La vie est plus belle quand on fait du yoga

In stark contrast to my last blog post, focusing on one single day and one particular city, this blog covers a period of over 4 months, starting in Switzerland, arriving in India via a whirlwind month in London. But what links all three of these very different times and locations is the prioritizing of my yoga practice. In the last 4 months I have taken more asana and meditation classes, from more incredible teachers, in more stunning locations, than in my whole twenty seven years previously. I don't know if it's the beauty of the places in which I've been, the fact that I've not been trying to earn money or the yoga practice itself but life certainly seems more beautiful when I do yoga. 

My yoga teaching journey started only this March when I completed my teacher training here in Agonda but since then I'd struggled to find much teaching work in London. Whilst travelling through Eastern Europe I'd attempted to practice in various parks, bus stops and the odd shady balcony of a hostel despite curious stares and the occasional reprimand. So when I reached Switzerland, and more specifically my friend Clelia's yoga-teaching-life in Lausanne, it felt like a safe haven to finally practice to my heart's content. 

On my first day in Lausanne, I tagged along with Clelia on her Yoga et

Rando event. We drove to a  village in the mountains where we met the other participants - gathered together via Facebook for a day of yoga and hiking. We started with a meditation class sat on the shore of lac de joux. I struggled to follow the suggested visualisations in French but I still very much appreciated the serene ambience after my previous day in Venice. We then hiked up through forests and meadows to the soundtrack of cow bells, past little chalets, a mountain-top fondue restaurant and self-service holey cheese stalls - things couldn't really get much more wholesomely Swiss. It got even more zen though as we stopped in a grassy clearing to practice as Clelia lead us in a vinyasa flow class. We swayed in tree pose, chuckled at the little dog one participant had brought along as he tried to join in and laid down between the cowpats for a well-deserved savasana. A picnic lunch at the top of the hill - surveying the lakes and valleys below, a long hike down a picturesque winding track chatting to these new friends - that had been perfect strangers a few hours before (and who had perfect English no matter which corner of Switzerland or indeed the world they came from) - and a fond farewell over yogic goodie bags of essential oils and yoga magazines (the apt print on the bags having been appropriated for the title of this blog) rounded off a perfect Swiss yoga experience. Going home to Clelia's beautiful flat to bake chocolate and avocado cake amidst arty chat with another friend was the cherry on top of the perfect Sunday. 

The next few days were spent exploring lake-side Lausanne between more yoga classes in beautiful locations - a morning practice on a wooden jetty on the lake, an evening in a beautiful old community centre-come-soup kitchen. I had time and space to cook with all the vegetables I'd been craving and wander to Olympic museums and the galleries de l'art brut. Feeding the soul continued with little adventures getting lost in the vineyards of Ouchy, a bouldering sessions and a swing dance event under a railway arch. Even on my last day as I strolled by the lake and the heavens opened I couldn't let it dampen my spirits - I just went and bought chocolate treats instead. I returned from

my Euro trip a very happy bunny! 

The next month in London was unlike many others in the previous years. I resigned myself to the fact that teaching work would be hard to find, given my fleeting availability, and so promo was the way to go to earn a quick (albeit tedious and back-breaking) buck. This resignation however gave me a sense of freedom to not constantly be applying for work - as the pre-booked promo jobs left little time available for teaching. I stumbled across a cheap class pass for a yoga studio to fill the gaps in my schedule and continue the new found regularity of my practice. Some days the motivation was lacking but I always felt exhilarated or at least an emotional release (yogi code for being tearful) after every class.  Practicing a variety of styles with experienced teachers throughout the month, and teaching a sprinkling of private classes in the park for friends, left me raring to go as I embarked on my latest adventure - 3 months volunteering as a Karma Yogi at Sampoorna Yoga, Goa. 

Yoga went from the activity I do in the gaps in my schedule to forming the majority of my time as I practice, assist and teach classes for at least 6 hours each day. Waking up before sunrise to adjust students as they practiced for 2 hours, then practice asana or meditation myself - all before a delicious and long-awaited breakfast - took some getting used to, as did the monsoon conditions that left Agonda a plastic-covered ghost town in comparison to its pre-monsoon state I had known and loved in March. It was a difficult transition to make coming from a care-free late summer London to oppressively humid Indian jungle but as the clouds blew away and the beach cleared up and the damp dissipated the rewards for having made such a move were evident. Between supporting fellow yoga students on their journeys, strong and eye-opening flows from inspirational teachers, the odd office duty and the opportunity to build our own teaching experience there is plenty of time for a walk on the beach or an afternoon swim. Sunset meditation whilst watching the waves replaces a daily commute and most days the hardest decision to make is whether or not to buy a 30 rupee ice cream. Having three incredible buffet meals a day provided, accommodation paid for and a laundry service to rely on the daily chores are a thing of the past. This easy living combined with the slow pace of life, paradisaical surroundings and huge sense of community within the school gives all the yoga practice (both on and off the mat) an even more beautifying hue. 

I do indeed agree with the title of this blog, that life is more beautiful when we do yoga but my time in Agonda has spoilt me with a life that is all set up with time and space to admire the beauty as it shines through the large window of yoga here. I hope that I will be able to cultivate my own beautiful life back in wintry London as I of course do as much yoga as I can to try and keep that window open. The blue skies might turn to grey, the free buffets and accommodation to a hustle for work to pay the rent and bills, and strolls on the beach to tube journeys but I will endeavour to appreciate the somewhat more scattered community around me and the somewhat more brief moments of calm. The beauty is always there we just have to learn how to open the curtains.  

4 seasons in 1 day

My plan to visit Venice in one day, as I travelled between Croatia and Switzerland, may have been fairly ambitious but not unlike the majority of my previous '2 birds with one stone' journeys. Having been saving my final must-see Italian destination for a romantic getaway I finally gave up being patient in fear of the city sinking before I got chance to see it. 

So realising that Venice lay on the direct line from Pula to Lausanne I booked my ferry (in order to arrive with a chance of seeing the city's  fabled rise from the water) and high-speed train out of the city towards Switzerland well in advance. Between these pre-booked journeys I had a mere 5 hours to soak up as much Italian charm as possible. 

