The great adventure of life never ends...

Tired-eyed from a long haul flight, I slump in the back of an aged taxi trying not to notice the stickiness of the seats. My heavy bag has been tossed up onto the roof; tied on by what appears to be garden twine. Dinesh, gives a little head waggle and sits back in his battered seat; the old leather cracked and ripped like peeling wallpaper. He suddenly swerves out and we join the crazy throng of dented cars. Tuk tuks buzz into every gap and motorbikes carry whole families. Traffic lights are meaningless. A constant cacophony of car horns fills the thick air. People weave in and out of the traffic with hands outstretched, trying not to get run over. Suddenly we're flung forward; catching my breath I look up, Dinesh has been forced to brake...a cow is strolling across the road; this sacred being is the only thing the traffic will stop for! Jolting forward like a bumper car, we dodge oncoming traffic as I focus on the dashboard with its flashing statues of Krishna and Ganesh, willing them to protect us: we certainly need it.

Dinesh seems to think I'd appreciate the scenic route. The road narrows into a back alley. It's filthy, potholed and unidentifiable detritus spills out onto the road but the atmosphere is alive. People in make-shift huts prepare food, fix shoes and tend open fires. Ladies in jewelled coloured saris sway by gracefully with impossibly laden baskets on their heads. Hints of curry leaves and fried garlic fill the air, the street food excites my senses, which then suddenly recoil as other less pleasant aromas waft my way. Old men, tired from life, lie on their cardboard 'beds'. On the street, a man gets a shave with a cut throat razor while next door an old lady rhythmically rinses a colourful sari in black water. Fat rats run in and out amongst playful children, who turn their heads as we pass, pointing and staring at the strangely pale face staring back at them through the glass.

Dinesh isn't sure where the hotel is; I insist I can find it on foot. The unceasing drone of the city continues, there is no space for silence here. As I haul my rucksack onto my back, people engulf me. "Please madam, look lovely pashmina, no cost for looking." Pushing through them, I'm greeted by a ragged man with greasy hair, a wide smile and eyes that glimmer with hope: "Hello madam, would you like to buy my goatee? Special price for you." I stand speechless, thinking how lucky I am to be in my shoes not his...and then I realise he doesn't even have any.