3^rd Jan 13         Day 1.   It’s here at last.

Off to Delhi, early at Heathrow ready to fly out at 9.30pm. I'm in travel mode, all visual receptors firing, ready to enjoy. I’ll have a meal in the ‘Executive Class’ lounge and do my blog while I wait. The Air India lounge is a corner of terminal 4, forgotten and dilapidated and I'm the only person there. Some elderly bhajis and samosas sit quietly mouldering away in a warm cabinet; a sad plate of fruit and another of monstrous white doughy somethings occupy a lonely space on a plastic table.  Maybe this is a digestive training programme building up immunity before the full onslaught of real Indian food waiting in Kerala. My hand luggage rattles with potions to fend off the worst of IT the ferocious meltdown everyone gets when visiting the East. There’s no computer and I don’t have a smart phone. OK I’ll keep a diary. Interesting start but I shrug it off and go back to the hubbub of a duty free cafe for a bowl of soup and a glass of pinot grigio.

Back at the lounge another passenger wanders in, a Sikh gent’ who is trying to get someone to answer his mobile. No one picks up. I gaze out of the huge windows across vast, brightly lit landing strips and watch alien airport vehicles, which are flat boxes on six big wheels, no cab or obvious driver. I wonder what they are for? In limbo I feel detached, relaxed, waiting and eventually it is time to board. Oh good Mr Singh has made contact with someone or is pretending loudly that he has.

My bit of the plane is empty, only three of us share the comfyness. People are jam packed in economy but a snooty hostess answers me, no they don’t bump up those people unless they’re prepared to pay. An old plane, my seat doesn’t work. ‘Ms painted posh’ tries all the buttons as if I might be wrong but I'm right so moves me to a functioning seat. Unlike Easy-jet no cares if your bag is by your feet and you’ve taken your shoes off before take-off.  The heavy old contraption strains to get up, levels out, banks, shudders, then the lights of Heathrow diminish and fade below. I recline under my blanket to drift. Lots of rattling turbulence rocks my cradle and I drop over a cliff into black dreamless sleep for three hours, waking up briefly confused about my surroundings.

4^th Jan 13        

Day 2.   New Delhi to Trivandrum or Thiruvananthapuram if you can pronounce it.

Eventually the snowy Himalayas appear below and we sink through the smog into New Delhi airport. The AI lounge is a bar with no shower or toilet. Some discussion about my apparent lack of a lounge pass stops abruptly when I wave my ticket and grumpily ask to see an Air India rep. Four hours later plus careful snacking, a flick through a gossipy rag detailing gang rapes and beatings next to adverts for skin whitening cream and a slow walk around duty free, it’s time to move on. The next flight across India is a smelly old Airbus with twenty seats for us poshites. Three women, the rest men and only one toilet promises underfoot damp, aromatic, comfort breaks. The plane is full and if we’re on the edge of comfort what must it be like the other side of the curtain? I remember the train to Dharamsala brimful with people. It wouldn't surprise me to see clingers outside my window like Kevin Kline in ‘A Fish called Wanda.’ The man behind me hawks loudly, regularly, as if he has something disgusting stuck halfway down his throat. Down in Cochin for some reason, my instructions said we were re-fuelling at Mumbai but I don’t care, we’re nearer. As we taxi out the pilot tells us we have a short wait while they clear the runway of debris and bits of tyre. I feel reassured, I really am in Kerala.

Tired now, its midnight in Trivandrum, a customs officer gestures anxiously, ‘Wait, wait - over there Mem.’ ‘Come come,’ setting off so fast I can’t keep up, he disappears down the moving walkway. Handsome police in crispy creased, well fitting uniforms laugh at my photo visa in my passport. It is diabolical, lit from underneath I look like Frankenstein’s Granny. Checked, searched, photographed and ushered around in circles, I am surprised to find my suitcase has arrived and head for the door. The heat clutches me, the smells follow and I soak them up, marvellous. Pushing his way to the front of the greeters is my tour guide Mr S with my well spelt name on a pristine white card. He is so dark the shadows of his face are purple. He puts my bag into a comfy Toyota and as we race off into the night he reassures me that I am going to have a wonderful time. I believe him.