The first season of the day was caused by some unseasonal heavy rain as the ferry arrived into the famous city. The only rain I'd seen in weeks that certainly put a dampener on what was supposed to be a magical first sight of the architecture emerging from the sea. This mild disappointment was quickly overtaken by a brief moment of panic as I was reorganising my bag on the floating vaporetto platform and my packed up raincoat rolled underneath the seat and into the water as a boat went by. A millisecond of resignation to the fact my coat was lost was followed by a surge of motivation as I saw it still bobbing about on the surface. I quickly climbed over a barrier, lay flat on my belly in order to reach the floating pac-a-mac. Disaster averted! 

As the sky brightened my mood briefly picked up as I enjoyed the Venetian alternative to the tube - the vaporetto boat service. What a great way to get around a city, I mused! Unfortunately I would soon learn the downsides to the novel public transport - but first a lesson in why one should not try to see Venice with limited time on a Saturday in August! I planned to drop my bag at the train station left luggage in order to enjoy the city without backache and potentially knocking people into the canal. After racing to find the left luggage counter pure shock arrived as I saw the Disney-esque queue of people waiting to drop their bags. The free EU 3G came into its own as I quickly googled another place to leave my bag and found it with only 15minutes of my precious 5hours wasted. The bag-drop queue was nothing though, compared to the throng of passengers waiting to board the next vaporetto service to Piazza San Marco. After another 30min wait I jumped on the next boat to Rialto bridge and decided to walk from there to my first sight-seeing spot. 

Meandering through the well-signposted streets brought back my sunny disposition, with only a few showers of disgruntlement as I saw the queues for the main sights of the campanile and basílica and subsequently got told off for sitting down on St Marks square - clearly the only acceptable things to do there are stand in a queue or sit at an extortionately priced cafe. Saying that, the architecture is pretty spectacular, even whilst standing. I met the guides from my ferry as they were doing a free explanation of the city - held up by millions of wooden posts sunk into the sea bed - and then a trip to a Morano glass workshop. I watched in awe as the artist shaped an intricate horse out of molten glass in about 60seconds without getting burnt. I was very impressed. 

My last few hours in the city were certainly the brightest, as I walked from St. Marks to Academia bridge and from there back to the train station. Making my way through the pretty alleyways, over the myriad of canal bridges and in between little shops, cafes and art galleries I was taken away from the crowds and into the real essence of Venice. I watched plenty of gondolas gliding along - mostly carrying tourists but a few also doing daily deliveries, spent a while trying on the most ornate Venetian masks in the most friendly of shops, stopped to appreciate a street performer playing classical music on the water glasses and admired so many beautiful balconies, churches and piazzas along the way. I bought very reasonably priced multi-coloured snacks (bright green cookie and bright red slushy) and was able to sit quietly to enjoy them with my legs dangling off the canal-side pavement. It suddenly all felt decidedly pleasant! 

At the end of the day as I sat outside the train station, admiring a waterside cathedral dome, I felt thoroughly thankful for having had the opportunity to marvel at this beautiful city, even if only for a few hours. Despite its obvious downsides, characteristic of all touristic meccas, come rain or shine Venice is still one of the most uniquely stunning places one could ever visit - even if just for a second. 

Sitting on the dock of the bay

Writing this from a freezing cold train back in Blighty and the need to jump into a cold lake is indeed a distant memory. But my continuing journey through the warm balkans allowed plenty of opportunity to fulfil such needs. And with the addition of good friends by my side this was arguably the most holiday-like part of my trip. 

From Bosnia I arrived into Kotor - Montenegro's version of Dubrovnik complete with a walled old-town with perfectly preserved cobbled streets. It's situated at the end of a fjord, with a backdrop of dusty mountains and a fortress built up one such slope. As I waited for Clelia to arrive - my travel buddy for the next 5 days - I treated myself to mussels - my first seafood in a long time and appropriate for the location as I later found mussel farms in the fjord. The Jazz saxophonist serenaded my romantic dinner for one and my diary writing attracted attention from the well-to-do couple at the next table who thought I might be a restaurant reviewer - fortunately for the restaurant I am not as the unwashed, overpriced mussels left much to be desired. 

The next morning, when Clelia had found her way through the maze of the old town to the hostel, we went in search of our first 'beach'. After a confusing bus journey guessing at the alighting point we found ourselves sneaking into an exclusive resort and finding a patch of pebbles between the sun-loungers to lay our towels and take a quick dip in the clear blue waters. The next day saw us roaming around northern Montenegro by minibus - the heat was unbearable at times but the zipline over Tara gorge and swimming in the cool water of the black lake (once you'd conquered the sinking sand at its edges) in Dormitor national park made up for it. 

We made our way from Kotor to Croatia, crossing the fjord on a tiny ferry as a huge cruise ship cut through the mountainous landscape ahead of us. Our next hostel just outside of Dubrovnik was situated on a beautiful river inlet with sparkling yachts moored all along it and a handy pier on which we could practice floating yoga and mess about in kayaks in the mornings whilst the rest of the hostel inhabitants slept off their hangovers. The old town itself was just as grand and overcrowded as I imagined after all the 'Game of Thrones' hype but the steep washing-lined backstreets with porthole views out to sea made for a pleasant contrast in pace and atmosphere. Walking around the outside of the walls brought us to the 'swimmers beach' - some jagged rocks with a set of steps that allowed you to slip into the water. I marvelled at the 2 little girls, jumping in from vast heights with pure confidence as I struggled to keep myself from bashing into rocks every time a boat went past. 

As I continued my journey up the sparkling blue coast of Croatia there were plenty more swimming opportunities, mostly brought to me by my very own holiday rep Char. Not only did she sneak me into her hotel room, dinner buffet and bring me breakfast in bed but she organised the most action packed few days around Makarska. The highlight of my time with her was definitely the private stand-up paddle boarding tour around Bacina lakes as she expertly navigated through the reed-lined canals into secret lakes where we could practice some SUP yoga and topless sunbathe with only mountains to overlook us. In the 3 hour trip I managed not to fall in, only ever deliberately dunking myself in the water to keep cool. The next day our boat trip also gave ample time for swimming and sunbathing though with much less space as we fought to keep our places at the bow of the crowded ship and to find shade on one of Brac island's most famous beaches. 

As I continued my quest North, as a solo traveller once more, I stopped off in the historic naval towns of Split and Pula (just a night bus separated the two). I spent a full day in each meandering between spectacular Roman ruins, including an amphitheatre, temple and stunning mosaic floor hidden behind a shop, and eating many an ice cream or pizza slice on the well-manicured waterfronts whilst watching the ships roll in, wasting time in the most enjoyable fashion. My last morning in Pula saw me boarding the ferry to hop over the Adriatic to see Venice 'rise out of the sea' as my mum once possibly imagined. 

