Delhi: The Hard Way [Day one in Delhi]

I wrote this after my first day in Delhi. Much more to come on India...

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So I'm definitely in Delhi - and I think I like it. That said I'm starting to feel as if the only way I'm going to get around this country is the hard way. See what you think....

As a white European tourist, I'm starting to get the feeling there are three ways of doing things in a country like India [or any place in the world where travellers can encounter a genuine spectrum in the way people live]. There's the 'deluxe' [a word that is liked very much here] way...that is to say 'well bugger me sideways if I've not got more money than sense of adventure - let's see if I can go this whole trip without leaving an Air-conditioned area and hopefully I'll avoid having to actually interact with anyone from India who doesn't have three PhDs and maybe there'll be a slight chance I won't be splurting out orangey bum juice for the next week or hosting an intestinal buddy with a head of hooks.

Second there's the 'medium' type which is basically saying "I'm going to pretend not to be doing the 'deluxe' by going on a tour with other young gapper-slappers and feeling like we did it ourselves because we had to use public transport to get to our non-airconditioned mini-bus which will drive us around and let us take photos of endangered tigers and Tibetans". The third type can either be described as 'budget', 'endurance', 'hippie', 'the hard way' or 'no money'. It can either be out of an inverted snobbery, a kind of Orwellian "I'm going to live in poverty to find myself when quite frankly I'm really rather comparatively minted and can 'deluxe it up' at any time I like" [Read 'Down and Out in Paris and London' by George Orwell to see the kind of self-serving poverty seeking path of misery borne from a guilt at an upper-lower middle class upbringing which is wonderfully and I think quite unintentionally laid bare by him]. In this bracket you also meet the family travellers, who are couples usually dragging their poor kids around with them and putting them through all kinds of hell for 10 months. I met a woman who was doing this - she described being in a train carriage for 10 people with 18 in it [and her family] as being a 'really special moment'. What bloody nonsense. If 'semi-traumatic testing moments' can be described as special I can think of plenty of 'special moments' I've had travelling. And all those family holidays peppered with arguments were actually our very own 'special moments'. I must have a whole catalog of 'special' memories of me and my sister driving my poor parents insane with an unending stream of nonsensical petty arguments. Maybe I can convince my family they were so special we should have another go at creating some more some time?

Anyway, back to my simplified 3-tier way of travelling. In India, I admit I originally considered the 'medium' route, with a hint of budget and a dash of gapper-slapper for good measure. I'm already very glad I didn't [I met some objectionable gapper slappers today on an organised trip which confirmed this]. As I'm relatively near the end of my trip I'm naturally near the end of my savings. Owing to a few extensions and a bit of denial, I'm actually about two hundred pounds away from the end of my savings - so like it or not - I'm budget.

Saying that, I seem to be choosing 'the hard way' even when I don't have to - it's just more preferable after a while as it's often much more interesting. Maybe I should let Orwell off a bit. [He really does start to fuck you off if you read 'Homage to Catalonia' though. It's like 'George, don't go in the trenches, you're really tall and will probably be shot. Oh, you've been shot, well done - idiot'].

When I say I am choosing the hard way, it's often by accident - it's little things like I didn't realise my hostel did free airport pickups and so managed to walk right past my name on a board at the aiport. To be fair it was amongst literally hundreds of others...it's not like I was arriving at the Arctic research base and walked past a trained Polar bear pissing my name into the snow - it's Delhi - 16 million people live here. So right from the start I seemed to be taking the hard route. My taxi driver gave me a crash course introduction to Indian driving [thankfully not literally]. Watching Sanjay, my driver, swerve between lanes was quite an education in human reflexes. It was like no one was able to chose a lane, or I was like the 6th sense kid, except 'I see road lines' and no one else would believe me. There also seemed to be a strange and secret code of honking and flashing that eluded me and seemed to be equally mysterious to other drivers too.

People in India drive like each one of them has read a different Highway code, each written by a different child with an overactive imagination, not yet curbed by Ritalin. For good measure these codes are then printed in Braille and handed to the drivers to make sense of for the first time whilst being given their first driving lesson/ test and being asked to solve long division problems in some crazy moon language, like Welsh.

