Asia - Chennai to Bangkok

I thought I was going to die. Again.


I was stuck in the middle of an intersection for the third time that day. Four-wheeled rust buckets were hurling themselves in my direction. Barefoot rickshaw drivers were on a kamikaze course to who knows where. I didn't even have the pleasure of blinding headlights in my vision, half the time they don't even exist. I crossed my fingers, took a deep breath and ran.

The traffic doesn't stop in Chennai, at least, not if you're human.


I was cringing, bitter and annoyed. India was getting under my skin. Chennai is the fourth largest city in India with a population of 5 million. It's home to a less famous than Bollywood, but equally as popular film industry.


This isn't Hollywood.


I spent the day wandering around the city, counting the minutes until I was to depart. Trash heaps supported a cow farm just off one of the main streets. Another turn down that street brought Richard and I into a pretty little slum, filled with children in panties running rampant down the lanes.


I was leaving for Bangkok, Thailand, and that day, I couldn't have been happier. Never mind the last time I was in "The Land of Smiles" pleasant customs officials spat on my face, called me a piece of shit, took my money and threatened to send me jail. Thailand was going to be an Oasis.


Richard and I got off of our flight, went through customs, picked up our luggage and entered into a different world. It was posh. It was clean. The roads were paved. The taxis had air-conditioning. Road signs directed you to where you had to go. I was shocked. I didn't quite know what to do with myself. Bangkok is a bustling, vibrant, cosmopolitan city, not far off from the great cities of the Western World.


Asia seemed like a distant memory.


Richard and I had time to kill, so we took a Tuk Tuk. Our only objective was to eventually reach the Grand Palace. The man offered us a rate of 20Baht - what a steal! We jumped in, expecting to do the rounds around gem shops and tailors, we wouldn't be fooled. We were going to waste his time. Two tailor shops later the pleasant Tuk Tuk driver suggested a visit to a travel agent. Don't worry, it is the Tourist Authority of Thailand. We agreed. The shop looked professional, in fact there was even a Farang (foreigner) working in the offices. We told the agent where we wanted to go. He disappeared and reappeared a few moments later. Our week long excursion was going to cost £200/person. We scoffed, laughed and walked away...


"Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!" He screamed. I turned around, the agent was throwing out his finger at us, and screaming, beckoning for a fight. Richard, without thinking, jumped out of the tuk tuk chasing the man back into his hole. The man lacked balls. We tore off down the road with echoes of "Fuck you farang, fuck you!" trailing behind.


I smiled. Yes, we were still in Asia.

This is India (rolling heads and flaming lips) - Mammallapurum, Tamil Nadu, India

Down the hill, in the distance beyond the ancient ruins drums were beating and voices were chanting with vivacious intensity. 

We were in Mammallapurum, Tamil Nadu, a World Heritage Site renowned for its rock carvings and temples. It had also been seriously damaged by the Boxing Day Tsunami. The coastline is littered with crumbling houses neglected and deserted in the wake of the disaster. Almost everyone Richard and I speak with has been affected, but the locals are resilient. Relief work and life continues. We had arrived here more or less on a whim, an excursion before embarking for the Andaman Islands. My expectations for Mammallapurum were neither high, nor low.

Richard and I followed the music. Sweat soaked through my shirt as the sun pierced my skin. It was hot. The drums became louder. We were near. I started to run, closer and closer. A smile crept on my face, I was positive we were about to crash an Indian wedding. Richard and I approached the crowded mass of Indians. A local man saw us, nodded in approval and encouraged us to enjoy the celebration. 

The chanting echoed in my ears. The drums vibrated throughout my body. I squeezed through the crowd. A man wielding a machete had it above his head, ready for attack. He struck. The eyes of a terrified goat met mine, mere seconds before his death. It's head rolled to the side like a football. Blood squirted and sprayed from its neck and into the crowd. I jumped back to avoid contact. 

There wasn't a bride nor groom in site. This was definitely not an Indian wedding.

The Sadhus brought another goat to the alter, and another, until 5 or 6 lay still, their bodies detached from their heads. Men and women in trances yelled in a foreign tongue, their bodies collapsing to the floor. The scene was manic. More bodies wriggled about like earth worms into the temple, another man collapses. This time I don't think it's "normal." The locals huddle around, rinsing the Holy Man with water. Another Sadhu places a large flaming tablet on his tongue. It's burning and I could see the intensity coursing through his body. He swallowed the fire and collapses in an exhausted heap. They pour water on his burnt mouth. 

I was surrounded by drumming, chanting, Sadhus, blood, goats' heads, men, women and children. No, it wasn't an Indian wedding Richard and I stumbled upon, but a celebration, for what, however, I've absolutely no idea. This is after all, India.