The 90s children

Some pre-90s background:  Yugoslavia (Serbia, Croatia, Slovenia, Bosnia, Montenegro and Macedonia) was formed as a kingdom after the First World War and the end of the Austro-Hungarian rule over these countries. It then became a communist (also referred to as socialist) republic lead by Tito after the Second World War. After the dictator's death in 1980 the union (sometimes claimed as the prototype for the EU) began to collapse as each original country began to declare independence and in turn a war was waged against them - see 4hour long BBC documentary 'The Death of Yugoslavia' for an in-depth  understanding (if you have time after reading this blog). 

I started my journey through this region in Serbia, more specifically its capital Belgrade, after a hideous 12hour train ride in 40degree heat. As this lively city sizzled I braved a walking tour before taking shelter in the air-conditioned, and particularly fascinating as a physics fanatic, Nikola Tesla museum. As you can imagine of a former communist capital, there are plenty of Brutalist style buildings which you don't necessarily reach for your camera for. But dotted around are Austro-Hungarian theatres, hotels and parliamentary buildings as well as the eclectic Kalmegdan Castle built on by Byzantine, Ottoman and every other empire taking advantage of its position overlooking the confluence between the Danube and Sava rivers. The Victor statue looking out across the landscape, built as a symbol of Serbian victory in various wars stood in stark contrast with the stories our guide told of her childhood growing up in the 90s when Serbia was sanctioned by the UN, due to the Kosovan and Bosnian wars, causing hyperinflation (a 5 billion dinar note could maybe buy you some bread) and consequently high levels of organised crime.

My next walking tour guide in Sarajevo had also grown up in the 90s, when newly independent Bosnia was subject to a war and its capital was under siege from Serbian forces. Children like her grew up in basements, risking their lives to go out to fetch water or to daringly play outside as snipers waited on the surrounding hills. After being shown the historically significant areas of the city such as the corner where Franz Ferdinand (Austro-Hungarian prince) was shot in 1914 - that was miraculously successful after an earlier bodged assassination attempt, suicide attempt by the assassin and grassing up of the others

involved - we moved onto the more heartbreaking reminders of the cities recent past such as the memorial to the thousands of children who died in the 1992-95 siege of Sarajevo. We saw a few bombed out buildings (the majority of which have been restored unless owners are still unidentified), holes in apartment block walls from flying shrapnel, Sarajevo roses - the

painted-red-divots in the pavement where shells exploded and killed civilians. One of the first buildings to be bombed in the siege was the central post office. A conversation graffitied on its wall just before destruction read 'This is Serbia - not really, its kind of a post office' - a great example of the Bosnian humorous attitude towards the war which lives on today as they continue to rebuild their country and relations within the former Yugoslav region. My guide, with her own brand of Bosnian humour, told us of their childhood game to go out collecting shrapnel that was won by finding the biggest piece or top trumps - a bit that was still hot. 

As well as recommending films and documentaries (as above) she also mentioned the Childhood War Museum was well worth a visit, not only for the air-con but for the insight into the reality of growing up in a war zone. I took her advice the next day, particularly intrigued as a 90s baby myself to learn what my early years might have been like had I been born in Sarajevo. The exhibition was a selection of treasured possessions, each one displayed with a heart-warming, stomach-clenching or tear-jerking memory from the owners childhood. The pieces of climbing frame - the evidence of a bomb that killed 7 children, the brother's police badge that he never got to wear, the mother's letter to her aunt that stopped mid-sentence as she'd got up to make tea and been killed were some of the most heart-breaking. I could really relate to some momentos like the last pointe shoes made in Sarajevo that gave a little girl hope of a new life, the hand-made worksheets the older girls in one basement designed in order to keep educating their younger neighbours and the barbie that sewed up people's wounds and handed out rations and it was so sweet to see a shoebox gift, like the ones we used to send overseas at Christmas, that had been kept complete with a letter from the sender full of naivety about the harsh reality of where it was being sent. 

On the same day I decided to visit the Galerija 11/7/95 - the date referring to the day on which over 8000 civilians (mostly males) from Srebrenica were murdered due to their Islamic faith in the biggest European genocide since the Holocaust. People were refused entry into the nearby UN base, chased across the mountains, caught, shot and buried in mass graves. The bodies were moved many times to try to cover up what had happened and land mines placed all around them. The images, videos and audio-guide painted a vivid and disturbing picture that was in someways more upsetting than visiting Auschwitz - perhaps because of its more recent  time-period or the more graphic elements on display. You might be wondering why Muslims were being  persecuted at this time - a key element of the Bosnian war and still living on today is the unequivocal link between ethnicity and religion. In Bosnia - and in general the whole of ex-Yugoslavia - there are Croats/Catholics, Serbs/Orthodox and Bosniacs/Muslims. It is baffling to me that people from countries that have all been influenced at some point by the same empires - admittedly each one bringing their religions of Islam (Ottomans), Orthodoxy (Byzantine) and Catholic (Austro-Hungarians) - that were then all part of the same communist country with no state religion should differentiate so strongly between native people of differing beliefs. Nowadays in Sarajevo the population is 85% Bosniac with more Mosques than the capital of Iran! 

The existence of all three ethnicities in Bosnia was part of the problem during the war, particularly in Mostar, my next destination, where the Bosnian-Croats turned against their neighbours in a bid to claim the town as part of Croatia - whilst the Serbs fought to keep control of the whole country as part of Greater Serbia. Despite ongoing hostility, as my next tour guide (a 17yr old boy soldier during the war) exemplified as he took us to the mountain overlooking Mostar where a big cross and a Croatian flag had been placed, in his words as a provocative symbol of their belief that the town should be Croatian, my time in Mostar was fascinating. Still blisteringly hot I took a tour around the Herzegovina countryside - swimming in waterfalls, drinking water from a dervish monastery spring, hiking up more ruined fortresses and drinking delicious pomegranate juice. 

The old town itself is a beautiful example of Ottoman architecture, albeit totally rebuilt after the war - stone built cottages with stone tiled rooves, plenty of minarets to call you to prayer or define your photograph vistas and the famous stari most old bridge that men originally jumped off as a courting ritual but now do the same as a money-making exercise. 

