The Travertino tops the Taj Mahal

Once we make it past the photographers nagging to photograph me at the Taj Mahal for a fee, I relax a little. My handsome Taj guide points out the passage from the Qur’an on the pishtaq (a rectangular arch) and how the size of the letters is an optical illusion.

On the other side lies the Taj Mahal, like a fairytale image in the distance.

Handsome Guide is no expert but tells the story of the Taj Mahal enthusiastically. He explains how the Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan built all this for his wife Mumtaz Mahal, one year after her death in 1632. Although the Taj is his most famous monument, he commissioned many other great works of architecture, including the Red Fort, where he was placed under house arrest by his son in 1657.

The Taj Mahal may be a monumental display of love but I do not find it very romantic. In fact, when we enter the tomb I get an eerie feeling, although the white marble inlaid with semi-precious stones is exquisite.

Four minarets (used in the Islamic call for prayer) surround the tomb. The Taj is in fact a functional mosque yet only local Muslims may pray here.

On our way back to the parking lot we stop by two shops and although I know I’m getting a bad deal I am not feeling up for a fight. So when the rickshaw guy wants to attack me because I’m not willing to pay double what he quoted I feel like bursting into tears. Then my driver is nowhere to be found.

Handsome Guide sorts it all out for me (at least one worthwhile rip-off) and soon I am back in Delhi, where my friend Hindol is horrified at my choice of budget hotel.

“Lajpat Nagar?” he says, “you come to Delhi for the first time and you stay in Lajpat Nagar?”

Hindol decides to take proper care of me, showing me the India Gate which reminds of the Champs Elyseé in lights. He also introduces me to fine Indian wine (which is surprisingly good considering I didn’t even know they make wine in India) and the lovely Travertino restaurant at the Oberoi Delhi.

All heightened due to the fact that I didn’t eat or drink a single thing all day during my trip from Delhi to Agra and back. Been there, done that, but please, never again!

My terrifying trip to the Taj Mahal

It's impulsive. Perhaps insane or just simply idiotic. I jump on a plane to Delhi without booking a hotel, in order to pursue a work opportunity with potential and the chance to see the Taj Mahal.

I trust the tourism office at Delhi international airport to sort me out with a place to stay and while my acquaintances in Delhi advise me against visiting the Taj Mahal on my own, they end up booking a ‘safe’ taxi for me when I insist on going.

My life flashes in front of my eyes a few times before I try to sleep in order to get away from the crazy antics on the road. Every now and again the driver’s favourite Bollywood songs stop playing. Bah, bah, bah! - he bashes the radio with the utmost frustration.

Eventually I do fall asleep and wake up alone in the car on a dirt road in an empty field. The driver’s door is open and he is nowhere to be seen. I panic, but then see him walking back towards the car through the field, flicking his cigarette.

Four hours later we are driving through an extremely dirty and smelly town. I wonder if I am being abducted and become very aware that I have trusted this strange man with my life. I am nauseous from all the stress and haven't been able to eat all day. Next thing however, we are driving past the Red Fort and finding parking outside the Taj Mahal.

I get out of the car and literally get attacked by vendors, camels and rickshaws. I am petrified and throw my driver a ‘help’ look. A man with some documentation in hand pushes through the crowd explaining that he is a government official employed to protect tourists. My driver nods and I join him on the rickshaw as it is apparently quite a journey from the parking lot to the Taj entrance. He suggests that I pay an official guide to accompany me, “better for information and also safety”.

An extremely handsome young lad appears as though by magic. Somehow I know I am going to be ripped off but he makes a few jokes and I try to relax as we walk side by side up to the gates of the Taj Mahal.

Rock-a-bye ladies on a houseboat in Kerala

As soon as we step on to our houseboat, Prasanti is already practicing for her five minutes of fame by posing with the fruit bowl. I start working on my photography skills but with a little bit of probing end up posing too, with a pineapple on my head - hey, Sarah Jessica Parker also wore a fruit hat on some occasion!

Soon the scenery of the Alleppy backwaters win all our attention. Or rather, it becomes the backdrop for gorgeous snaps of this Bollywood wannabe that I am travelling with.

Our houseboat is made of wild jack wood. It is quite small, with one bedroom and en-suite bathroom, a kitchen, an open air lounge/ dining area and an upper deck. We each lie down on a day bed in the open area and become quiet in the presence of the giant palm tree reflections in the canals between the rice paddies. The soundtrack of birds (especially ducks) and the putt-putting of the boat is soothing.

