A day in the life of Michael the Tourist

(thought it might give a different perspective from my normal hyper condensed accounts)

Wake up in seaside town of Mahabalipuram (they all have long difficult names) in 2 quid a night hotel that has a swimming pool (therefore i am happy). Jump in pool for pre-breakfast swim only to be told they've just put bleach in and to get out (skin felt a bit funny anyway). Go to restaurant for breakfast and enquire about yoga lesson, the lady asks if i want 'plain yoga, banana yoga or yoga with muesli'. Am feeling healthy so go for banana and muesli yoga with papaya lassi.

Track down a real yoga master (kept expecting to find out at the last minute he was a yoghurt guru, who would show me how to curdle milk), with lovely new bamboo ashram. Ask how he got it, 'I am very lucky. The tsunami destroyed the previous hotel and the owners had to leave'. So relaxed I fell asleep in meditation bit, apparently am flexible but need to sit up straighter. Meet some tsunami volunteers in the bank, who have been waiting 3 days for money because the bank has run out, but luckily it came today. After much deliberation i swap my hard back edition of Harry Potter 6 for 2 other books (indian lady in store actually whoops with delight once transaction is finished).

Then on way back to pool turns out a huge dead shark has been washed up on the beach, all cartilagenous and face down, it doesn't look evil and man eating which is comforting because i was swimming there yesterday. Sit on it and take pictures. Man tries to sell me traditional paintings and when i refuse he whips out his x-rated traditional kama sutra paintings... no comment on whether i bought them.Bumped into my friend krishna the masseuse (who cured me of my writers block previously and decided to have a final massage. This is the life. (though level of nakedness required is bit disconcerting).

Hopped on extremely crowded bus, refusing the numerous 3 wheel auto-rickshaws (because they have no doors and the other day stinky road puddle water was splashed into my mouth by one, which was very very gross and probably dangerous, but luckily have not died yet). Cousin is too hungover to pick me up from bus station so his friend does (on someone random friend’s motorbike, they just circulate them here, they have a different one each day). We chill out listening to hindi, malayali, tamil and english musics from there extremely untidy but cosy student flat, which is almost exactly like my brother jack’s except for their daily squabbles over who gets to use the ‘western style’ toilet and who gets stuck with the indian squat toilet (my cousin claims his weak achilles tendon means he can only use western one for medical reasons…).
Michael x