other girls proceeded to follow me up the street. They were only about six and had to run to keep up with my pace. "Please ma'am, please ma'am, please ma'am, please ma'am," they said on repeat. Probably the only English phrase they knew. I could see two other children up the street also begging and knew if I gave to these girls, I could be hounded all the way up the street as more and more caught on that I would give. So I did what I told myself I would always do, I ignored.

What I regret, and what pains me, is not that I gave the first two some loose change, but that I ignored the rest.

I've found the wealth

It's easy to see the poverty in India, be it the beggar on the corner or the makeshift home set up down some alleyway, but it's not so easy to see the rich. Sure you constantly see people walking around with the latest smartphone, but just walking along the footpath looking at what is directly in front of you it is the poverty that is glaringly obvious.

I have ended up in a somewhat different situation - I am living in the wealth. It's not somewhere I expected to be, yet here I am living in a sixth floor apartment with a cook/cleaner and going to art exhibition openings and being introduced to some of Bangalore's most elite.

I've already touched on this, but basically mum worked with someone who was from Bangalore, who knew someone, who knew someone, who knew Nina - the woman I am staying with. We keep getting asked how we know each other, we both look at each other, shrug, and reply in unison "we don't". I initially felt guilty for calling on the help of people I didn't know - but since getting here I've realised that's the way this world works and it all evens out in the end. I am sure someone I have met over here will one day end up on my couch in Wellington.

Living with Nina has certainly been an eye opener. She has been great at including me in things she does, including the other night when we went to an art exhibition opening, followed by dinner at Bangalore Club. It's hard for me to describe the Bangalore Club because I cannot think of any New Zealand comparison. It's basically a space with bars/restaurants/pools/tennis courts/library, anything you could want in one area. It costs an arm and a leg to be a member, and takes forever to become one (it took Nina five years of being on the waiting list to join). This particular club - there seem to be a few around the city - is famous because Winston Churchill was once a member and he owed the club 13 Rupees - the debt has since been written off. You can practically see the money oozing from every building, it isn't somewhere the average tourist would be able to see. But because of my unique living situation I've been able to see this other side of Bangalore.

And then there's Lewy - the cook/cleaner. This has probably been the hardest thing to get used to, and not just because he doesn't speak English. I often feel like lady muck sitting in my room reading my book as he brings me a cup of tea and fills up my water bottle, before coming in and giving me the sign that dinner's ready. It's so far removed from what I am used to and I have to stop myself from saying "sit down and have breakfast with me," - not that he'd understand anyway.

I know the wealth is in India, and boy is it there, but now not only do I know it, but I've seen it, I've lived it.

Befuddled at court

On Monday I spent the day at Bangalore's High Court. It took me the past three weeks of constant pestering to get me there, but I am glad I persisted.

In New Zealand I often cover court, but I by no means claim to be an expert in court reporting. In fact I am often having to ask my colleagues what seemingly minor phrases mean. I enjoy it though, court is an entirely different world. And in Bangalore it's the same. Though not the same different world to New Zealand's court - this is a world only India is capable of creating.

Where Wellington's High Court has about five court rooms, Bangalore's has 40. It makes for a hub-bub of activity. It also makes little sense.

I spent the day following around Deccan Herald's court reporter, but often did not know what I was sitting in on or quite what was going on. The lack of microphones also made it practically impossible to hear. There is a major case at the moment where the former Chief Minister (essentially the mayor of the state) has been arrested on corruption charges (the most common cases brought before the court are corruption cases), so that was where the majority of the action lied. But I think the reporters themselves were bored with the case, and knew what the outcome of the day would be (because it was fairly obvious) without having to sit through the entire day, so we spent a lot of the day flittering about, not really sitting in on any one trial. It was hugely interesting, none the less.

People are everywhere - particularly lawyers in their gowns (which are identical to the gowns worn in New Zealand). Often the court rooms would be filled to the brim with people. People were standing in the doorways and constantly coming and going. And then the corridors would be filled with even more people. If I ever catch myself wondering where the 9 million Bangaloreans are (which has sometimes happened, there are moments when there doesn't seem to be that many people), I will remind myself of the court scene.