We stop for lunch at a lagoon in the middle of the rice paddies and the lack of urban sounds is a relief. Our personal chef prepares a meal of curried river fish, okra, coconut green beans, cooked tomato, a heap of rice and ciappati. We eat and eat until we can't eat anymore and it still looks like we haven't touched the food.

This is the life, here. Good food, good friends and the simplicity of nature to heal the effects of fast city life. The further away from the rat race I get, the closer to myself I feel. That night I dream of my friends' babies again - pure eyes looking right into my soul and saying 'Remember who you are'.

Peace and thunder in the rice paddies

The truth is that I haven’t been very well lately. Losing my Mohammed also meant losing my social network and support system in Dubai. Suddenly the heat became unbearable, work stress seemed to weigh down just that little bit extra and the scars in my ears seemed to ache more than usual.

Everything in life comes with a price and I am paying dearly for my dream of seeing the world. A lot of you have been writing to me saying that my life seems so interesting and glamorous – and yes it is, but it’s not easy. For me, the hardest thing is being away from my incredible friends. Not that they are all living in the same part of the world, but here in Dubai I am alone. And loneliness can be a terrible thing.

However, especially over the last few months an unusual young lady revealed herself as a true friend and now she has also become a travel partner. She has had her own share of troubles to bear and the best thing we could think of to help us get back on track was an ayurvedic break to Kerala.

After running around in Kochi to see all the sights, we are happy to surrender to the peaceful atmosphere of the rice paddies in Kumarakom around our Paddy Fields resort. At night the monsoon storms play havoc with the electricity leaving us in utter darkness and sudden light. It could have been quite scary if not for our cheerful conversation and relaxed mood.

We go for Ayurvedic treatments around the corner at the Ayurlakshmi Ayurvedic spa and soon we start to feel more like ourselves again. Rejuvenated, energized, relaxed and full of life.

Ayurveda means ‘the science of life’. This ancient system of healing focuses on prevention and longevity through a spiritual lifestyle and natural cosmetics and cures.

Only since the 70s has the West started to pay more attention to this form of healthcare and Ayurveda is now widely used as part of Integrated Medicine, which combines the latest scientific research with ancient healing practices. Both prince Charles and Richard Branson actively supports this movement which aims to treat the person as a whole.

Prasanti and I have our first experience of the Kerala backwaters on a boat tour to the Kumarakom bird sanctuary and the biggest lake in Kerala. It’s enough to get us really excited about the upcoming houseboat journey which will take us even further away from civilization.

Murder and a missing plane

Kathakali is an Indian dance drama involving elaborate costumes, make-up and disturbing subject matter. It dates from the days of the maharajas in the early 17th century.

Prasanti and I are both dressed in salwar kameez, which Gregory David Roberts called ‘the most flattering garment’ in his novel Shantaram. I’m not so sure about the pants though. Although hidden behind the top they are uncomfortable and most unflattering in my opinion. Perhaps it is best for me to mix the tops and scarves with western pants. It could look quite nice with jeans.

We have our first taste of banana chips while watching the show and are instantly hooked. It’s so much nicer than potato chips and perhaps healthier – even though these are deep fried in coconut oil they are at least home made!

What an experience to watch the actors apply their make-up before the show. A rice paste and natural pigments are used to create dramatic character faces with strong features that are, well, just plain scary.

Tonight’s story is called ‘The Killing of Kichaka’ and it is a tale of blood and lust that becomes more and more unsettling, until the end leaves an uncomfortable feeling lingering in the oldest remaining theatre in Fort Kochi. This is definitely not something I would want to watch again but I am also happy that I have had the chance to experience a truly creative art form that has survived in its purest form over so many centuries.

While the maharajas had Kathakali in the 17th century we’ve got BBC and today’s news is even more disturbing than any show could ever be: a swine flu pandemic, bankruptcy and an Air France plane disappearing somewhere over the Atlantic.

It makes me reassess my life and the fact that it can be taken away any second. What would I do if I knew today that I had only a short time left in this world? The answer comes to me very quickly: spend quality time with my friends and family. And travel, travel, travel until I have absorbed as much of this terrible and beautiful world and its people as I can possibly take.

From Dosa to Da Gama's burial place

Alongside Dim Sum, Masala Dosa is now my favourite breakfast choice. For those who don’t know Masala Dosa (you should really try it!) it’s a fluffy giant pancake-like bread filled with mildly spiced potatoes and onions.