As you can probably tell I could go on forever relaying all the political history and personal stories I heard in my time in Serbia and Bosnia alone. I did also get time between history lessons for plenty of much-needed ice creams and more traditional snacks such as cevapi (little sausages really), ajvar (aubergine dip I'd fallen in love in Bulgaria as kiopolou), tufajiha (honey-soaked, nut-filled, cream-topped apple - so kind of healthy), hurmasica (biscuits soaked in honey) and baklava (even more honey and nuts)! 

My hilarious guide had spoken to us in great length about the disgusting wormy rice and cat-food meat they were given as aid that she suspected was left-over from the Second World War. She even took us to the canned beef statue outside the UN - a tongue-in-cheek war memorial from the 'grateful' citizens of Sarajevo. The food was clearly her most vivid childhood memory and most likely mine too had I been brought up alongside her. This part of my trip definitely made me a little more appreciative of the peaceful country and good food I was accustomed to as a child in the 90s. 

Cultural Cacophony

Having lived in London, one of the most multicultural cities in the world, I have managed to collect friends from around the globe. I went to visit one such friend who lives in Bulgaria, a country I have discovered has many different cultural influences, from its architecture and religion to its food and language.  

On my first day with Gabi guiding me around Sofia I had a crash course in Bulgarian - despite being written in Cyrillic (a Bulgarian not Russian creation), from the key phrases I learnt, only dobre den bore a resemblance to other Cyrillic-using languages. I found that sorry, mersi and ciao were the most useful 'Bulgarian' words to remember - they like to make it easy for their Western European visitors.  Signs were copied in Latin alphabet and the ticket officers and train conductors generally spoke a little English. Despite this the country felt relatively low on the tourism front. I still found Aussies in the hostels, as is the case all over Europe, but these were the more adventurous hitch-hiking three-day-trekkers rather than the drink-as-much-as-you-can and be-as-loud-as-you-can types. 

My second and more important lesson was a culinary one. Gabi was keen I tried traditional Bulgarian foods such as moussaka, stuffed peppers and grilled meat in ball or skewer form. Sound familiar? Yes, arguably these are all Greek cuisine too. The similarities don't end there - shopska salad is basically Greek salad with peppers rather than olives, yogurt is eaten for breakfast with fried dough 'mekitsi' and as a starter soup called 'tarator'. Homemade honey, wine and oils are also sold at roadside stalls in the middle of nowhere. As I travelled further afield on my own and my bargain hunter ways took over I also found plentiful gelateria and pizzeria serving both for less than 50p and with quality even Italians might not sniff at. 

As I discovered such delights I also learnt a potted history of various empires and occupations that have shaped this country's multiculturalism as i free-walking-toured my way around. In brief, the Slavs of ancient times gave way to the Byzantine (Eastern Roman) empire and after a brief independence the Ottomans invaded and ruled for 500 years. Another revolution and the renaissance of Bulgaria appeared in the late 19th century before a flaky collaboration with the Nazis in WW2. Eventually they switched sides and became affiliated with the Soviet Union. Communism reigned in the mid 20th century until the late 80s when Bulgaria became a democratic republic. The 3 main religions; orthodox Christianity from the Byzantine and Russian influence, Islam brought by the Ottomans/Turks and Judaism - in relatively high proportions thanks to the governments procrastination delaying the deportation of Jews during the holocaust - live together in harmony. As one walking tour guide pointed out at a square flanked by a church, mosque and synagogue, the temple of a modern religion was positioned on the remaining side - McDonald's of course, no culture is complete without one.

Plovdiv - the European capital of culture for 2019 and the oldest continuously inhabited city in Europe (6000 years old to be precise) epitomises everything I loved about Bulgaria. Beautifully clean streets lined with austro-Hungarian style buildings, dotted with ornamental and drinking water fountains, flowers and well-manicured parks on every corner. I could sit and eat my incredible 50p pizza slice whilst listening to an old school jazz saxophonist and then hike up a little hill behind me to get panoramic views of the city with graffitied rocks in the foreground adding to the urban-meets-nature aesthetic. Strolling further down the pedestrianised high street and the paving gives way to a pristine 2000yr old Roman stadium with sparkling white marble seats that's 400m length is fully intact underneath the high street. Turning right you go uphill to the 'old town' full of cobbled alleyways and restoration era merchant houses, and my hostel. I wandered round these streets without spotting another tourist, even when I happened upon the town's other main attraction - the original Roman amphitheater with opera rehearsals in full swing. As you can probably tell I could have rambled round here for weeks but I had a mere 24hours. Like my whole time in Bulgaria, it was just not long enough, and so this beautiful, welcoming and culturally eclectic country remains firmly on my never-ending to-do list. 

Following footsteps, remember never to repeat

My day and a half in Krakow was full to the brim with sight-seeing, eating and most importantly history lessons.  After meandering around Wawel hill and the old town with Dad and catching up with a dancer friend born and bred in the city, it was time for me to investigate the darker side of this city's, country's and quite frankly the majority of Europe's past. In one day I retraced the footsteps of many Polish Jews of the early twentieth century from Kazimierz (the old Jewish quarter) to the Jewish ghetto and then onto Auschwitz. I had questioned my decision to visit such a place in the knowledge that so many were forced to enter through it's gates, never to see the outside world again. But I felt it important not to ignore what happened, however sickening acknowledging it would be, and the local guides advocacy of this standpoint was the final encouragement I needed. 

In Kazimierz things seemed fairly rosy, a variety of synagogues old and new, stories of pioneering Jewish business men and women and recommendations of traditional cuisines were the order of the day. Things took a sobering turn as we crossed the river into the Jewish ghetto of 1940-43. We saw the gravestone like wall that only symbolically kept them in at night - fear was the real deterrent. During the day those that were still physically able, after poor nutrition and sanitation, worked in the nearby factories, including Schindler - a nazi spy turned businessman's factory who, unlike the film portrays, was only persuaded to move his factory and employ desperate Jews that could afford to pay off the Jewish policeman who was actually in charge of 'the list'. For the majority though, the only way out of the ghetto was on a train bound for Auschwitz - if they put up a fight or were too weak to make the journey they were shot in the main square in the final days of the ghetto's existence, an act now commemorated by 64 statues of chairs on the square representing the 64000 Jews killed there and the furniture incinerated there as the Nazi's began to destroy the evidence of the ghetto's inhabitants.

My journey to Auschwitz, after a race through the city by tram, was in an air-conditioned minibus accompanied by an in-drive documentary about the camp's creation and history. It was a far cry from the overloaded wooden wagons carrying 80 or more people and their most precious possessions, sometimes journeying for days, or even weeks from Greece, to reach their final destination. 

