India

We're trapped! Locked inside the clean homely walls of a warm, overbearing religious homestay. When Ali tried to point out the finer details of OHS measures with major electricity faults (most towns have blackouts for between 1 and 5 hours at a time, daily) we were lectured frantically on the safety of the house - NOBODY could get in, don't worry. After 15 mins Ali escaped to the bathroom as 'Uncle' toured Michelle around the establishment - bars on every window, key turned to deadlock us in.

"What if there is a fire, an electrical fault, we can't get out" we point out.
"No madam, no problem, portable light near bed" Uncle flapped. Screaming on the inside, we were left in our homestay jail to switch off all power at the source.

Our purpose for trekking back inland was to visit Wayanad Wildlife Sanctuary, jeep ride and tiger spot. A 5am, 30km, bus ride had us engulfed in a cage of rust, concertina shutters down. With no other view for distraction, the stares were plenty though softened by the haze of the early morning lingering in dark eyes. Glimpses of outside through the back door, showed us a matching soft cloud of fog hanging in amongst the trees as we flew past. Trees and mist, trees and mist, clearing as the light crept through.

We alighted. Excited.

PARK CLOSED.

We wasted no time in returning to town to collect our things. On to another rust bucket bus bound for Mysore. Surrounded by forest that looks as though it's come through an Aussie bushfire season, dusty, dry, crunchy at the floor, leaves heat-bleached and the colours of sunburn, we came across a massive steel billboard, rusted over every inch into the colours of Uluru and gold with the ghostly whisper of faded white lettering welcoming us to Karnataka. Darker print pushed an even darker irony "...enjoy the lush green forests..."
Perhaps the sign should have just said "4WD ONLY"
But there was us and the bus and with no hesitation down the road we went, like rocking through a million miniature moon craters. The bus tipped 45 degrees each way and elevated us so far from our seats that we were instantaneously standing only to crash back down onto our bony, malnourished butts. Dust swirled in through the gaps in the seams, the windows ratatatering themselves open and closed. And of course the passengers pile on and off and on and on and on. Bounces, jiggles, jolts, hammering, thrashing, swirling, rattling, sledging. It wriggled the ridiculous from every crevice and up and out of Ali's small frame, bouncing in high pitched childish giggles, mounting to an hysterical gaffaw, to the amusement of peering Indian eyes. A revelation: Mysore... now we know why it's called that. Cause when you get there all you can say is "my sore arse, my sore head, my sore arms, my sore legs...!"