At the end of the day I asked the court reporter how many stories he got out of the day. He replied four. I couldn't believe it, but then we met up with the other reporters from other papers and I realised how he got four stories despite only sitting in a court room for a total of about 30 minutes. They all help each other out, if one person gets something, they give it to everyone else. It was a completely different way of operating to New Zealand.

Another point worth mentioning is the size of the guns carried around, particularly outside the court room where the Chief Minister's case was being heard. They are huge, like up to my chest. I mentioned it to one of the other reporters and she said they weren't loaded and were all for show, but then another man who was party to this conversation said they were loaded. I don't know who was correct, but I'm not willing to test.

Some useless advice

No matter how much you read about India nothing can prepare you for the madness that swirls around this country.

With this in mind, I am going to provide more written information about India that, if you were to travel here, probably won't help you until after the said event and you think back to that time Hana mentioned this would happen.

So, a few tips from a lone New Zealand woman travelling the streets of a booming Indian city (a list which is by no means exhausted, but just a start) -

*If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is - If an auto driver is promising to "show you the sights of Bangalore" for 20 Rupee, you will probably be taken to all of his mates emporiums. Yes everything here is cheap, but 20 Rupee to see Bangalore is too cheap.

*Don't ignore - A polite "no" leaves little room for interpretation, an ignore could be interpreted as "she hasn't heard me, I must continue to try to sell her this bongo drum until she does hear me".

*Always carry an umbrella - Even if the sky is blue the clouds can turn on you in an instant.

*Smile - On the most part this opens you up to people, sometimes very interesting people. When I got here I thought I must not smile at anyone for fear of giving them the wrong idea, but, as long as this said smiling is not done down some small alley way (or Cubbon Park - where just today I got a "hello darling"), everyone here is very friendly and often just want to practise their English on you.

*Read - books here are so cheap. Store up all those novels you have planned to read for the past year, curl up at a cafe with a (usually) sweet tea and read until your heart is content. Or your reading list has been exhausted.

*Time is not important - Traffic rules the clock here.

*Do not fear if you don't see a female for an entire block, they have not been kidnapped, I don't think - Seriously, men are everywhere and, well, women are not. Often these men will be holding hands or walking with their arms around each other - affection between the men is everywhere, young and old. I'm yet to see it with the females.

*There are three versions of the shaking of the head - where we have a nod for yes and a shake for no, India also has a head wobble. It means "OK, OK". I learnt this after two weeks of me shaking my head at Lewy, the cook, and not understanding as he continued to load my plate up with more food while (I thought) I was saying no. I must have been saying OK.

Notes from the newsroom

I am already almost half way through my time at work - how time flies.

On the most part I am averaging about one story a day. Usually Rasheed, my chief reporter, sends me out to cover some event - usually a fairly minor event, which I'm sure all the other reporters have already refused to do. So off I toddle to a quiz, or apple fair, or book launch. It's not the greatest test of my reporting skills - but I couldn't report on much else here without having a mild panic attack. Everything is that much more complex here, on the most part just because of the sheer number of people - and I am struggling to get my head around anything more complex than a school gala. Although the stories themselves might seem like a bit of nonsense, I really enjoy covering these events, mainly for the journey there and back. Every time I get to see a different part of Bangalore - a part I probably would not have otherwise seen.

Yesterday, however, was probably the first time I felt in over my head, and wanted to retreat back to the apple fair. I was sent off on the newly opened Metro (five years in the making, opened last Thursday, massive for Bangalore) to talk to people about connecting the existing train system with the Metro, and thus opening up more opportunities to travel from out of town and then around town - sounds simple enough, but like everything here, it's not. I didn't know where the preexisting train network ran, or who would want to use a connecting system like that. It basically resulted in me picking out young people who were more likely to speak English and asking them a few basic questions, which Rasheed had sent me off with. I had very little idea where the story was going.

But through this blind madness an interesting point was made. I wanted to talk to a ticket master, so found one, only he very quickly said he couldn't talk to me about facts. I desperately wanted comment from a ticket master so probed him, asking him if he could at least give me his opinion.

"Of course, as a citizen of India I can say what I think," he replied.

He was very open with me, and the most interesting person to talk to. It got me thinking though, in New Zealand so often, as reporters, we are shrugged off and told to talk to someone who deals with the media. In India I can imagine the consequences of speaking out of line are more severe, yet here, everyone is happy, and almost wants to, talk to the media - to exercise their rights as an Indian citizen. New Zealanders could learn a thing or two. As a democratic country, surely we all have the rights to speak our minds - so why is everyone so scared to?