Facts and figures I learnt on my journey:

- 1940 the camp was converted from army barracks to prisoner of war camp

- it was expanded in 1941 to Birkenau or Auschwitz 2, after Hitler's 'final solution' for the extermination of European Jews

- With 5 gas chambers 2000 people could be murdered every 20minutes 

- an estimated 1.3million people died here, 1.1million of which were Jewish 

- in the camp's history only 196 people escaped

However, as awful as the statistics are, the true horror of the Holocaust lies in the fact that every single number represents a whole human being - a life with a unique personality, memories and emotions was lost. The old bunk houses of Auschwitz 1 now exhibit artefacts, missed by the Nazi's hasty destruction of the operation at the end of the war, to help us comprehend this; walls of photos and documents of those selected to work with name and date of birth and death, piles of books, shoes, suitcases, pots and pans and most horrifically hair snatched from the bodies of those selected for immediate execution. All these things were a reminder that these people did not live so long ago and that they believed they were going to start a new life - where cooking and reading might have been possible activities. The bunks, left as they were, allowed us a glimpse into the daily hardships of the prisoners - sleeping on straw in crowded rooms, 15seconds to visit the latrine each day, living in fear of being tortured in block 11 - where 4 people could be kept in a square meter cell overnight for not working hard enough. A priest died in the starvation cell after having volunteered to replace a young boy picked at random to pay the price for a rare escapee. 

In the earlier days of Auschwitz prisoners were put to work building Birkenau - Auschwitz 2. The sheer scale of this place, row upon row of brick bunk houses or brick chimneys where the wooden houses had been set alight, sent shivers down my spine as we entered through the infamous gatehouse. The railway track passes through it onto the ramp where the unfortunate souls were selected for either death by labour or the gas chambers. Here we learnt more personal stories; of families torn apart on the ramp such as mother and son forced to stand in different lines, the son upset that his mother had pushed him back into the correct line but little did he know she was saving his life - he never got to see her again to thank her. Another son already working in the camp, with the worst job of clearing out the gas chambers, reunited with his mother as she undressed ready for her 'shower'. She was so happy to see her son and he reassured her everything would be alright as he accompanied her into the chamber so that they could die together. The last story was of a 12yr old girl: having already lost her parents in other death camps she lied about her age in order to be put to work. Miraculously she survived two years of mistreatment, malnourishment and slave labour that so many others did not and lives to tell her tale in the book 'Hope is the last to die'. 

Of all the shocking things I saw and heard that day one of the most surprising was the fact that after the hasty closure and destruction of the camp, as the Nazis reign ended, the camp opened as a museum only two years later - with survivors as the first tour guides. I can't imagine the awful memories they relived in order to make others aware of the crimes committed. On one wall of the exhibition was the quote by George Santayana - 'those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it'. If only the Bosnian-Serb army men could have remembered I wonder, as I, now in Bosnia, am learning about the concentration camps and largest European massacre since the Holocaust that happened 50 years later. 

Aside from the outrageously German efficiency that was used to organise the whole operation - maximum output with minimum effort - even getting the prisoners to guard each other rather than use more SS men, the worst realisation for me was that the outside world did know what was happening but there was no attempt to stop it. Photos taken by prisoners were smuggled out and planes flew over recording the layout and possible use of the buildings. Edmund Burke's quote 'All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing' rings true again and again. 

I had the privilege of leaving Auschwitz, having done nothing more than a few leisurely miles and some attentive listening, to continue my journey though Eastern Europe with an ever increasing sense of gratitude for the free and peaceful situation I grew up in and still enjoy today. I wish this was true around the world but sadly not... 

'Peace can only come as a natural consequence of universal enlightenment and merging of races, and we are still far from this blissful realisation' Nikola Tesla

The good life

I've always thought of Dad as a bit of a Tom Good from 80s sitcom 'The good life' - growing his own vegetables, recycling old car parts and building whole new rooms through dismantling chimneys. But he has now been trumped by my Ukrainian relatives - who still live on the small-holding where my grandad grew up. 

Ivan (my Grandad's nephew) and his wife Natala and their beautiful children Volodia, Yulia and Romchek were not only the most hospitable and attentive hosts but an absolute inspiration to my self-sufficient lifestyle dreams. They grow every vegetable you can think of on their strip of land running from the river valley to the far-off forest, from essential potatoes, carrots and beans to more exotic pumpkins, buckwheat and giant courgettes (abit like the oversized ones Dad used to harvest after long summer holidays). There are also strawberries and apple trees on their land and beautiful meadows that are of no use to them but certainly add to the charm of the place. To add to their culinary options they keep a cow (milked 3 times a day and for about 3 seconds by me), a very chilled pig and a whole variety of chickens. Their little black dog 'Barks' serves as a guard dog though he was far more interested in having a belly rub than barking at me. 

As well as looking after their livestock and crops, and the daily cooking, cleaning and maintenance jobs, both Natala and Ivan have jobs: as a primary school teacher in the village school and as a builder across the border in Poland respectively. My Grandad's sister Anna, or 'Babu' to the family, is also extremely well taken care of with her own little house where the bustling kitchen is still used by the whole family. I was honoured to be invited in to help prepare a few of the breakfast dishes: deep fried cauliflower and perfect pancakes - a skill only those ready to be a wife possess apparently. The rest of the family now live next door in 'the house that Ivan built' as it is fondly referred to by my own family. Built on a fairly grand scale by British standards, but the norm in rural Ukraine judging by the surrounding houses, it has 2 floors, a wooden staircase and landing not quite finished, a large bathroom (without a sink but who needs one when you have a bath) and brightly painted rooms. My teenage years of dedicated grand designs viewing allowed me to appreciate what a huge achievement building your own house is, especially with such limited funds. My hat goes off to Ivan and no doubt his helper Volodia - and Natala for keeping them all fed in the process. 

I know that, however idyllic their lifestyle may seem and however much I didn't want to leave, it's not all a bed of roses. Living off the land and building your own house leaves little opportunity for travels abroad, and the remote location probably isn't great for dance work, or work of any kind really. The country's political and economic state is also a huge burden to its people - living in fear of both their own and the Russian government. The Maidan protest shootings of 2014 are commemorated, not only on independence square in Kyiv where it took place but even in the church of Voroblachyn, as a reminder of the turbulent recent history you might otherwise forget whilst wandering through the pleasant streets. This and the war in Crimea have destabilised an otherwise beautiful country with an abundance of incredible architecture and natural resources, not to mention fantastically cheap prices for foreign visitors (15p metro tickets, £3 3 course meals, £5 beds for the night - I highly encourage you to visit if you haven't already). But despite all of these hardships Ivan and Natala keep smiling and their hard-working, caring nature, surely passed down through the generations, has blessed them with a wonderful tight-knit family worth more than anything money could ever buy. 