With full tummies Prasanti and I take on the city of Kochi, leaving all the planning to our driver, Pranesh. First stop is the Dutch Palace which was originally built by the Portuguese in 1555 – for the Kochi kings or maharajas. It’s pretty but unimpressive from the outside. However, a whole room full of detailed murals depicting the stories of the Hindu gods Ramayana and Mahabharatha stopped us in our tracks. If it wasn't for the heat interfering with our concentration, we could have spent hours here unravelling the meaning behind the rich colours and tiny figures.

Instead we walk to the Jewish Synagogue which dates from 1568. It’s closed for lunch time when we get there but the walk was an experience in itself. There is a lot of curiosity about my 'foreign' Indian friend, as though being born in South Africa makes her an exotic version of their own.

“I’m not local!” she sighs when a woman approaches her to fill in a survey about local tourism.

The street here is lined with many tourist shops and we admire the pretty skirts and silk scarves. Prasanti points out the Kathakali dolls and we make a mental note to go and watch this traditional dance show later.

Next Pranesh takes us to St. Francis Church which was built in 1503. It is also the original burial place of Vasco da Gama, the Portuguese explorer who opened the sea route to India via the Cape of Good Hope (that beautiful place I call home).

We end our dash though the city with a visit to the Chinese fishing nets (see pic) and even get a chance to experience first-hand how it all works, with a small bucket of fish to show for it and too many hands fishing for tips.

Back at our hotel we freshen up and change into traditional Indian outfits while enjoying some Masala tea before heading off for our Kathakali show.

Whoa, it's Kerala

Not only is Kerala the home of ayurvedic medicine; it is also the closest tropical holiday destination from the Middle East and can even provide a cure for dry skin. Believe it, my friend Prasanti and I are shining like stars in all our photos because of the humidity.

We are also treated like stars. Prasanti is a South African Indian beauty that can easily pass for a Bollywood actress and I have white skin. In India, the whiter your skin the more beautiful you are regardless of your features. Isn't it ironic how white people spend so much time and money on bronzing themselves while skin whitening treatments are all the rage in Asia?

Point is, apart from the fact that our tour operator takes care to make our holiday special, we also attract a lot of attention. It's not unusual for an Indian person to stop and stare as though they have never seen a human being before. Prasanti likes to call it 'visual abuse' and we take care to hide behind pashminas and big sunglasses whenever we feel uncomfortable. Celebrity style. Our taxi driver takes pride in watching over us like a bodyguard whenever we step out of the car to take photos or enjoy coconut water.

The humidity quickly gets rid of our make-up and with the monsoon rains high heels are out of the question in the mud. After an ayurvedic rejuvenation massage we can't be bothered about any of these pretentious things anymore. Instead of concerning ourselves with the fact that our faces become so shiny that the palm trees could reflect off it we concentrate on the rice paddies and the happy sound of the ducks.

Soon Kerala has us firmly enchanted. Whether it is the fresh air or some kind of magic spices in our curry, the charm of this area takes us by storm. Thunder and lightening and all.

'Something beautiful for God'*

Religion can be full of obstacles, rife with rules that serve an ulterior motive. Politics and religion have long been known to become intertwined.

In my home country of South Africa the Christian church I grew up with (Dutch Reformed Church) supported racial divisions through the philosophy of apartheid and even claimed that there was divine support for it. I doubt many SA Christians knew that the World Alliance of Reformed Churches expelled the Dutch Reformed Church in the early 80’s, declaring apartheid to be a heresy.

When I was old enough to think for myself and more truths came to light as Nelson Mandela was released from prison in 1994, the church became repulsive to me. God became just another lie fed to me by the government. So I decided to go and find my own truth. One could say that, in a sense, that makes me a Buddhist, as Buddhists believe in finding personal enlightenment.

Yet, what I found at the end of every silence, hope and fear was a God of Love. Which takes me full circle right back to Christianity.

I believe that it is important to be true to oneself, because the truth lies inside of us and not in the rules and regulations that we are taught to believe and follow. This is one thing that I realise as I walk through Mother Theresa’s Missionaries of Charity in Calcutta. Throughout this humble convent it is reiterated that she followed the voice of God, a calling inside of her to serve the poor, sick, orphaned and dying.

Although not half as profound, I understand this calling: mine is to travel and to write. I may not have any exceptional talents, great ambitions or a humble alms bag but I know that I have to follow my calling no matter what.

And perhaps I don't have to be a saint to accomplish something beautiful.

* The title of a book about the life of Mother Teresa, by Malcolm Muggeridge