It seems the only common code of communication that all drivers share is honking and one other thing. Honking seems to mean 'look out' or 'look at me' or 'I'm bored of this red light, why isn't it green' or 'look, there's a cloud' or 'just testing if my horn works in case I see a cloud'. The other thing is called 'BANG'. Let me say that I felt quite brave sat on the back of a motorbike in Bangkok. Seeing Delhi I feel like I've left 'Primary school for shit driving' and graduated up to big school where all the real fuckwits come to drive before being set free across the world and let loose in places such as Birmingham and Coventry. If you think I'm exaggerating read on.

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I sat down to read the paper this morning over my breakfast of tea and toast with jam and felt like an old English gent. One of the many fascinating headlines was 'traffic kills more in Delhi than cancer'. Especially buses called 'blueliners' apparently. I made a mental note to avoid big blue busses, and cancer. As I sat eating my breakfast I was watched impatiently by a member of hotel staff. 'You ready yet? we go to free information centre - we take you there for free'. I enjoyed the last warm dregs of my tea and unenthusiastically walked into what was most certainly something that was too good to be true. You don't get a free transfer to an office when there's not a big commission about to be earned. Once in their office I was, in fairness, given a lot of good information by the guys. I learned of fly-fishing in the Himalayas near a place called Shrinagar. I got that fluttery feeling I write about in 'Why I fish' [which no one has read as I've not uploaded it yet]. It's a dangerous fluttery feeling which is usually followed by the spending of much cash on fish-related fun. Whether I can afford to let this become an idee fixe remains to be seen.

After being given this information I was almost bundled into a car which would take me around 5 sites in Delhi I'd never heard of. This was, might I add, entirely against my will. It was such a rehearsed rip off that so many tourists had fallen for that I just went with the flow until I was in the car. The first stop was a temple. 'where are we?' I asked. This question failed to stumble over the language barrier, 'you look for ten minutes' he replied. We finish in 5 hours, you pay XXX rupees". I walked out the car and began to hatch an escape plan, until someone shouted 'hey mister mister, cobra in a box'.

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I got back in the taxi, armed with my firm and fair plan. I said slowly and clearly 'Take me to the nearest tourist information centre please - there I will get out and pay you, as I don't have XXX rupees'. He seemed to pick up the drift of me not having money and said ' ok, I take you to tourist information - but first we go to a special shop'. I was getting serious De Ja vu [see Tuk Off]. As I stood in the shop staring into the middle distance some lost looking English girls walked in saying 'why are we here?' to each other. I almost literally pounced on them - the first English people I'd seen since landing. We got chatting and I explained the reason we were in the shop. We agreed to all meet at the nearest Tourist Information and told our respective drivers of our intention. 'See you soon' I said, 'or maybe I'll never see you again ha ha'. I never saw them again - that's Delhi I guess. [[Interestingly, by some astronomical odds - I did see them again the next day - they walked right past my hostel and we chatted away -so that's Delhi, I guess!]]

Finally I arrived at a Government tourist information where a couple of overworked and disinterested people vaguely agreed my itinerary was do-able but expensive. They could do it cheaper. I suddenly realised this wasn't an official Tourist Information, but just a Government licenced information outlet. I'm still not sure if I've been in the real one yet. I don't think one exists. In this way India is frustrating. It is the rule rather than the exception that most people are trying to make money out of you. I'd had enough guff - my blood sugar was low and I needed food. My friend had given me some advice on travelling India and said 'be flexible'. There's just no point fine planning in India for so many reasons - such as unpredictable delays or meeting new friends. Instead of freaking out about what and where I'd do in India and when, I decided there and then I'd make it up as I went -starting with lunch. 'Know any good places for lunch?' I asked. 'KFC that way - McDonalds that way' he said patronisingly. I scornfully replied 'I mean Indian food' with a smug smile. How dare he assume that because I'm European I'll leap in front of a bluebus to get to some chips. Five minutes later I was ordering a dirty Ronald, where the menu was: Veggie, Veggie, Chicken, Chicken or Fish. It was relatively quite pricey. 20 meals could get you a plane ticket up north to the fly-fishing place...