A reason to roam!

Not that I ever need an excuse to go travelling but, as the school summer holidays are fast approaching, bringing with them a lack of work for me,  a perfect opportunity to grab my backpack and explore a new destination has arisen. And that destination is.... Eastern Europe. Not an area that's usually high on many people's lists. It's not quite exotic enough for the gap year yet a bit off-the-beaten track for the average tourist. Despite having heard many good things about certain countries such as Bosnia and Montenegro, my masterplan for this trip arose when I realised how many links I have with the area through friends and family. I've always wanted to go and see where my Grandad grew up in Ukraine, after other family members have done previously, and I have good friends in London who've moved over from Serbia, Croatia and Bulgaria. When a new friend from my yoga course opened an invitation for visits to Croatia where she is working for the summer my mind was made up! I've since also incorporated a 6th visit to the wonderful country of Switzerland to see another great friend on the way back home. 

So in comparison to my last 2 trips there will be a wealth of familiar faces involved and only small amounts of time spent wandering alone. My main worry for this trip is the language barrier, with many countries using Cyrillic script that I cannot read let alone understand, and the sheer number of currencies I will go through - I'll be thankful for the Euro zone when I reach it! 

My elaborate plan is as follows:

18th July - set off to Ukraine with my Dad (via Budapest airport) 

19-20 July - see Kiev under the guidance of family friend Valya 

21 July - arrive in Lviv to meet Oksana (my 2nd cousin) to go to Voroblachyn (my Grandad's village) 

22 July - see Lviv before overnight bus to Krakow 

23 July - sightseeing in Krakow before Dad flies home 

24 July - Auschwitz 

25 July - long bus journey to Bulgaria 

26-31 July - stay with friend Gabi in Sofia and explore Bulgaria (Plovdiv, Veliko Tărnovo, Rila) 

1-2 August - Belgrade (my friend Jelena's hometown who advised me not to go there but I will ignore her cynicism) 

3 -8 August - Bosnia (Sarajevo to learn some history and Mostar for outdoor adventures) 

9-12 August - Clelia is joining me to explore Montenegro from Kotor 

13-14 August - travel together to Dubrovnik before her flight home 

15-17 August - chilling in Split with Charlotte, my own personal holiday rep 

18-20 August - make my way up the Croatian coast to Istria and then boat across to mooch around Venice before heading to my final stop 

21-25 August - Switzerland (to see Clelia's hometown of Lausanne on Lake Geneva) 

Now you know pretty much exactly where I will be, when and with whom there's no excuse for you not to jump on a Ryanair flight and come say hi! 

Taxis, tuk-tuks, trikes and trains

One week in northern India and I've had more pre 5am starts than is remotely acceptable in order to take a myriad of transport forms - from the relatively comfortable to the completely agonising, the mildly serene to the hair-raisingly hectic! 

Leaving the familiar surroundings of Agonda in a taxi pre-booked by the yoga school, I began to feel nervous about the infamous taxi scams at Delhi airport. Having taken many random taxis solo through South America my logical brain thought I need not worry about one more in India (having already taken plenty in Mumbai and Goa), but the warnings on travel sites and from my Indian teachers had given me cause for concern. Thankfully, having followed the instructions of my hostel I managed to get there with minimal panic that the taxi driver might be trying to kidnap me - he even asked for the hostel's number to ask for directions and showed me as he entered into his phone.

Once settled in Delhi I had my first experience on an Indian train - a metro train much like any other - much cleaner and more spacious than the standard London tube carriage. However, travelling around Old Delhi was far less spacious as we me and my fellow backpacker squeezed into a bartered-down rickshaw (man-powered tricycle with unnervingly high and inadequately proportioned seat for two perched on the back). We rode down the back alleys of the jewellery, sari and spice markets - literally brushing past vegetable stalls, sweet carts and pedestrians alike. Major grid lock ensued mid-way down the main thorough-fare of Chandni Chowk as vehicles attempted to ram into us from both sides - we considered getting off and walking after 10minutes of stand still carnage but there was no space to squeeze between and we didn't fancy hopping over tuk-tuk roofs to reach our destination - a Sikh temple.

My first proper introduction to life on the tracks came the next morning as I left Delhi with my newly acquainted tour group. After clambering through the maze of sleeping bodies in the ticket hall and avoiding huge luggage carts and waiting families sat on the platform we were greeted with another spacious if slightly old and chilly (due to much needed air-con) carriage as we boarded the train. As we enjoyed being served hot tea in our own personal thermos, lemon juice, and a variety of egg dishes we gazed out of the window to admire the changing scenery as one does on a train in any country. The initial views were, however, not of desert landscapes or farmland but of men's private parts as they squatted down - feet balanced on the rails - to have a 'good old clear out', enough to put us off our breakfast as we trundled by. As we gathered speed past these men's homes built alarmingly close to the tracks we caught glimpses of other less disturbing morning ablutions taking place - clearly women and children lived here too but had found more private ways to excrete their waste digestive products.

In the next few days we explored the desert landscapes of Rajasthan dotted with white temples and rich palaces - hiking on foot sacred hills to catch sunrise, riding into the sand dunes by camel for desert dancing and a traditional Indian feast before tut-tuting at the less socially acceptable tourists riding elephants up the ramparts of the Amber Fort. Why is it ok to ride camels but not elephants? Neither look particularly happy about it and having ridden both before I have to discern that elephants are the more comfortable and come with a far less alarming dismount - and both make you feel like an Arabian prince. If you want to travel in truly majestic style though get yourself a hot air balloon! Not only did I enjoy the incredible birds eye view of farmland, villages, roads and rivers that occasionally came a bit too close for comfort but the early morning serenity from the rather full wicker basket was mesmerising. The once-in-a-lifetime experience however came not from the ride itself but from the landing just outside a peacock farming village. As we touched down, almost tipping the basket over, we were greeted by a crowd of over-excited villagers who came to marvel at the aliens in their unidentified flying object. Some were intrigued by the mechanics - trying to clamber into the basket to inspect the gas canisters, some were frightened of the occasional blasts of gas flame - as I was, whilst the majority of the young men were more interested in taking selfies with the ship's passengers. We waited in our basket for our pick-up team, surrounded by hundreds of people, having the ubiquitous 'what's your name, where do you come from' conversations with the few villagers that spoke English. Their fascinated faces, enthusiastic greetings and slightly alarming stampede to catch up with us as we re-manouvered to a flatter disembarkation point will remain with me forever. 

