I have just returned from a trip to that assault on the senses known as India. What a colourful, dusty, confronting and chaotic place it is, so removed from our squeaky-clean and over-regulated country. I was talking to someone on the phone in Australia and said, “I’m off to the Taj Mahal”. She said, “I’m off to Coles”. Worlds apart.

Indian Music

Photo by Nishant Aneja/Pexels

India keeps you on your toes. Our train from Jaipur to Jodhpur was running five hours late, so we hired a taxi for $75 to drive us the 334 kilometres. It was as terrifying as it was cheap, our driver veering across the highway avoiding cows and old women, sliding in between lorries with workers hanging off the sides, always about the thickness of a roti away from collision. I was so nervous in the back seat, I had to mix myself a stiff gin and tonic from my backpack to soothe my overstimulated amygdala. We arrived safe and sound in the Blue City, so one has to say that maybe Indian drivers have the best spatial awareness of any drivers in the world.

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