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Afterwards, I walked to a grassy area [kept on the brink of brown extinction by a sprinkler]. I passed a book shop and bought a copy of 'The Old Man and the Sea' which I'd been seeking for weeks. On the way to finding somewhere to read it I was called to and approached several times by what I assumed were peddlers [they weren't on bikes, but they were definitely peddling something]. I began to learn to ignore these approaches and calls. After ignoring one guy he said 'ear cleaning?'. I turned and smiled at his funny joke - implying I was deaf. Nope. Turns out street peddlers actually clean your ears [I saw them do it to someone]. While reading, I was approached 5 times by these cotton-bud carrying nut cases. They all carry small leather bound books of handwritten multilingual reviews of ear cleanings such as, 'wow, who knew I had such crap in my ears? Thank you so much, now I can hear street peddlers harassing me - John 1987'. The languages he flicked through before reaching English were strange and many. For example, one I'm sure was Sanskrit - one of the most ancient languages on earth, which is apparently still flourishing in the Indian ear-cleaning community. If an archaeologist ever found one of these books it would be like the Rosetta stone.

After an hour of reading in the sun I headed off in a random direction. I was shouted at by a group of school boys and called over. They were wearing matching ties of various length and were about 17 - they seemed to just want to test if the English they learned in school actually worked on a real life subject. We chatted and they took turns trying on my [quite normal] hat. If I was wearing a fruit bowl I'd have understood - oh well. The simple act of them trying on my hat drew a crowd of ten. I was surrounded by semi-curious grinning locals and did what I always do when faced with many strangers - I asked for travel advice. Ask a group of strangers from the same place for advice and they'll argue for hours. It was great fun and I gained valuable advice. One guy called Ricky, who was 21 and had a violent scar under his left eye, said he'd walk me to a temple. 'I don't want money - just to practise English'. We got talking about this and that. 'My 5 brothers are dead' he said right before walking in front of a car. It dodged him, just, and I felt no need to ask how his brothers had died. I've seen so many near misses in India - only ever near misses though.

Ricky took me to his temple and explained all the baffling figures. Turns out I actually knew a few of them! We sat down in the temple and some prayer started. A man sat on the floor with a book on a cushion and a microphone by his mouth and he began to sing the prayer. It was only old woman in the temple congregation of about ten and they tunelessly joined in at random it seemed. I was just about to get bored when suddenly an old woman [of about, well, really old]suddenly started playing this massive drum with a hand on each end. She must have played for twenty minutes. I've been present at recording sessions where session drummers have missed more beats. She was ace. Suddenly prayer was a bit more fun, with people randomly hitting bell sticks and clapping. Maybe the Church of England should release a Drum N Base remix of the Lord's Prayer to get people a bit more exited about the concept of an afterlife? Though the next logical step might be spiking the communion wine, which could send out the wrong message...?

Me and Ricky went for some Chi and we sat and unpretentiously exchanged philosophies. 'In India, anything is possible' he said 'live life and love life - that's the Indian way'. Then he offered to get me some hash - turns out this was his preamble. I politely decline. I enjoyed out cup of tea though. I think a cup of tea is something very culturally at the heart of both England and India [and many other cultures] - if only the whole world spoke English and drank tea. Maybe India is bringing out the colonialist in me...