As is so often the case, it's the people we meet that make a travelling experience so memorable and even the mundane journeys from A to B can become extraordinary moments. Raving in the back of our mini van on a bumpy late night ride back from the desert with the coolest Bollywood DJ/taxi driver was one such moment. Similarly, learning about Ahmed and his 'happy wife, happy life', being introduced to his brother Amer who would surely win Jaipur's Got Talent as he serenaded us with his incredible voice, all whilst zooming around the city in each of their tuk tuks gave us a magical insight into the lives of regular Indian people. 

There wasn't much time to get to know our rickshaw drivers in Varanasi but we certainly got to know our fellow passengers fairly well as we squeezed our hips together on the tiny seats and clung onto each other for dear life for a 45min rollercoaster ride with no safety belt or helmet to save us from the likely catapulting into the racing traffic that brushed our ankles as we abruptly swerved to miss the middle lane reclining cows. Even if we'd felt comfortable enough to do so the cacophony of car horns, cat calls and ceremonial drumming would have drowned out any attempts at conversation. Dad's saying 'an inch is as good as mile' would be scoffed at here, in India a millimetre and a blast of your horn will do. 

The relative calm and comfort of train travel was always welcome relief to the roads, with one exception - the overnight train from Agra. Having taken more overnight buses than I can count, night flights and even a night boat on my travels I wasn't particularly nervous for another night journey. The steady rock of a train carriage actually often helps me get to sleep. Despite the luxury of a fully horizontal bunk, however, there were still hurdles to overcome - firstly getting onto my 3rd tier bunk with minimal headroom and an inadequately minuscule ladder, secondly using the squat toilet (the only one not overflowing with urine and floating faeces) whilst being buffeted by the train's quickening pace and thirdly cleaning my teeth whilst sandwiched between my bunk and the roof (having decided against putting anything near my mouth in the bathroom for obvious reasons). The relatively small width and length of my bunk only caused me mild discomfort as I slept with my valuables beside me but my German traveller had some difficulties underneath me whilst the Indian ladies across the vertical drop from my 2 foot wide bunk performed the miraculous and topped and tailed on theirs. But as they leant over for their much sought-after 'selfie with a white girl' and to introduce themselves I was glad we hadn't had our own private carriage. Journeys with strangers who become friends are what makes getting from A to B a true travelling experience. 

Shiva, Shakti and the 8 limbs

According to ancient Indian philosophy Shiva - the god of destruction was a symbol of the universal intelligence and his wife Shakti the symbol of all forms of energy. They are interdependent (a bit like mum and dad) - without one the other cannot function effectively. Knowledge without the ability to utilise it is wasted, energy without the information needed to create something is useless.

At the start of the yoga teacher training I felt I had the physical energy required but little knowledge, by week 3 my RAM was full of information but the energy had almost burnt out. The last week of exams was a test of both our mental and physical endurance, taking part in each other's teaching assessments as well as practicing for our own, meditating for whole hours at a time plus revising for our theory exam - to confirm we had indeed gained some knowledge over the past 4 weeks. 

Now after a few days rest post- beautiful beachside graduation ceremony and raucous dancing celebrations I feel the shiva and shakti within me are now balanced at an all time high. Despite the pre 5am starts, long journeys and 40degree heat of my current northern India tour I've still managed to practice some asanas and pranayamas every day. 

In case the last few words in that sentence made no sense to you I thought I'd give you a quick run down of the 8 limbs of ashtanga yoga - the main structure to which my new understanding of yoga clings. 

The first limb is made up of the 'yamas' - the basic principles we should try to live by (non-violence, truthfulness, non-stealing, non-possessiveness and with control over our desires). The non-violence includes animals hence the near-veganism of the yogic diet which I have mostly taken on board since choosing my own meals again, although the vegetarian friendly menus and fear of food poisoning from dodgy meat definitely help. The control over my desire for cheese and chocolate is not strong enough however for me to even consider becoming vegan - don't worry. Truthfulness is a fairly straight forward concept although it does come with the condition that the truth should only be spoken with good intentions and without causing harm. 

The second limb is made up of 'niyamas' - principles to observe throughout daily life including cheerfulness, self-study, continually reaching outside your comfort zone (known as 'tapas' - no eating chorizo involved though, just giving up conversation for 24hours)  list of cleansing techniques such as 'jala neti' - nasal cleansing. I had previously seen the concept of deliberately putting salt water up your nose as madness but after trying it, not drowning and no longer feeling the need to pick my nose I won't right it off as an element of the yogic lifestyle to adopt.

The easiest aspect of ashtanga yoga for me to practice is of course the physical postures or 'asanas' used as a moving meditation to quieten the mind and prepare the body for more subtle forms of meditation. The next two limbs of 'pratyahara' (withdrawal of the senses) and 'pranayama' (focused breathing techniques) are practiced alongside the asanas to aid the introversion. The last three limbs are progressive states from 'dharana' (concentration) to 'dhyana' (meditation) to 'samadhi' (absorption - a state of higher consciousness that allows mental modifications to be resolved). When all mental modifications have been resolved through various samadhi experiences you have reached 'enlightenment'.

This is definitely a long way off for me - still struggling with the withdrawal of senses and concentration aspects as my mind is drawn to sounds from the environment, the desire to follow my imagination or simply the discomfort in the body whilst sitting still. The instruction to 'bring your awareness back to your body' at the end of a meditation class has baffled me many times. I will, however, endeavour to use various meditative techniques to relax my mind and focus my energy as I dive back into the stresses of London and freelancing in a few weeks time. 

We don't need reasons to smile

We don't need reasons to smile 

Getting to Agonda in a very sweaty 2hr taxi ride with plenty of near misses was not the most fitting introduction to the Indian haven that is South Goa. Unlike my experience of Mumbai, the shop owners and accommodation staff actually smile and say hello, even without you trying to initiate interaction. Maybe they've all spent time with Sudhir - the philosophy and meditation tutor on my yoga teacher training course that brought me here. One of his many morning meditation mantras being the title of this post, with the others usually in Sanskrit, this one seemed both most relatable and apt. 