I have also become the "expat" reporter. If there is not much going on in the newsroom I am sent out to talk to "expats" about various topics - auto drivers, the opening of the Metro or Diwali celebrations. Initially I sighed, and thought "just because I'm white, seriously do I need to tap into that field", but after my first time out pounding the pavement looking for 'white' people I realised I enjoyed it. It gave me a chance to talk to tourists. Because of where I am staying and working I have really only been communicating with Indians (which has been fantastic in so many respects, and means I have learnt a whole heap about the Indian culture and life I never would have had I been staying in a hostel) but sometimes it's nice to talk to other travellers. Usually I hit them up with my questions, then spend the next ten minutes talking to them about other things.

The tourist comes out to play

Coconuts, temples, alligators, palaces, beggars - there is no doubt I am in India.

On Saturday I embarked on my first real tourist trip. Until then I had seen quite a bit of Bangalore, and ticked off many of the top spots recommended in the Lonely Planet, but Bangalore itself is not really known as a tourist hot spot, it is a city that gets on with day to day life. In a way it is the perfect place to be based for six weeks. Instead of visiting numerous parks and temples I am quite content with walking around the streets, getting a feel for big city India, because, really, that is what it does best (or worst, depending which way you look at it) - the parks and temples are to come.

But on Saturday I had my first dose of park and temple travelling. About 120km south of Bangalore is a "smaller' town called Mysore. It is known as much more of a tourist hotspot - Lonely Planet describes it as "one of the most flamboyant places you could visit in South India". Everyone had told me I needed to go there. So I organised a driver and a car (something very common here) to take me. I also invited Cheeku along, partly because it would be nice to have some company and also because I was a bit worried about driving around with a strange man (which, as it turned out, I need not have worried about, the driver was lovely, and I think - though can't be positive - he has invited me to his families' Diwali celebrations, akin to me inviting someone to my families' Christmas dinner).

So off we toddled to Mysore - although it is about 120km, the drive took three and a half hours...each way! I don't want to bog you down with too much detail, so will lightly skim over each activity - safely assume I was blown away by each and every thing I saw.

On the way we stopped at Cheeku's family home, a lovely home nestled in a small village surrounded by picturesque farmland. Then on to Srirangapatnam, 16km north of Mysore. It is an 'island', surrounded by rivers and riddled with history - for most of the 18th century it was the de facto capital for much of southern India under rule by a man called Tipu Sultan. We visited and went inside a Hindu temple here, holy men praying and all. Then on to Tipu Sultan's summer palace - a well kept garden and palace where he would spend his summers. The inside of the palace was the particularly stunning part, covered in amazingly intricate artwork (I couldn't take photos unfortunately, though doesn't seem to matter since this dam blog is still refusing to upload photos). Then on to Ranganathittu Bird Sanctuary. I wasn't particularly excited about the bird sanctuary (sorry Jane, I know you will not be too impressed with your niece right now), but like everything I have seen in India so far it pleasantly surprised me. The birds themselves were fairly ho-hum, it was the alligators that caught my attention. We went out on a river in a small row boat with about ten others to see all the birds, and alligators. I saw two - but was told there was about 50 swimming about in the river. Also saw a tree full of bats, ugh! After leaving the bird sanctuary we finally made it to Mysore where we had lunch (palak paneer) before going to its main attraction - Maharaja's Palace. A massive palace oozing with money from every crevice. Interesting side note - apparently there is a curse on the royal family which live there which means none of the kings can have children, so they have to adopt in every new king - imagine being adopted into that family! Then we went up Chamundi Hill - one of the eight most holiest hills in southern India (so a sign told me on the way up). It had amazing views of the area and another stunning temple. The particular highlight of this leg of the trip was seeing monkeys - Cheeku couldn't quite understand my excitement when I saw the first one, then we turned the corner and saw about 20 - you can only imagine my squeals of delight. By this stage I was exhausted and full of information so we headed home, but not before getting a well deserved sweet coffee.