We talked a little more and just before parting he asked me for some money for his school books. I'm pretty sure the money wouldn't have ended up on school books but I'd love to be wrong. I gave him none, of course, giving various patronising reasons about not being able to help everyone even if I wanted to. I couldn't help but feel the entire afternoon had led up to this question. I had half expected it though. I guess he was just a very eloquent beggar. Begging is something that most people like to ignore quite enthusiastically in Europe - not needing to pay much attention to it. In India, it pays attention to you. When ordering an icecream from a stand, three or four children might come up to you and ask for money and make a hand gesture which means food. You can't help but feel like an utter bastard not giving them money. Having worked for a charity though, I know you can't help everyone. And it's never the most needy actually begging - the most needy wouldn't have enough energy to hassle you. None the less, with all my semi-Daily Mail intellectual arguments against giving to beggars and in favor of supporting charities this doesn't help when you're tucking into a delicious icecream Feast with begging children at your feet. You can hardly say 'boo hoo to you' or 'sucks to be you'. I know there's so much suffering in the world - when it's in your face though it's hard to stay strong. When someone fakes a friendship in order to ask money, you start to find it hard to trust anyone you meet in Delhi. And that's a sad state of affairs, but let me explain.

Trust is a problem in India it seems. On the Delhi metro today was an announcement: 'Do no befriend any unknown person'. That was it, word for word. Rather takes the wind out of the idea of making new friends - but false and loaded behavior with a view to extracting money is a big issue in this culture it seems. Similarly, Ricky had earlier told me very earnestly that you couldn't trust a Muslim, 'they are the most dishonest people in India and that they never smile back when you smile at them' at which I expressed some doubt but mostly just listened. This was what he believed though and the ingrained ideas and divisions in all Indian society which manifest in poverty and religious segregation seem to have persisted for Milena so far and show little sign of ending in this one. The girls I re-bumped into today said they felt they couldn't trust anyone in India, which was why they were going on the tour. I can't say I entirely agree with the girls'opinions and I think they may have over-reacted by going on an all-pre-booked tour. Saying that I can certainly see the appeal after all my false leads and misinformation. I always think if you can trust your own judgement you can trust anyone - you can trust them to act how you expect them to - however that may be. And Ricky I guess is just another example of where that line blurs. He was very nice and interesting, but a whole afternoon of conversation was engineered to extract money. It's a very strange state to explore a city in - always expecting the sting in the tail of kindness. And the most strange thing of all is that mistrustful con artists and tauts will try to put you off other mistrustful people, dismissing them as dishonest for trying to con you. In the next breath they will try to con you. From a detached view it's funny, but face to face every day it's quite exhausting.

This is emblematic of an aspect of Indian culture. Each man for himself. Whether it's fellow tauts besmirching the others, tuk tuk drivers fighting fellow drivers to get your bags out your hand for your fare [in the absence of a taxi rank], the endless honking in stationary traffic or the rugby scrum of the Delhi metro - everyone seems to assume that they are in a hurry and you're not. That their personal mission is priority. For example - it isn't rare to find 5 jeeps offering the same trip to the same place, with all of them semi-full and refusing to leave until they are full - while still trying to fill them, rather than just put everyone into two jeeps and leave.

These are just my impressions of India and Delhi, and mostly I'm describing people in business. It almost goes without saying this country is also brimful of amazing, kind and lovely people - just like everywhere in the world. It just seems that India's ratio of people who are out only for themselves is a little higher in the cities than anywhere else I've been. Saying that, I've not been to China.


Right I better stop writing guff and actually decide what on earth I'm going to do here...thanks for reading if you made it this far! I'm in Mcleodganj at the moment and heading out for some food. Bye!

Delhi: Cobraload

Yesterday was my first day in India.

So I step out of the taxi at my first tourist destination in Delhi. 'Look mister, mister look - a cobra in a box'. 'Bull-shit' I thought - I wasn't going to fall for that one and look...it's probably code for something lude. But I did look, and it was a cobra in a basket with a guy playing a flute. It was like I'd accidentally walked into a cliche of what Delhi is supposed to be like, rather than the wonderful modern mersloperlis that it is. I was instinctively sure that looking impressed would probably cost me somehow so I tried hard not to. My trusty dark glasses saved me from giving away too much, but this was a cobra, in a basket! I tried to look like I'd seen a cobra in a basket three times already that morning and, frankly, I wasn't in the mood. By the end of the morning, I literally had seen three. Welcome to Delhi.

