I’ve had several blog-ideas before: the one about walking around London (‘London vignettes’) the one about travelling as a tutor (‘A tutor’s travels’) and the one about the time I spent with braces (‘A brace of time’). I know the last one would’ve been a hit. Sadly none of them actually made an onscreen appearance. I’ve always been more of a walking-writer. I walk, thoughts meld into sentences which whirl around into some kind of punchy order, and are then promptly forgotten. If I’ve ever had the urge to write, I’ve dashed it into a notebook- illegible, read again by accident five years later. It’s fair to say I’m not a natural blogger. I’ve never travelled with a computer and the thought of tapping out posts on a phone, battling with autocorrect, has never seemed appealing. Recently I’ve taken to typing out words, clusters of them, on my Instagram posts; this represents a huge shift towards an audience-facing perspective, but I’m still not quite sure why I do it. 

Now, however, I do have my computer. I do have time. And I’m travelling, so it’s incredibly annoying to be hoofing diaries around with me ‘just in case’ I decide to go through them to glean razor-sharp insight. Plus I’ve got a bad back so I need to keep my suitcase light. So I have decided to write words here. It means I can practice forming sentences beyond the requirements of Whatsapp chit-chat, powerful as that may be, enhanced by ironic/not ironic emoticons of cabbages and horses. Having been travelling and living here and there for so many years it seems a little off the pace to be starting a travel blog, especially as my most exciting escapades may well be behind me. Well, that’ll make it more original. If I were to read travel blogs (trogs), then I would certainly be drawn to all manner of bright young Therouxs (bad choice- he’s rather grumpy) discovering literally tons of waterfalls and capturing exquisite imagery of smoothies. I’m jealous, of course. When I was travelling around jumping off waterfalls and ‘river-boarding’ towards a bad back, the only followers I had were mangy dogs and the only documentation equipment I owned was a film ‘point and press’ with a zoom that made a slight crunching sound- I think it had some sand in it. (Actually I loved that little Yashica.) Filing Copy on the road meant a fortnightly trip to the internet cafe to email my mum. Maybe they’ll be printed in a pamphlet one day, once this blog’s taken off. 

The other main reason to write a blog (apart from filling up the acres of time now that I’m not getting lashed with the Danes at the hostel) is that it’s quite hard for me to enjoy travelling. Sounds catchy! For nearly three years I’ve been living (and travelling) with a slightly unusual brain disorder which makes me feel spaced out and generally detached from the world around me. This is absolutely not ideal. Travel is a space in time to embrace the new, connect with people, feel the energy of a place, be inspired, gain fresh perspective, feel joy. To embrace travel is to be open. A good traveller just needs to connect. Relationships are made and the memories are vivid and clear. Travels linger and seep in. All of that is a bit tricky when you feel cut off, floating in a different space to those around you. Everything seems unreal, you observe everything, you know it’s real, you know nothing is wrong with the world, and yet… perception has shifted. The mind is foggy, there’s a divide between you and the world. It’s hard to bridge the gap and connect. And into that I walk, because what else is there to do? A day goes by, it has its challenges, it’s passed by in a daze, a haze. It’s hard to feel the day’s events with the tang of lived reality. By writing something down, I’ll at least be catching it, remembering that it really happened, even if I didn’t feel fully present at the time. 

I flew Sydney to Delhi yesterday in a single 12.5hr bout. One of the best things about Sydney was being able to talk to the taxi drivers. On the way to Sydney there was something in the Qantas video about Sydneyfolk getting in the front of taxis- ‘that’s just the way they are’. I needed Uber a few times. Each time: boom I’m in the front having an awesome chat with the driver. Bangladesh: been there (nostalgic, happy), Syria: been there! (serious, involved, we’re missing turns), Iran: not been there (but let’s have an intense chat anyway with an extremely large amount of swearing). And finally, the taxi to the airport: Leanne from Sydney: Chilled, chatty, curious, charming. Loads of Cs. Of course I felt strange, detached, different to how I ‘should’, different to ‘normal’, that long-distant, vaguely remembered state of Normal: present, clear, sharp. But through the fuddle and the tired brain and the effort to be relaxed and communicate, I just enjoyed those chats. It made me realise how a long time in places where you can’t really speak the language can take its toll. I’ve probably got some other things to say about Sydney, but I’ve been up since 4am today and I’m going back to Sydney in May, so I’ll deal with it then. Mainly, I felt it was important to mention the taxis. 

So it is fortunate that I am in another country where (lots of) people speak English, although it was planned that way. I have been here before; it wasn’t a surprise that people speak English in India. I should point out that people here, a great number of them, speak English about as well as Somerset Maugham or George Orwell. The Air Bnb guy used the word ‘dichotomy’ today in his description of the neighbourhood. I went out this early morn for a walk- very rare for me to be out on the dawn streets, almost only feasible with a dose of jet lag. I was surprised at the number of dogs lying around, a few of them bearing the indignity of yesterday’s Holi markings: a dash of yellow on the forehead, a palm of pink on the rump. The walk didn’t go well. A few ATMS failed me in a row, the last of which made the ‘i’m giving you money now’ rattle and then just stopped working. I realised at that moment that I wasn’t feeling calm and needed to get back into my meditation routine. But in the park things looked up. It was full of beige dogs, but they seemed to be mostly dozing. On one side of a fence a huge group of deer were staring at me. I had found the deer park. They were waiting for me to throw bread at them. It was cool, the first rays were glinting through the smog, I heard men screaming. I had found a field of kabaddi players, celebrating Holi. A film I’d watched on the plane featured a kabaddi scene in which the character who later shot himself (spoiler) was roughed up by his bullying cousin. So it was nice to see a real game on my first morning in the city. Men were being slapped and grappled to the ground, but all seemed amicable. I think I remember seeing Kabaddi on Blue Peter about 25 years ago, so I was fully prepped to enjoy the spectacle, although it’s quite hard to work out what’s going on. It’s like a cross between tag, sumo and rugby. After about 30 seconds I was beckoned over by some stately gentlemen to the main observation bench and asked to sit down as their guest. It was good to get a closer view of the action, and I was relieved not to be invited to play. Then they stopped playing and sat on the grass and listened to a speech and sang a song. It was a social gathering where games were played, stories told, community awareness fostered. I felt a bit awkward, sitting there on the bench, with quite a lot of people looking at me, but again, it was satisfying to have a bit of chat with the gents, dignified and welcoming as they were, and I went on my way feeling rather uplifted, ready to enjoy the rest of the park.

Later on, looking for an ATM that worked, in need of at least several rupees to buy some tea, no doubt looking rather lost and forlorn, a man- my saviour- called out to me. Pravin was at the shop getting some milk and, being a laid-back kind of guy, started chatting. We drank some tea at the shop- a good dose of real chai. He took me to an ATM, getting pummelled by water-bombs from balconies on the way, passing kids playing Holi, throwing water and powder, past young guys totally dyed and drenched. We went to his place, where he was looking after his father. There were a number of guitars in the room, wearing hats. He gave me cereal, good tea from his home place (darjeeling), some home-made dumplings, some more tea. We talked a lot. He was a musician, had lived in London. He had a photo of a little girl on his phone: his daughter, now 22, who he’d not seen for years. He was in his early 40s, seemed much younger. He was sharp and engaged, smoked a bit, talked a lot about being blessed. I felt a little dazed: tiredness, new streets, a new person to try to connect with. But that was a good start. Holi, smiles, communication.