Interesting note - as a foreigner I had to often pay ten times as much as Cheeku at every attraction. It was official and everything - on the price board there would be a "local" price and a "foreigner" price. For example, at Maharaja's Palace, Cheeku paid 20 Rupee, I paid 200. I'm not sure what happens for people who aren't obviously a foreigner but aren't from India, or who look like one but have lived in India their whole life. I can imagine there are a few arguments at the pay counter.

Just the way it is

I am beginning to understand I will never understand India. And every time I think I have it sorted there will be another hole in the footpath, another tiki tour in an auto and another stinking hot day.

I realised this as I was walking to the internet/cell phone top up store for the second time in two days. It's a boring story in which I needed to top up my pre paid internet - a seemingly minor event that turned into an annoyance. But as I was walking back from there today, after yesterday's attempt didn't seem to work (there's 500 rupees I will never see again), I realised I will never understand this place. I still don't know if my top up is going to work, or whether, like today, it will crap out half way through a skype conversation. But that's half the fun isn't it?

I am full of questions, and very few answers.

Why, for instance, does everyone ask me for my "good" name?

Why does no one even attempt to use the footpaths?

And why does someone need to sit in the lift to push the up and down button, all day long?

I spent my first two weeks here trying to make sense of the place. But I have come to realise that the trick to surviving this ten week adventure is to try not to understand.

Just accept there is a man in the lift that will take me to my floor, the footpaths seem to be redundant and, as far as I can tell, my "good" name is Hana (or at least that is what I have been telling everyone). Why? I do not know, it's just the way it is.

India is just the way it is. Call it what you will, annoyances, quirks, or just plain living, but for whatever reason it is just the way it is.

Photos

Note - I have got a camera now, in fact I have had one for the majority of my time here, but for the life of me I can't seem to upload photos to this blog. It doesn't make for a very pretty blog unfortunately and I continue to try to upload photos, but in the meantime I'm afraid it's only words. I will continue to try, but to ensure my computer isn't destroyed as I throw it out the window in frustration, I dare only brave it every now and again. Email me if you would like to see some photos and I can email you them, otherwise I have been putting photos up on Facebook.

"Indians are noisy, they like noise"

The often heard cliche of India is "it's an assault on the senses". I had always taken this to describe all the colours and smells of India - forgetting about one major sense. Sound. My ears have been under attack since arriving in India.

For the most part this comes down to the constant tooting. I have briefly mentioned this before, but it continues to be a defining force in Bangalore. I was talking to one woman about it and she commented that sometimes she will be driving around and there won't be any tooting, so she just decides to honk her horn for the sake of. I laughed. She shrugged, "Indians are noisy, they like noise".

Like most things in India, I'm yet to figure out exactly why everyone toots. My best guess is it's used as a way to let the other traffic know they are there - but when every second vehicle is doing it every five seconds it begins to lose its value. Despite this, there seems to be some sort of ordered chaos behind the flow of the traffic.

My favourite horn is one I often hear coming from the autos. The best comparison I can come up with is it sounds like a bleating goat. As a bus zooms past the small auto, the bleating goat certainly sounds very comical.

Like all extremes, it has made me aware of silence. There have been two occasions when I have noticed silence. The first happens every night when the city goes to sleep - and this city does at least seem to sleep some of the time. Bars even close here at 11.30pm. The second was an isolated, more surreal occasion. I was walking towards work one day last week, when as I approached MG Road (one of the more major roads in Bangalore) a rope barrier was put across the intersection. All traffic was brought to a halt, including foot traffic. I wasn't sure what to do at first, so just took cues from those around me, no one seemed to be walking past the barrier so I too stood just outside the barrier, shuffling my feet. After a while I noticed something, every vehicle had turned off their engine. Silence. Within a couple of minutes a procession of official looking cars drove past - I'm yet to figure out exactly who it was, but to be honest I don't really care who they were - I'm just amazed they managed to silence a city that "likes noise" so much.

Lions and tigers and bears, oh my

I am glad I have a home in New Zealand I can retreat to at the end of this. But if I was a lion, I would want to retreat to Bangalore.

Today I went to the Bannerghatta Biological Park. A nature reserve 25 kilometres south of Bangalore (which equates to about a 45 minute drive). It's a 11,330 hectare enclosure where the Karnataka Forest Department rehabilitates lions, tigers and sloth bears who have been rescued from circuses (you can thank Lonely Planet for the handy facts). It puts Wellington Zoo to shame.