The snake 'charmers' [I don't see them as charmers, more botherers] seem to spot white skinned people and follow them, unfurling a cobra as they go and sitting resolutely in your path as if, at the sight of a cobra, you'll say something like "well lay me down and spank me with a wet glove if that isn't a snake in a freakin' basket - here are my life savings Dr Dofukall". Surely if you want to see a man sat down in skimpy shorts playing the flute at a snake in a basket there are places you can go, with curtained booths - like Amsterdam or Bangkok - do you know what I mean?

More to come.
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If you liked this post please text 'rip me off' to 6969 and have the next installment sent to your phone directly [texts cost 300 Rupees and the service can only be stopped by visiting our headquarters on a remote Himalayan mountain where you can use a satellite phone to call our Customer Indifference centre in Ipswich where we'll gladly ignore you in a virtual que and play you "Wagner's Greatest Hits" reinterpreted by Rolf Harris on a 1980s Casio keyboards while your precious life trickles down the drain of time into a pool of despair.]

Cultural Karma in Mong Kok

This is the story of why I sacrificed my daily diet of dirty Ronald McDonald for pig intestine.

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Before I launch into this story, let me just clear something up. For most of my life I've said I'm a vegetarian. Generally speaking I just don't really enjoy eating meat. The taste, texture...all that. It's not an animal welfare thing - I kill fish for sport. But I eat those fish. So technically I'm a pescetarian. But no one says they're a pescetarian. If I'd have said that at my primary school I'd have got a punch - and rightly so. As it was, in 1989 my school's vegetarian option was a plate of grated cheese - every day - just a plate of grated cheese - in 1989. Then as I got older people were like 'I can't believe you don't eat bacon - you're missing out'. I tried bacon. I was missing out. So I'm a pescetarian who eats bacon. So what does that make me? The answer is fussy. But at a dinner party or an airline menu list there isn't a fussy option so I just say vegetarian and most people seem happy and move on. The truth is though- I'll try anything once. I've eaten steak, sausages [even kangaroo sausages called Kanga Bangers - which sounds like the Australian equivalent of a sheep shagger]. I've had crocodile, emu, a venison burger in NZ [called a bambi burger]. I've had scores of fish species and seafoods - I once ate a pizza with something from 5 different phylums on it. After all this experimentation - I can safely say I don't really enjoy eating meat, but I like bacon and love seafood. So there. Right.

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At the time of writing I'm staying in Mong Kok. Mong Kok is not Hong Kong. Well, Mong Kok is technically in Hong Kong - but Mong Kok is mainland - Hong Kong island isn't. Ask anyone who lives on Hong Kong island [whether they are Asian or not] and they will describe the people who live in Mong Kok as locals. This basically implies all of the below. By being 'local' you are more tradionally Chinese. Hong Kong is almost actively not traditionally Chinese, or at the very least likes to maintain a distinct cultural identity. Hong Kong is, and has been for some time, a very international place. Many Europeans, North Americans, Japanese and Australasians call it home as well as many multi-nationals...all with their own towering sky scrapers marking their patch. The result of this mix is a city culture similar to London, Sydney, San Francisco or Vancouver. There are areas which are very Asian/Oriental but there is always that over-riding feel of 'Western' commercialism. Adverts and slogans are almost all in English and a majority of people working there will be able to give you directions if you're lost. The comparison between the other cities I mentioned really does seem to mostly end where the malls do. For example, a senior politician recently publically referred to homosexuality as a disease. They love Malls, but it might be fair say that on the surface the culture can seem very 'western' - but often only on the surface. In the malls though there will be lots of 'Western' outlets- Body Shop is huge here, as is Lush. [Boots was a giant in Thailand..!?]. Then there are the food outlets; McDonalds, Prêt a Manger and Ben and Jerry’s. There will also be, of course, the 711. Anyone who has never ventured outside of the EU will probably be quite unaware of 711 - perhaps they've seen it in American TV. Anyone else in the world will have noticed it's gradual march as it slowly takes over the world. It makes Tesco look like France [in a WWII simile] and Starbucks look like Belgium, McDonalds perhaps Britain while 711 is Mother Russia. Ok I need some help with this simile - who can do better...? The point is 711 are everywhere. If you've ever been to Leicester Square in London there's a point I like to stand at where you can see 5 Pizza Huts all at the same time. I've found places in Japan, Sydney, Bangkok and Hong Kong where you can count five 711s on a 5 minute walk. Last night I was walking home with a friend and fancied a chocolate milk. I popped into a 711, whipped out my magic Octopus card and *doot* it was mine. Five minutes later I'd finished and fancied another one. I'd passed three 711s in that time and I went into the fourth one and *doot*, with a waving gesture against the octopus reader it was mine. I try to support local business where ever I go in the world, but in Hong Kong especially I've found that hard. Which leads me very uneatly back to Mong Kok.

