"I'll have the Blackforest cake"
"Madam you want Blackforest cake?"
"Yes"
"Madam, the Blackforest cake?
"Yes"
"Ok madam, Blackforest cake, there is Gulab Jammu, caramel pudding..."
(Reads out the entire desert menu)
"Yes i know, but i would like the Blackforest cake, is it available?"
"Yes madam, you want the Blackforest cake?"
"Yes i do"
"Ok Madam i get you Blackforest cake"

I end up eating a caramel pudding.

After my first attempt of going to Bombay disintegrated with the coming of
the monsoon, which turned the city into a disease infused swimming pool and
brought all of its 18 million population to a halt, I was determined not to
get too excited about my second try.

But there i was getting off a train, assuming i was at SVT Station in
Bombay as the train was now empty. Walking through the station i realise i
walk faster than everyone. A middle aged man keeps looking at me and is
keeping the same pace as myself. I slow down, he slows down. I speed up, he
speeds up. I stop to call a pretend friend, he stops and waits. I don't
want to leave the station with this strange man in tow so i walk quickly
towards the local train platforms while still talking to my imaginary
friend.

The constant stare's are making me nervous. I've lost the strange man but
now have three little kids in tow following me everywhere, begging for
money in a language i don't even recognise. There seems to be an abundance
of second hand book stands selling Steven Covey's "Seven habits of highly
effective people". I laugh at the irony, as India, is anything but
effective.

I'm trying to figure out where i need to go and realise my map is useless
in a city without street signs and ditch the lonely planet guide as it
tells me about all these great places, but nothing about how to actually
get to them! With no big "i" signalling a tourist desk in sight, I
realise i am on my own.

I decide to go to the Gateway of India to where it all began (and ended).
It was built as a triumphal arch by the Indian government in 1920 to
welcome King George V and Queens Mary's to India and was also the place
where the last of the British ships set sail for England following the end
of the British rule. Today's its the landmark for Bombay and every tourists
first point of call.

"The taxi drivers in Bombay have to use their meters and have to be honest,
it should cost you 20 rupees." a colleague from work had said. Well the
taxi drivers i come across want me to pay 100 rupees and have broken
meters.

"Madam capture your memory of gateway",
"Madam would you like a tour?",
"Madam i take a picture",
"Madam, are you lost?, come i help you"
"Madam I show you Bombay"
"Madam you need a hotel"
"Madam, i take you to Caves"

I shake my head at some and try to ignore most of them. Walking quickly the
gateway is a magnificent site against the ocean. I wish i could sit still
for a moment to enjoy the magnificent architecture and the busy, vibrant
scene but instead get hassled even more. I escape to the walkway along the
ocean which i assume is the famous marine drive.

A man wants to sell me the biggest blow up balloon i have ever seen, So
does another ten people. What would i do with it?

The walk along marine drive is a bit better but i still get the stares. Its
seems even more humid by the sea and even my bag seems to be sweating. I
still have no idea how to find a map so i walk, keeping track of where i
am. I see a few foreigners and either walk where they are going or walk in
the direction they came in while sticking to crowded streets.

I am now beginning to wonder if my take the world by storm and travel on my
own is such a good idea anymore. Work had wanted me to have a car and
driver registered and arranged from the company, but i had decided that
roughing it was worth my freedom.

I wonder if i should buy a salwar kameez just to try and blend in, i have
the right skin colour but not the clothes. I still haven't decided what
wearing traditional Indian dress would mean to me. All the advice on the
net and from friends about travelling alone as a female in India was about
wearing the traditional dress, covering up from head to toe, travelling
with a male companion, wearing a wedding ring and pretending i was "meeting
my husband" around the corner. All these suggestions make me question who i
am and my views on independence, freedom, respecting another culture,
personal creativity, blending into a patriarchal society, being a
submissive female. I had no idea how i felt yet. This was not the time for
a philosophical argument in my head so i drop the whole idea and decide to
be me, albeit with baggier cloths.

The rest of the day passes in a whirl as i weave in and out of poverty and
luxury and am confronted by Bombay's fascinating history of invasions and
never ending contradictions. The plethora of Hindu temples around every
corner and their dedicated and never-ending worshippers reveal another
Bombay, one that is home to a deeply religious society. The grand European
buildings which the locals refer to as "the building that last" which now
act as the high court and Bombay's university leave a memento of the
British rule. The Oval maiden, once a bowling green for English high
society is now a spot of green in an overgrown and congested city where
young aspiring cricketers dream big, playing the only sporting activity
which seems acceptable in the overtly academic society.