We don't need reasons to smile - smiling is our birth right as it is the outward expression of the unconditional happiness that is the true nature of the self when the mind is quiet and stops analysing. This is a fairly difficult skill to master, as you can imagine, however this place gives you plenty of reasons to smile, whilst you learn how to do it for no reason. 

I arrived to find a huge, clean room equipped with all the creature comforts you could want - and a few actual creatures living nearby (a gorgeous kitten, tiny little frogs, geckos, chipmunks and monkeys). The beautiful jungle scenery of coconut palms and ripe cashew trees that these animals inhabit forms the backdrop for our yoga classrooms, or shalas, with the ocean horizon in the distance. Surprisingly it's actually only a tiny hop, skip and jump to the quietest sweep of soft sandy beach with only the odd friendly dog or ageing hippy to distract you from your post-class sunset watch or rest-day swim. These lazy moments are made all the more sweet by their juxtaposition with the intense, exhilarating yoga course itself.

The daily routine full of sun salutations, oms and aaahs starts at 6am, after a wake up call by the cockerel next door. Starting

with 2hrs of ashtanga practice (the repeated series of contortionist-style poses that challenge the body in order to quieten the mind, focusing on the breath whilst you try to ignore the sweat dripping from your nose). This is followed by meditation then anatomy, alignment, teaching and philosophy classes, rounded off with one more inventive yoga class every evening. This repetition is  a perfect antidote for my unpredictable freelance lifestyle in London whilst continuing to feed my need for physical creativity and refreshing my love of learning. 

The full schedule is punctuated by the delights that are meal time. Despite sticking to the yogic diet that verges on veganism (yogurt is allowed due to the holiness of the cow around here) the kitchen produces the most delicious food that has left me not averse to a good sweet n sour tofu (did i actually just write that?). From lentil dahl, to aloo gobi, rice and naans to jewel coloured salads - none of it has turned my tummy once *touch wood*  The miniature coconut or banana flavoured desserts haven't always satiated my sugar-cravings but there have been goodie offerings from my fellow international students including Moroccan chocolate and good old creme eggs. 

Which brings me to another joyful aspect of the experience - the people I am sharing it with. From the site staff, to the teachers, the karma yogis (classroom assistants) and most importantly my peers. Spending atleast 12hours per day with the same 25 people 6/7days a week, negotiating with each other's bodies as well as mind sets, might have quickly become tiresome. But with so many gentle, like-minded individuals from all walks of life to learn from it has become not only a source of interesting conversation but a support network or temporary family. As we break down our own barriers, both physically and mentally, it is comforting to know that there will always be someone around to build us back up when we, rather than the boundaries, crumble. The smile we give to others is the smile we enjoy the most. 

Happy Holi in Mardy Mumbai

The non-smiling flight attendants were my first clue to the general temperament i encountered whilst in Mumbai. The 4 taxi drivers I experienced were all silent until they wound their window down to ask someone, in Hindi, how to get to the address i'd given them. I was scared to strike up conversation in fear of offending them by assuming they speak English - as the guidebook had lead me to believe. I arrived at my hostel to be greeted by a room full of phone zombies, including the receptionist who barked at me to fill in the check-in form. Saying that - my first adventure into real Mumbai - otherwise known as Dharavi slum - was lead by a very friendly local named Sunni who seemed genuinely happy to show us around. 

Dharavi itself had the atmosphere of a friendly community (albeit a tightly packed one with an estimated 1million people living in 2.2 square kilometres), the hustle and bustle of industry but also an underlying sense of terrifyingly unhealthy living conditions. Much like the favela in Rio, Dharavi is not lacking in cash flow with almost $1 billion dollars of goods produced annually. However, the goods are not so much class A drugs, as in Brazil, but recycled plastic, metal, glass, paper and pretty much anything you can think of. It was amazing to see the activity going on in the commercial area - from women sorting shards of glass, men carrying huge bundles of oil cans on their heads, hand made machinery used for chopping, cleaning, drying and melting. The views from the rooftops of the little factories was incredible - piles of different plastics laid out to dry with mosques, temples and tower blocks littered between. Unfortunately we weren't allowed to take photos whilst on the tour, especially frustrating when we came across a beautifully painted courtyard  where six women in jewel-coloured saris sat rolling out poppadoms and drying them in the sun on huge upturned baskets - an image I hope I will never forget. 

The ramshackle houses, open drains bisecting the small alleyways and sudden scooter encounters all reminded me of the favela - although the lack of individual water tanks on roofs suggested their bathroom facilities were less advanced. Sure enough we came across a set of communal bathrooms - the posh ones, we were told, where you had to pay to pee and so could be saved from the horror of the others where an estimated one thousand people share each toilet. The gorgeous children were also reminiscent of Rocinha, as they ran up to ask us our names and what country we were from in order to practice their English. The risk of getting caught in celebratory water-balloon crossfire was fairly high but worth it for the chorus of 'Happy Holi's we received as we walked past. 

Holi is a Hindu festival celebrating the arrival of Spring, using water and colour to symbolise new life. My hostel had got us tickets to a local community club celebration, which felt a bit like we'd gate crashed a garden party wedding, as our little crew of white Europeans turned up just in time for the breakfast buffet - which, much to my delight, included Jalebis (as featured in the recent film Lion). We'll leave the array of food on the table for another blog - perhaps when I have worked out what the rest of it was. As we arrived we were handed bags of brightly coloured powder and after the breakfast we headed into the sprinkler-topped courtyard complete with dj and colour canons. We attempted to emulate the Bhangra dance moves of the groups of guys and girls whilst playing with the colours. 

It seemed the main custom was to smear it on a strangers face whilst greeting them with 'Happy Holi'. To your friends you could be more Picasso about it and cover them from head-to-toe, even the older men and women were emerging fully painted. But of course the children were having a field day - water balloons, pistols and colour combined and us foreigners were perfect targets (a long with the poor waiting staff) although some very sweet kids would first come and ask us before they popped the balloons over our heads. The colours soon ran into one another with all the water as we danced in the artificial rain - my white top is now more abstract water colour than the Jackson Pollock masterpiece I'd hoped it might be. 

All in all I had two very interesting experiences in Mumbai, neither of which I could really say are unique to the city - unfortunately I didn't feel confident enough to travel into the city centre alone to see its landmarks and none of my comrades in the hostel felt like accompanying me after the morning Holi party. So as I left to get my flight to Goa it was my own mood, along with my taxi driver's, that defined the city as a fairly mardy one.