Mong Kok was full of anything but 'Western' commercial food outlets. There were restaurants, street vendors and stalls - all selling things which I could only guess at what they were, unless it was clearly a dead chicken/fish/squid/dog*. Every place was baffling and entirely void of any English [language]. [*Ok I didn't see any dogs but I have it on good authority that although it's not on the menu in some places, it very much is - if that makes sense. I don't know if it's 'bring your own and we'll cook it' - like a seafood restaurant but it certainly would be a good send off for Fido.] Now, as I said at the start - I like to try new things and be adventurous with my food. Who doesn't, right? That's how you find your favorite foods in life...[I'm thinking Udon noodles and soft-shell crab here people...who's with me?] But I think everyone will agree that once in a while you just want nourishment - something quick, cheap and tasty. Or fruit. Fruit is a different story.

Now, the first time I ever visit a new country I make a habit of going to a McDonalds as soon as possible. Don't gasp. It's never to buy food, but always to see how much they charge for a meal. It's pretty much the best way that I know of getting a feel for a strange currency. I did this in Hong Kong though and got very confused. I hadn't made a good start with the currency though. When I first arrived in HK I went to a cash machine for the first time I tried to get out 20,000 Hong Kong Dollars.- it refused. The maximum you could withdraw was 4000. Evidently, I'd got a decimal point wrong by two places place. [Thai baht is about 20,000 to twenty quid...I was jetlagged]. 500 Dollars is about 40 quid so I just tried to withdraw my non-existent life savings....

So I went into McDonalds in Mong Kok, just to work out what was going on with the currency. I did a double check - McDonalds in Hong Kong is almost exactly half the price of eating ANYWHERE else, that's including street food. For a semi-decent restaurant it's a quarter of the price. For a good one you're getting nearer to small fractions. Not only that, you could pay for it with a magic swipey octopus card. Suddenly Ronald had a new appeal about him, his luscious red locks blowing in the wind of my dreams and calling to me....

No.

I snapped out of it and went to an amazing Vietnamese with a friend instead.

The next day however, I wondered out of my hostel and decided to try some street food next to my right outside it. This included something that smelt like a ham sandwich that had been left in a plastic bag on a hot coach all day [which later turned out to be stinky tofu] and tentacles on a stick [I never found out if they were squid/octopus]. It tasted bloody lovely. Just as I was finishing it some English people from my hostel appeared next to me with disgusted looks. After selling them the idea of squid on a stick I convinced them all to try it. They liked it - victory! I wasn't a freak! Then I thought they were about to invite me for a drink and they said something strange. 'Do you want to come and do the happy meal challenge?'. I didn't know - did I? The happy meal challenge, if you haven't guessed or didn't know involves stuffing an entire McDonalds happy meal into your face in under 3 minutes. You only win once you've assembled the toy. The whole group was so lairy in the McDonalds that they drew a crowd. I'd gone for a Fillet-o-Fish double - just because I could. It had been a while since my last McDonalds - and after all my recent cultural food experimentation...I will admit it tasted bloody lovely. The next day I was hungry and needed food - fast. You could say, I needed fast-food. I looked around Mong Kok. Everywhere was this impenetrable Cantonese and strange foods and 711s.