The guy who helped me out with getting accommodation here, and helping me just in general, suggested I go. So today he sent a driver with his car (something very common here) to pick me up and take me there.

The drive there was even interesting. It is the first time I have really left the main part of the city, apart from my drive in from the airport on the first day. It was a strange mix of massive, multi-level apartments and small street-side vendors making their living. I could see why Bangalore was seen as the IT capital - some of the office buildings were huge, something you expect to see in Auckland, or New York for that matter.

The safari itself was very neat. It's the first time I have done something like this. You go in a bus with about 25 other people and drive around the park on an asphalt road. The road sort of detracts from the nature, but I guess how else do you do it. It seems to be a very popular place - I had to queue for about 30 minutes just to get on the bus and there seemed to be another equally as long queue just over from me (like most things in India, I couldn't make sense of why there were two separate lines). For once there was a benefit to travelling by myself - I was able to sit up the front of the bus in the other single seat beside the driver (although, as I learnt later, this would cost me).

The safari was about an hour long. As we drove around we had to pass through a series of gates which seemed to cut each type of animal off from the others. There were plenty of each type of animal - not like at Wellington Zoo, or any zoo for that matter, where you can spend 20 minutes looking for the two tigers who have hidden in the shade at the very back of the enclosure. I probably saw about five bears, five lions, 15 tigers, and three white tigers. Because I was at the front of the bus the driver would often take my camera and take photos for me from his side of the bus. When I went to get off the bus though I was asked to tip him. Ah, another tourist fitting into the tourist stereotype.

Street vendors and auto drivers

I am constantly on high alert in India. This might be me being extra cautious, but I also feel it is necessary. I stick out like a sore thumb in this place. Every shop I walk past and slightly gaze at I get "yes ma'am, just come inside ma'am, much more inside". Every auto I walk past "yes ma'am, auto ma'am". I am yet to figure out whether this is because I clearly look like a tourist and they know they are more likely to get more money out of me, or whether they do it to everyone. Either way, it was fun at the beginning, now it is just plain old annoying. I have also succumbed to the tourist stereotype. Locals hate tourists because they give auto drivers and street vendors more money. But as I have quickly worked out, if I want to keep my sanity and be taken directly to the place I want to go, I can give them an extra $NZ1 or so and they will take me directly there. No detours to silk shops.

Also, I am a terrible barterer. I never thought I would be good, but I am seriously bad. The problem is, when I convert how much they are asking for, it works out to be nothing in New Zealand dollars. I know that's not the point though, and that's why the locals hate the way tourists do things here.

I am yet to brave a street-side food vendor. I have been to a couple of small restaurant type places, which have had amazing food, but I have gone to these places on recommendation from others. The fear of vomiting for a week, at this stage, far outweighs my curiosity to try the street-side food. Plus, Nina is feeding me so well, I hardly feel like eating when I am out anyway.

There are three main types of food sold on the street (aside from the many takeaway/restaurant places), usually from a man with a cart. Sweetcorn, guava, and peanuts. They all seem to be very popular, and all look quite delicious, but are at the top of my "to avoid" list. Interestingly, these men are the least likely to harass me as I walk past. Maybe they have figured out tourists won't eat it.

Work has begun

So the reason for me being here has begun. I started work on Monday, and I think it is going to be an interesting five weeks. I think there will be a lot of sitting around, not really knowing what to do with myself and probably never getting my head around the ins and outs of the place, but in amongst all that I hope I will get to see and do some fun things.

I am part of the "Metro" desk - a team of 10 reporters covering general news in Bangalore. That's 10 reporters covering almost 9million people. And I thought my office was small.

Yesterday I went out with another of the reporters to something he was covering. To be honest I have no idea quite what it was. I think it was a citizen's group coming up with ideas on how to provide Bangalore with enough water as the population continues to grow. It was quite interesting, but I was glad I wasn't the one having to write a story from it. The best part about this was getting to and from the venue (anyone who loves me probably does not want to read this next part). Everyone here gets around on motorbikes - they seem to be an easy way to dart between the traffic and maybe get you to your destination 5 minutes earlier than those in cars. Also, the large majority of people don't wear helmets. I often just watch the roads amazed with how many people can fit on a motorbike, or how young a baby is in their mother's arms as she rides side-saddle on the back of her husband's bike. So there I was, on the back of one of the reporters motorbikes, helmetless, travelling through the streets of Bangalore. A large part of me had my mother's voice racing around my head, and I was holding on for dear life, but the other part of me found it exhilarating. I was a part of Bangalore for those 5 minutes. Not a tourist, but one of them, getting around the same way everyone does. Doing my job.