Looking closer you see the governments desperate attempt at fighting
unemployment, low paid and completely unproductive but you'll find a group
of workers cutting the grass with scissors in their hand. The lack of
productivity is a small price to pay when you consider that a group of
families will be somewhat better off, perhaps no home to live in but they
might not go hungry. The sheer magnitude of the poverty is overwhelming.

Strolling along Marine drive with the ocean on one side and crazy traffic
on the other, you can't escape the American influence of the 1920's with
Bombay boasting the second largest number of art deco buildings in the
world. This is thanks to the influence of young Indian architects who
travelled to America en-masse for their studies in the 1930's.

Looking closer again you find ill-kept buildings in dire need of
maintenance eluding to the effects of the outdated and somewhat odd Rental
Act which favours tenants and provides no protection to landlords. Not only
are tenants paying the same rent they paid 40 years ago, it is also illegal
for the landlord to kick them out. If that wasn't enough, rental agreements
are transferable to family members, immediate and minor as well. So you
have thousands of landlords watching their million dollar properties turn
into shambles while earning a measly few rupees. This basically makes
finding a place to rent in Bombay next to impossible, even on the odd
occasion a landlord does manage to reclaim their property, for simple fear
that you will never give it back!

The beggars and occasional spottings of large numbers of people who appear
to be living in a room no larger than my bed, as well as the constant
screech of horns and never ending traffic jams in a sea of black and yellow
taxi's suggest a city which has grown too quickly and too fast. The
ridiculously expensive private clubs and designer boutiques that posh
looking high class bourgeoisie Indians in air conditioned cars prance into,
in complete oblivion to the poverty around them makes me sad at all the
inequality. Not only is Bombay home to some of the largest slums in the
world, It also boasts to be home to a large proportion of the worlds
billionaires and millionaires.

Bombay it seems can go on forever, with every inch of the city a clue to
some tid bit of its fascinating history and is definitely a place i can see
myself visiting time after time. By the end of the day i love the place,
the craziness, the chaos, the extremes and contradictions and i'm even
getting used to dealing with the stares and the big balloon salesmen. I
feel a sense of achievement from having explored it on my own, rather than
through a window of an air-conditioned car or through the eyes of a tour
guide.


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file: VT.jpg)

When i first got off the train in Nasik a month ago it was quiet scary, a
place filled with beggars and poverty. I had two porters in their red
shirts and white sailor hats carrying my 42kg of luggage on their head and
i was glad HR had decided to accompany me. That inner voice which has
claimed earlier "I can catch a train and get to where i need on my own" had
been clearly defeated.

Now I'm back at the beginning, in Nashik Rd station, but this time all on
my own, looking forward to my first venture out of Nashik to Bombay. That
initial shock is still there. I have been living in Nasik for sometime now
and was beginning to think i was getting the hang of India. I realised that
the luxurious life i've been exposed to where cups of tea appear magically
on my desk and being driven around in a car with a driver ,isn't really
authentic India.

I manoeuvre my way around the mass of people sleeping on the floor, a piece
of cloth enclosing their bodies acting as the four walls of their house. I
stop breathing to block out the stench but realise its inescapable. I see
three platforms but its not clear which one i need. I see a mother and
daughter pair, the girl looks to be my age and is wearing jeans and a
T-shirt as opposed to traditional Indian dress. I suspect they speak
english. They too are going to Bombay so i follow them to the right
platform. They tell me about a ladies carriage but i have a reserved ticket
already.

Another man approaches me and asks me if this is the platform for Bombay. I
say yes and he continues to ask a series of questions about where i come
from and what i am doing in Nasik. He is a nice old man and in any other
country i would have had a nice chat, but after a few bad experiences with
indian men with odd ideas about western sexuality, i was beginning to
wonder if women in India should speak to men at all. I remain polite but
don't encourage the conversation.

Ten minutes later he has asked someone else and tells me i am on the wrong
platform. It turns out he is correct and i feel horrible for shrugging him
off. The people in India seem to belong to two extremes, incredible
friendly and helpful or ready to scam you for anything they can get. I
still can't tell the difference.

My hair is freshly styled and i am wearing make up. For some reason my
impression on Bombay is still along the lines of a bollywood movie and i am
hoping to see bright, colourful, dancing people on the other end of the
train journey. I have a sneaky suspicion that i am in for a surprise. It
feels silly now waiting for the train all dressed up when someone brushes
their teeth with dirty water using their hands because they can't afford
clean water, toothpaste and a toothbrush.

