Clearly you haven’t read Shantaram yet. In the early part of the book, Lin – the narrator – is travelling in a taxi with his Indian guide. Their driver is reckless, either a lunatic or out of his head on noxious substances. Eventually, he smashes into a hand drawn cart, sending several people flying. The driver is mometarily concussed. The taxi is boxed in by other cars, so Lin and his guide can’t get out of their rear doors. The guide is frantic to escape; Lin assumes this is because the taxi might explode in flames. They clambour over the front seats, and once out, run until they are well clear. Lin looks back and comments on the taxi not having been engulfed by flames. His guide explains that that was not a problem; the likelihood – or near certainty – of their being lynched was. He points out that the driver has been dragged from his cab and is being beaten senseless by the angry crowd that has gathered. That, apparently, is the standard fate for those deemed to have been the cause of accidents. Presumably, the reason the passengers are considered as guilty as the driver is because if they hadn’t commandeered the taxi in the first place, the accident would never have happened!!!

onwards to palolam!

so we decided that Vagator, not the jolly christmas retreat that we imagined, was to be left as soon as possible.
We asked our hotel bloke whether a train ticket could be bought from him, he looked like a chronically frightened weasel at the best of times and now he looked especially shifty. he told us that the best way would be taking a taxi (the hotel taxi of course) to Panjim and then a bus to palolem from there. weakened by lack of sleep from the previous nights excesses, we agreed. the next morning we arrived in panjim and where dropped of at the bus station. much like when Flo and i went to our first station it was a process of trail and error to find out how things worked. the bus station was a bustle of activity, with signs everywhere written in one of the 87 languages that are actively used in India. i queued up at a likely looking office, only to be told to go someplace else for palolam. the bloke wasn’t clear, his wild gesture taking in the entirety of the bus station. the station was built like a hub, so we struck out a quarter rotation in the hope of seeing something. i found a bus heading to margaon, a place halfway there, but i had no idea how to get a ticket. asking around i discovered that what i first thought to a be a large mob aimlessly clogging up the station trying to sell stuff, turned out to be the queue to get tickets. as i considered the rabble, trying to work out where it ended or even began, a couple of travelers wondered up. turns out they where from the chek republic and the prospect of queuing scared them. they offered to share a taxi with us to margaon. this seemed a good plan so we got a taxi after a protracted haggling session with the chek guy happily inventing fictional journeys he had taken of similar length but for a quarter of the asking price. i was in the back with the chek couple and lucy was in the front apparently pretending to be a deaf mute. i chatted away to the couple who were really nice. a couple of times during out conversation the taxi driver would swerve violently and break to avoid such things as the side of the road or a tree. this isn’t unusual in india, so we really didn’t take it onboard that we where in the hands of someone who had only the most rudimentary grasp on the concept of driving. it was also possible that he was drunk. i joked about the lack of seatbelts, miming strapping myself into my seat in mock terror. we all had a jolly laugh. what seemed like moments later we came to an intersection and i glanced up to see a moped appear in front of us. the driver braked wildly and i watched in slow motion as we smashed into the moped. the rider crunched into the windscreen, spiderwebing it inwards right in front of Lucy. the taxi stopped, shedding its newest addition. i looked around, no one seemed harmed. Lucy was understandably in a state of shock and covered in glass dust. suddenly a crowd appeared around us. i saw the mopedist being supported by a couple of people, he looked alive, if a little mangled. after a moments indecision we all got out and wondered around for another taxi. our driver, now on the phone to his boss, tried to charge us, but we declined.

as luck would have it, we had crashed directly opposite a bus stop. a bus rested on the tarmac like some blessed apparition, it was going to margaon, it was empty and it cost rp8 a tiny fraction of what the taxi would have cost.
on reflection, this is all disturbingly lucky.
this enchanted bus soon filled up and took approximately a week to get to margaon but the bus from there to palolam it was speedy. we had worked out the buses at that point. you just leap on the one with palolam printed on the back and hope for the best.
on this bus we met a guy called Miles, a very nice chap who become our companion in palolam for a few days.
we slid back into the thing of things in palolam fairly quickly. getting drunk with Miles every other evening and taking a rest the next day.
a note on Quicksilver.
this has become one of the finest books i have ever read. it bypasses even the quincunx as a pleasure to read. it centers on the royal society and natural philosophers in particular. a subject i new a little about having listened to a radio 4 program on it a while back. natural philosophers such as Newton, Hook and Liebnez created the way we view the world today. inventing such diverse things as the telescope and the clock to metaphysical notions such as calculus and the philosophical language. fascinating stuff with a really engaging story. Samuel Pypes was a member of the royal society at the time and has a small role in this book. when i have the chance upon returning home i might have a read of his diaries and see his perspective on certain events such as the great fire of london and being “cut for the stone”.
been in palolam for about nine days now. new year was an anticlimax of similar proportions to christmas. it was fun for a while but i went to bed at around 5am bitterly annoyed that the network had collapsed and not only could not send any messages but any messages sent to me where somehow lost in the aether as well. i’m still waiting to receive them. thinking about heading on to Hampi in the next few days.
see you anon!
love Julio

Flo and lucy scrumming down some pemello in the park in mumbai.

some urchins, of which, there are many, in agra.

a traditionally painted heavey goods truck.

me trecking into the heart of monkey island, armed only with a glazed expresion and a staff of my own construction. those monkeys had better watch out!

still on monkey island, i rest for a moment and enjoy a good pose as i servey my claimed land. i shall name it von julion land or some such.

a foul creature thats has crawled out of someones nightmare. they populate the beaches of palolam in their millions.

i believe i have messed up the uploading again. but this computor is like a satan and is not making it easy.