Also, it is worth noting I caught an auto home from work - the first time I have dared brave an auto after my last experience. It was relatively drama-free, I got home without any detours to silk shops and without taking the extra long route, although I think I did get charged far too much - 50 rupees (about $NZ1.50 - I can hardly complain, it's still nothing for me).

Can't believe I have already been here for a week. At times it has felt like the longest week of my life, particularly as I navigate the streets of Bangalore in the sweltering heat, getting more and more frustrated that street signs are few and far between. But at other times it has flown by, in the crazy swirl of colours, smells and sounds that make up this booming city.

Turn your meter on

Today I had my first real 'India' moment, actually it wasn't a moment rather a two hour escapade.

Let me explain. The woman I am staying with, Nina, had told me a few times I needed to go to Commercial Street - a typically Indian street filled with stores selling everything - and today she was meeting a friend for lunch near it so suggested we could jump in an autorickshaw together, and I would then just have to find my way back. Only her friend was sick and couldn't make lunch so I decided to go by myself. Auto drivers are notorious for taking people the 'scenic route' and not turning on their meter. I knew all this and thought I was prepared, so when I hoped in the auto I firmly told him to take me to Commercial Street. I hadn't really thought this through though, because although I knew he would take me the extra long way to get there, I didn't actually know where it was, long route or short route. After about 15 minutes he pulled up outside a silk shop and said "you go in for five minutes, I will wait here and then we can go to Commercial". If auto drivers drop someone at a shop and they buy something from there the driver gets a commission (something I learnt after this). A few firm words were exchanged, including him demanding even more money from me because he was so nice and put the meter on - something he is obliged to do by law - and me threatening to get out and not pay him a cent, before eventually a man from the shop came up to the auto and said something to him in Kannada and we drove off. Two minutes later and we were parked outside another of these shops (which might I add, looked beautiful and I did really want to have a look in, but knew I couldn't cave to his demands). We had an almost identical conversation again. Eventually he drove off, but I was soon realising this could potentially go on for hours, and with not actually knowing where Commercial Street was, I really wasn't in much of a position to demand him to take me there. I could see I was fighting a losing battle so ordered him to pull over to the side and let me out. I had no idea where I was, but figured it was better to hop out on a street which was full of people, rather than drive aimlessly around with this auto driver. In my 23 years of life I don't think I have ever been so blunt and rude to someone. I still paid him though, something I regret now.

So there I was, somewhere in Bangalore - that much I knew - with no map and little idea if I was even near Commercial Street. It's interesting when you are by yourself and you have to make these decisions. I can imagine if it was David and I (or anyone for that matter) we would have stopped to think about which was the best way to walk and discussed it for a while, probably not really coming up with any real answer, but maybe feeling a little bit more mentally prepared. But I didn't have him, so instead I just walked. There was no real reason why I took the path I did, other than it was the opposite direction to the auto driver. I must have looked lost because after about 10 minutes a man came up to me and asked me where I was going. He pointed me in the direction of MG Road (a major road, which the Deccan Herald is based on). I tell you, I have never been so pleased to have somebody point me in the direction of work. Just yesterday Cheeku had taken me to the office and shown me how to walk from there to the place I am staying at, so although this man didn't point me in the direction of Commercial Street, he did point me in the direction of a place I at least recognised the name of.

To cut a long story short, I then walked for about an hour and a half in the vague direction of home in the sweltering, muggy heat. I have never been very good with directions and this really tested my skills. A few mad crossings of intersections - including one where I seemed to get stuck in the middle of the road with traffic coming at all angles (sorry mum, probably something you don't want to hear) - and I was home. It was probably the closest I have ever come to kissing the ground.

Next time I will take a taxi.

Follow Road Rules

At the risk of bogging you down with details I finally feel I can start to explain what is going on here, so this blog might be a bit longer.