Then - in the middle of all this confusion shone the Golden Arches of Ronald's open legs. 'Come on in' he whispered, his red wig playfully brushing my shoulder, 'I'm dirty but I'm cheap...and you LOVE it'. I surrendered to Ronald. I'd have been less ashamed if I'd accidently gotten a happy ending than a happy meal.

Afterwards I walked out, head down low - licking the salty grease of Ronald off of my lips. I did it again the next day, for breakfast. The day after I went in for more delicious punishment. And again the next day for lunch. I went 5 or 6 days in a row just eating dirty Rondalds in Mong Kok, either as breakfast or super. My guilt was such that I've written this blog. I just couldn't face crawling through markets for 'local' street food. However, all this time - the Fates were watching. Cultural karma was about to come round full circle...

I'd met a girl called Mary through my friend Kim from University. Mary was raised in the States but lived in Hong Kong and spoke fluent Cantonese. We found out we both had a day spare and she said 'I'll take you on a food tour of Mong Kok'. I gratefully accepted. The main reason I'd not eaten anything from Mong Kok other than McDonalds was because every time I asked for anything at the stalls it escalated into me repeating myself loudly in English and them doing the same in Cantonese until I either gave up or handed them money in the vague hope of not ordering a dog testicle. Having Mary with me would be great...yeah! Well... We met up and instantly headed for the stinky tofu. It was quite nice. A bit like cheesy greasy grilled tofu. Not half as bad as it smelled [which was horrendous]. Next - spicy fish balls. That's balls of fish meat....ok. It was VERY hot but I kept my cool and rushed off to get some fruit juice. Then came an interesting one.

'We'll go to a noodle place next' she said. Noodles....'I can do noodles' I thought to myself. We went to the noodle place, but she didn't order any noodles. We had a delicious soup with a kind of potato thingy [she couldn't translate into English so I'm doing my best] with a kind of giant radish and a sort of asparagussy thing and chopped shitake mushrooms, except that they weren't shitake. Then there was boiled octopus - surprisingly crunchy...must say I prefer it grilled or swimming around. Then there was a kind of jelly thing. 'oh that's pig's blood jelly' she said - 'try it, it's my favorite'. I did. I must say it was nice. Or I would have thought so if I didn't know what it was. Because I did know - I’d have to describe it as a kind of really creamy delicious version of that blood clot you get after a nosebleed that slips down the back of your throat. 'mmm' I said - 'it's like a soft black pudding'. Then there were squid rings. Oh wait, no. Having a small interest in biology I identified both circular and longitudinal muscle. 'This is intestine isn't it?' I asked. She nodded, 'pig intestine - try it'. So, with all the bravery and detachment I could muster, I ate it. I didn't like it and I told her. 'I don't like it either - I just wanted you to try it'. Thanks Mary...next time you're in England I'll introduce you to haggis - or maybe a dog turd sandwich - I don't like eating it but I like watching other people tuck in....

After that the tour was uphill. Fruit, cold tofu [a bit like crème caramel in texture] but really quite flavorless. The Chinese don't really do pudding [Look at the desert menu next time you go for a Chinese...]. We had some lovely sesame paste which was served in a huge bowl - a bit like runny peanut butter but sesame flavored. I finished that. Then we had a waffle with peanut butter and condensed milk. Delicious and filling. Finally we went for a 24 flavor tea. The main things I could smell were aniseed and black treacle, with a hint of marmite and gin seng. Mary had no idea what was in it - and I can only guess 4 so I'll leave the other 20 to your imagination. It was vile. My sister had told me to try it. On my blog/facebook there should be two photos [soon] - one before I try it and one after. I think the after photo face I pull has about 24 different expressions on it to match the taste of the tea - the overriding one being uncertainty. Mary made me finish it all as it was 'good for me'. Just as I finished the last drop, Kim texted us and said did we want to go out for dinner in about an hour? I was so full....

An hour later I'd finished my plate of Udon noodles and was tucking into Kim's. For now I was free of Ronald's spell and I'd beaten the karma...for now. India is my next stop and I have a feeling that Ronald might take on a whole new appeal....

[I am uploading this from Delhi. I had a dirty Ronald today. I'm sorry India]