A beggar approaches people on the platform, no one takes any notice of him.
He approaches me. i follow suit and shake my head slightly. I still can't
ignore people like the Indians do. I don't mind giving him money but i am
scared i will get bombarded with others if i do, so i do nothing. Again i
feel horrible.

The train ride itself is comfortable with beautiful scenery out the window
as we traverse through the mountainside. I sink into my seat in the 2nd
Class AC coach and enjoy the scenery. The window looks dirty so i make a
note not to touch it. My ipod gives me some time for myself and ensures
no-one starts a conversation with me. Sometimes i just need to be alone,
and India is just not the place for solitude.

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I move out of the way as three motorcycles and a tuk tuk charge at me, horning incessantly while trying to beat each other to an imaginary finish line.

"Challo Madam", another tuk tuk stops to see if i need a ride.
"Nehi"

Its beginning to get dark but the people, the vehicles in all forms and sizes with varying degrees of wheels and the animals show no sign of subsiding. The sounds of the horns are constant while a group of kids play
cricket by the roadside, oblivious to the noise. The enticing smell of boiled corn waft through as i pass by a street side food cart. A young woman dressed in a colourful orange and red salwar kameez rushes to get on
an overcrowded bus. An old man crosses the road taking no notice of the oncoming traffic which swerves to avoid him. An occasional cow roams freely enjoying his freedom in living collaboratively with the people. I immerse myself into the scene, enjoying the chaotic simplicity and the sensual overload that is India.

A month ago I recall walking down the very same street, my freshly styled hair a mess and my hands clutching my Guess bag tightly and i laugh at how silly i would have looked. I had felt somewhat fearful of the people around me and of getting hit by the crazy traffic. I remember being astounded by the poverty, intimidated by all the stares. I had tried unsuccessfully to cross the road and had given up, concluding that there was no possible way to get to the other side without endangering my life. Despite my best efforts, India had hit me like a brick wall and i had retreated back to the safety of the hotel.

Nashik, a small town of 1,364,243 people is my new home for four months. Located 160 km (4 hours) from Bombay in the state of Maharashtra, it is one of India's holiest cities. Set against a backdrop of picturesque mountains, the town has over 200 temples, some stunning trekking and some 2000 year old Caves, India's first Vineyard, an array of MNC's moving in to create an industrial hub (Including my company and the reason i ended up here) and one Cafe Coffee day (India's answer to Starbucks) where you can
buy a real Latte.

This is a moment i have been waiting since June 2003 for -- It was on my last day in Switzerland where i dared to eat the funny looking green cake thing i had been eyeing for six months -- and it turned out to be the best thing i have ever tasted.

Its a masterpiece with layers of crème, soft pastry, icing, custard, syrup and its all miraculously held together by this thick green icing.

I've been searching high and low all this time with no success and I'm walking along the main street in Perth when i come across Miss Maud's - a cute little Swedish restaurant.

I think this may be the most important day in my life.

After a painful experience of looking for a place to live in Melbourne. which took me from meeting the mysterious "Cameron Benjamin" to discovering the suburb Balaclava, i finally met Kitty and Ghi from Port Melb.

So armed with a bed which arrived in 3 boxes with over 100 pieces to assemble (which my dad declared was not a bed!), a new car (after my old lancer cracked it at having to drive to Lilydale everyday) and one cat relocation and one new friend Emma, i settled in quite well.

One masquerade ball, One New years eve with soruby at Pier 3, one cat who survived living right next door to the grand prix, lots of furniture building sessions with Tracy and Romesh (Thanks guys!!), a Latin festival at the yarra valley vineyards, Sundays at Ocean blue, making it to the "in" group and being booted out, one big surprise and one big disappointment and one weekly home cooked meal at my
folks.

Its good to be home!

What better place to hold a team building session than at the Indy 300. The company had hired out an apartment overlooking the track and the gold coast beach and stocked the flat with plenty of booze and chips. Throw in a buffet lunch at the meridian and a group exercise of building lego cars blind folded to make it a perfect day.

The races were great with highlights being the V8 and porche races as well as a hotdog stand which caught on fire! Not sure what the army was doing there with their armoured vehicles and tanks but they were fun to climb around in none the less.

So once again we are randomly 4WD-ing through the beach (as you do) when we stumble across a big gunk of red rock. Of course Jacki took to it immediately being the geologist that she is, climbing to the very top before wondering how she will actually get down.

Don't ask me where the random kangaroos came from.