800 K's to graceland

What does it take to survive a 800 km road trip, well from personal experience, a spinal cord reinforced with carbon fiber, an ego that wont let you admit you would rather be in bed watching Gilligan's island recaps, a semi-crappy semi-awesome MP3 CD and of course great company to sing along with it non-stop, not pausing for lyrics we havent the faintest about or for that matter the fact that the song ended half a kilometer ago.

Of course the occasional cow that thinks it is a BMW X5 and and a BMW X5 that thinks it is the batmobile, does help too.

All in all a trip wildly successful, in a strange subdued way. I guess the only analogy I can draw is, it is sort of like eating really good "Chilli bajji" in the rain, you never realize how hot it was until many hours later within the private environs of your loo. Though this is rather more pleasant.
Especially the "only in India" bits. Like a hot masala chai, on a tree stump, overlooking the view in the photograph (minus the chappy in the I'm too cool for a tee-shirt getup) on a cold invigorating afternoon 2240 metres up in the Nilgiris. Next to a tiny bon-fire whose warmth is mostly psychological, but infectious. Its presence becoming a fulcrum to the formation of a fraternity of several warm blooded mammals, whose allegiance irrespective of genus, runs only as deep as the fire burns warm.

A trip that also was a religious experience to the extent that I now can confirm that if there is a god I believe in, he will bring world peace, goodwill to all mankind, and as a display of his holy magnificence strike down with one swift bolt of lightning one Mr. Enrique Iglesias and all his minions. "You can run, you can hide, but you can't escape my spark!" MUHUHA! HA! HA!

..........I feel like I have to be exorcised to drive that excruciatingly incessant tune of that particular one of his limericks out of my head.