It can’t be Jermaine or Michael. Is it Randy?

Also after my epic bungy jump on the highest bungy in the country at a mere 134 meters and 8 seconds free fall those who wish to see more should go to Youtube and type in “Nevis Bungy”. You will see what I did done by some other random bloke.

I highly recommend the experience to all – it is highly exciting but at the same time gentle on the poor body with no strain put upon it and certainly no eye dislocation likely. The only downer is the sheer cost of the thing!
Happy New Year from a pleasantly warm South Island

A familiar looking postcard dropped through our letter box this morning, of a gentleman in orange rainment with an afro style haircut. I believe he lives in Puttaparthi, a remote village in the state of Andhra Pradesh, in Southern India. Maybe you should look him up.

At around 8pm, while the others are watching Gran Tit (news headlines – grande titres, I suppose) on the box, I slip away and take my evening shower. It’s an ecstatic moment, stepping beneath the tepid water and sluicing the congealed sweat off. I then slide into bed, taking care to tuck the sides of the mosquito net under the mattress, having first switched the bedside fan on. For the first week or so, I lived in ignorance of this fan, and suffered the nights of the long knives as a result. Now, despite the fact that the fan sounds like a badly adjusted diesel engine, it’s worth several times its weight in rupees. I lie in the bed, making sure to align myself from corner to corner so as not to touch the net with my feet, hands or head. If the dogs aren’t barking, I don’t bother with ear plugs. By now, even with the fan, I’ve already started sweating again, and a small pool of viscous fluid is building up in the hollow of my chest. This area, plagued with old mosquito bites, begins itching. I resist the urge to scratch, and laboriously arrange my lips, which are covered in leprous sores, gummy and frequently bleeding, so that my mouth stays permanently open; that way, the sores have an opportunity of crusting over, hastening healing.

Eventually, I fall asleep, despite the vibration of the fan, the dogs, which have started to howl, and the impossibility of ever stretching out to my full length. This puts me in mind of the slightly smaller than human sized boxes Tibetan monks live in for months on end, designed to promote uneasy sleep as a way of cultivating their dream life. I wake with a start in the middle of the night. A text message has come in. It’s from Tesco mobile, advising me that if I top up before the end of the week, I will get double bonus points. Snarling to myself, I feel a sharp pain as my lips are forcibly prised apart. I realise my mouth must have shut when asleep and my lips had become glued together. The drying scab has cracked and I can taste the fresh blood. Being out of bed and away from the fan, I’ve started perspiring freely. I clambour back into bed, and align myself in the damp patch I recently vacated. It smells of stale, unwashed babies nappies. I rearrange the mosquito net, organise my lips, and try to still my mind. A leaf rustles in the wind and the dogs start barking. At my side, my sleeping partner snortles gently. Unable to resist, I stroke my fingertips over my raging chest. The ecstasy is too much, and I ravage the area with my fingernails, scratching maniacally. As I do this, the heavens open and rain pours down, drumming on the tin roof. I start thinking of something ludicrously complex, in the hope it will dull my mind into oblivion.

Finaly, I sleep again. I’m dreaming of frequenting some public toilets. They’re crowded; but finally a porcelain urinal becomes available. I lean against its cold extremity. My bladder is bursting; but I seem to be having difficulty relaxing the necessary muscles. At last, the stream of urine flows freely. What a relief! Suddenly, half way through, I am jerked away by an unseen hand and I wake with a start. In a feverish state, I reach down to see what the cause of the damp patch beneath me is. Astonishingly, it’s only sweat. I lie there for several minutes fighting my obvious need to visit the toilet.

Eventually, I go. Navigating between three rooms in the dark, I stub my toe in the same place I stubbed it the previous night. While in the bathroom, I take another shower, to quell the itching that seems to have broken out all over my body, like an attack of hives. I soap my leprous mouth, then dry myself, before crawling back to bed. This time, I fail to tuck the net in adequately. I fall asleep but am soon awoken by a rogue mosquito, biting my cheek. I spend a delirious half hour fending it off before eventually slapping it dead on my groin. By this time, the cooling effects of my shower have entirely worn off. The cranking fan, wafting hot, humid waves of torrid night air across the bed, is fighting a losing battle against my deranged sweat glands. My lower teeth have started aching, from a sudden rush of blood to my engorged lips. I’m itching all over, again. I can sense, through closed eyelids, the beginning of daybreak. I can hear some distant cocks crowing. Birds begin to squark, just outside the window. Even as I manage to dull these sounds and slide once more into blessed oblivion, there is the shocking awareness of the early riser in the household shuffling around beyond two closed doors, and then, horror of horrors, switching her radio on. Groaning, I cram my moist pillow over my head. Strapping it against my ear with my arm, I lie in a rancid pool of acrid sweat, fighting an almost overwhelming desire to scratch myself raw.

Cooking lunch

Boiling rice

Midday sun

Outdoor shower

Drying up nicely