Goa rains

The bus from Rishikesh to Delhi was an Uttarakand bus, so naturally it had to break down. Eventually I reached the hustling, bustling capital to find it swamped with monsoon floods: at one junction a woman tried to hold some of her sari above the waist high water as she struggled to wade past an abandoned bus, water inside and outside it. Water everywhere. Kashmir Gate was under water, and tuktuks were refusing to take passengers, understandably, so I got to experience Delhi's shiny new Metro for the first time - luckily nothing had leaked there! The next day I picked Lara up from the airport, the what followed were an amazing ten days together.

We train hopped to the Taj Mahal at Agra, then to Varanasi, where we spent days wandering ghats, hung out with Nick and got rowed across the river to see the other side of the city. Varansi was one of the highlights of my trip: the people there were very friendly and more genuine than many other places I've been here. This set the mood for the experience of the city itself: intense devotion to religion and ritual everywhere you look; compact, twisting streets; signs in Hindi and Tamil; and as Nick observed, the biggest urban cows we've seen anywhere. As with other holy places, the cows are better looked after too: the large black one that hung out at the end of our guest house sidestreet could have been a roadblock if she wanted to. Instead she simply hung out.

After Varanasi, we visited Orchha, a quiet village in Madyar Pradesh known for its temples, palaces and wildlife sanctuary. Then before I knew it, it was time to head back to Delhi, to the airport.

The next week was difficult: alone again. I'd traveled with other people for months - first with Nick, Trevor and Rotem, then with Lara. I'd forgotten how easy it was to get caught up in thoughts - sometimes not good ones - when you've only yourself for company. How easy it was to feel lost in a huge country like India, when you can't find anywhere to stay for less than 500 rupees after getting off a train at 5am in a city whose only awake inhabitants are scores of tuktuk drivers that follow you down the road demanding you use them to take you somewhere. It sucks when it takes you two hours of walking around with your backpack on to find somewhere to stay for one lousy night in one lousy city. Nagpur is an expensive, boring place.

After Nagpur, another train to Hyderabad, a massive improvement on Nagpur matched by an improvement in my mood. A more cosmopolitan city than Mumbai in my opinion - a subcontinental meeting point where all signs are in Hindi, Telugu, Urdu and English. Hyderabad, city of lights, city of culture, city of technology. (Okay, so they haven't sorted out reliable electricity there yet, but where in India has?) Visiting the Salar Jung Museum gave me faith in Indian museums again after the let-down of Delhi's National Museum: a massive variety of exhibits, mostly stemming from the illustrious SalarJung III's private collection - Grecian sculptures (including Veiled Rebecca - google it if you don't know it), paintings by European artists alongside Indian modern art, and much more.

Then from Hyderabad, finally, to my last destination in India: the coastline of tropical Goa. It was time to rest my eyes on the sea again, and this time to swim in its waters...

It's been raining in Goa, quite a lot. It's monsoon season. Still, after the small-town fun in Panaji, I've reached the tiny village of Palolem and its small but perfectly formed beach. Today it didn't rain while I was on the beach, and I bathed my worn out body in the soothing salt water, letting the waves push me around. Here close to the end of my wanderings in India, I am content.