I spent the first night here at a homestay I found and booked online from New Zealand, the family lived downstairs and there were a few hostel rooms upstairs but I was the only one there. Leading up to this though one of the more major dramas occurred almost as soon as I stepped foot in Bangalore. I had arranged with the homestay to pick me up from the airport and they told me to look for a sign with my name on it – can you see where this is going? – only when I found all the people holding signs with names, mine was nowhere to be seen. Fortunately my cell phone worked over here (god knows what I would have done if it didn’t work) so after a few frantic phone calls to the homestay and a man here who has helped me out with finding more permanent accommodation, I was sitting in a taxi bound for the homestay. I was shattered and the trip was about 45 minutes in the dark so it was hard for me to get my bearings and see beyond the edge of the street – which was enough alone to consume all my attention – so it will be interesting to see what it is like when I make the trip to the airport again at some stage. I got to the homestay about 11.30pm and was absolutely shattered.

After a restless sleep I woke the next morning with no idea what to do with myself, so after breakfast I went for a walk. Wow, what a walk! It’s hard to sum it up, so I’m only going to focus on one aspect at this stage – trying to cross the roads. Imagine this - every single car in Wellington driving down Lambton Quay at the same time. Each car then toots its horn every five seconds (I am prone to exaggeration but, I assure you, this is no exaggeration), and every cyclist is actually on a motorbike with at least one passenger on the back swerving between the larger vehicles. Then, throw in some autorickshaws for good measure and maybe a few cows and buses, and now, bearing in mind the only road rule that seems to be followed is you drive on the left, imagine trying to cross that road. I tell you, it isn’t easy. My favourite moment came the next day when I saw a sign “Follow Road Rules” – easy to say that is probably just a token gesture. Either that or I have seriously missed the point to driving in India.

As I write this I am coming to the end of day three in Bangalore and staying at a new place, the place I will be staying for the entirety of my time in Bangalore. It is a modern apartment, which I am told is in the middle of town, although I’m yet to figure out exactly what that means and where ‘town’ is, with an older woman and her cook. My mum’s workmate knew someone who knew someone who knew someone who owned this place. I think I have fallen on my feet with it and feel very lucky to have somewhere safe and settled to stay for the entire time (something I think my parents are also very pleased about).

Everything is new at this stage and I can’t even begin to sum it up. Everyone keeps telling me all these things I must see and do while I am here, but at this stage even walking down the street is an adventure in itself.

Here, in one piece too

So I made it. India is everything I expected and yet nothing I expected. I've heard all the stories about India - "an attack on your senses", "a world in its own", "an experience, not a country" - and I thought I had it sorted. Then I got here, and it all hit me at once. This is something I could never have prepared for, who was I kidding to think I could.

I'm yet to come up with any remotely cohesive thought about India, in fact I probably never will. But for now, I have found some bottled water and an ATM machine, and might call it a day at that.

Also, managed to leave my camera at Auckland Airport, so for now, I'm afraid, it's just words.

Two days to go

I never thought this adventure would begin in hospital.

And yet there I was, the week leading up to my first real overseas trip, sitting in hospital holding David's hand as he was wheeled off to surgery.

Rewind a few days to the dance floor of BoogyWonderland and you will hear this madness begin with David clutching at his side, saying to me: "I think I have another hole in my lung".

Since February, David has had about five holes in his lung and was on the waiting list to have an operation to fix it. Usually when he does get a hole it fixes itself in about an hour. This time though, we woke the next morning to more side clutching.

Without bogging you down with details, David has spent the past week in hospital and had the operation on Tuesday. For the record; he's doing ok, and was discharged today.

So, instead of spending the past week organising myself for India, I spent it frantically running between work and hospital. In the few moments I did have to myself I spent them staring at my bag hoping it would pack itself (I've never been very good at packing, even at the best of times). In the end, my packing consisted of me chucking anything I thought might be slightly useful into my bag to bring to Hamilton for Mum to then organise for me. At 23, I can comfortably say I still need my mum.

So here I am, in Hamilton, two days out from my big adventure, with a massive pile of clothes scattered on the floor and an ever-expanding list of things to do.

I don't know what to expect, I am a bundle of nerves, but most importantly I cannot wait.