Navajo ho ho

Santa Fe

Miles driven - 15,432

Miles travelled - 31,993

"Standby!" shouted the director.

"Rolling!" shouted the D.O.P.

"Background!" shouted the floor manager.

It took all my strength not to respond to the cue and start juggling a cocktail mixer in the careless and haphazard way that made my Bollywood performance so memorable. But this wasn't north Mumbai and today I wasn't being paid (although, come to think of it, I was barely being paid in Bollywood). We'd stumbled onto a film set in central Santa Fe where the picturesque central plaza was the setting for a key encounter between 3 key players in the forthcoming movie 'Odd Thomas'.

The 3 stars on set were Hunky Male In Dark Shirt With Impeccably Tousled Hair, Sexy Female In Denim Shorts With Impeccably Tousled Slightly Longer Hair, and Red Vespa.

Actor Anton Yelchin knows I'm really photographing the Vespa

We watched the scene (in which H.M. and S.F. cross street, deep in conversation, until S.F. mounts R.V. and scoots off leaving H.M. alone and perplexed) played out several times and the Red Vespa was a complete professional. I think the reason for so many re-takes (using my film-star lingo again) was because the director suspected what all of us onlookers knew from the start: the Red Vespa was stealing the scene every time.

Santa Fe is, as well as the name we'd give our friend Fay if she dressed as Father Christmas, the capital of New Mexico and the USA's highest capital at 7,000 feet. Its Spanish colonial history is obvious in the architecture, especially the many smooth brown Adobe buildings. This doesn't mean they're owned by a software giant, but that they're built using bricks of mud and straw, and rendered with the mud by hand. They look amazing and, given the fairly severe rain storms these mountains produce, it's a wonder they don't simply dissolve into the gutter.

The city has become a creative hot-spot, and a promotional video I watched in a tiny cinema (a warm up to a free showing of The Green Hornet - the ticket price reflects the quality of that film) boasted that Santa Fe was home to 14,000 'creatives', be they artists, writers, sculptors, musicians or whatever. I wondered how such a figure was arrived at and whether these people had had to sign a register to say they were 'creative'. Where would the line be drawn? I can play Beatles songs on a ukulele but I doubt that would qualify me to be counted as a shining jewel in the Land of Enchantment. Conversely, I've known accountants who are incredibly creative.

Anyway, the city is now something of a mecca to lovers of art and has more galleries and studios than you can shake a hand-painted-authentic-Apache-cactus-rainstick at. For the less discerning visitor (like me) there is an artistic culinary creation that can be enjoyed for just $4.50. Yes, just under 3 quid will buy you half an hour of bliss devouring the town's renowned lunchtime fave - a Fritos Pie.

At the local '5 and Dime' a kindly woman in an apron will slice open a packet of Fritos (the original corn chip), smother the contents with beef chilli, beans and grated cheese, hand you the warm packet and a plastic fork, and away you go - the Fritos Pie. Not a pie in any sense of the word, but who cares when it tastes so good? I also chose to add complimentary raw onion - careful to maintain my rigorous 'daily 5' health regime. Yum.

We only arrived in Santa Fe because I feared Penny might kill herself crossing The Rocky Mountains getting from 4 Corners to Colorado Springs. The old girl has been complaining a bit recently (I'm still talking about Penny). She's been blowing more smoke than she used to as we climb hills and she's started being grumpy in the morning when she's required to start. It was the cold of The Grand Canyon that did it. We camped in the forest on the southern rim and, thinking we'd stay for a couple of nights, even pitched our tent (the fourth of our tent-wrecking marathon), only to find the temperature dropped to minus 1 at night and it snowed. I consider us hardened campers, I really do, but snow? That's not really on, is it? The next morning having spent the night wrapped in every item of clothing we owned, we re-packed Penny to set off for a hike into the world's most famous ditch, and Penny refused to start.

We all exchanged worried looks. She has never refused to start. Fearing I was going to drain the battery turning the engine over, I suddenly had a thought.

"Oh! There's a special lever somewhere for cold starts!"

I reached under the dashboard and pulled a plastic handle that had never before been pulled. Edie's face fell.

"Blue told you never to touch that," she said earnestly.

It was true. I had once asked our mechanic Blue what it was for and he'd laughed and said something about a cold start choke and not to touch it. Edie had clearly been there, and taken in this vital fact. I turned the key. We held our breath. The engine spluttered.

Soon she was firing on at least 2, then 3 cylinders, until finally in a cloud of smoke she revved her heart out. I pushed the lever back in and recoiled a bit as if prodding away an angry snake. Penny didn't sound happy and I'm not sure the lever helped. Anyway, in case the inner workings of a VW interest you, I suspected the old fuel filter problem we'd encountered in Italy had returned, as she lacked a certain oomph, so bought some Diesel Kleen additive for the tank, put our final new fuel filter on and was slightly reassured to find the old one was visibly full of nasty black gunk. She's running a lot better now. We'll never touch the lever again. Don't tell Blue.

The Grand Canyon was stunning. Of course it was. I'm not going to waste your time by telling you how amazing it is, because you already know it is. It's one of the '7 natural wonders of the world' (along with the Great Barrier Reef - 2 down, 5 to go!) and has been on my tick-list to see since I was about 10. It didn't disappoint. We were driving around the rim when we first saw it. The forest had been hiding it for a few minutes, and I was saying to the kids "It's just on our left, honest," when suddenly the trees opened up ... along with our jaws. Even after 2 days of exploring it, it never lost the 'wow' factor. Well, not for me. Edie's first comment was "It's a big hole" which I think does 6 million years of hard work by the Colorado River something of a disservice. Keen hikers can yomp all the way to the river where the exposed rock is almost 2 billion years old, but Ella, Beth and I took the trail just beyond a lookout point known as 'Ooh Aah' (was I the only person who wanted to say 'Cantona' after that?) where the temperature rose as quickly as the rocks above us.

Even better, though, than the Grand Canyon is Monument Valley. It's better because hardly anyone goes there, and if you arrive after 6pm as we did, no-one charges an entrance fee! Of all the places we've set up camp in the world, can any compare with the sunset views of Monument Valley? We couldn't help remembering all the inferior places where we've paid too much to camp, or places like Petra in Jordan, where they wanted £100 entrance fee. We'd had a week pass to the entire Grand Canyon for $25 (£15.30) - with all its free Ranger talks and shuttle buses thrown in - and then a night in Monument Valley for free.

Depending on your age, you'll either recognise the towering pillars of this Navajo landscape from a John Wayne movie, or a Tom Cruise one. The Duke made 5 films here, including 'Stage Coach' and 'The Searchers'.

Tom Cruise was hanging off one at the start of Mission Impossible 2, although my request to mimic his stunt was politely declined.

We neither stage coached, nor searched, nor took on missions impossible, but drank coffee whilst drinking in a view none of us will forget.

Our next stop is Colorado Springs. We're meeting rellies of some friends back home so are very excited about a few nights of comfort. I know you won't want to hear how tired we are, having the time of our lives out here, but we really are exhausted. None of us want to go home and the countdown is looming ever larger day by day. It's like the slump you feel on the last day of your holiday, but times a hundred.

Plus of course, it's not a holiday. I may have mentioned that before.

Anyway, a month to go and right now I have a movie set to infiltrate. Remember to look out for 'Odd Thomas' in a year or so. Look closely. Over there ... beyond the red scooter ... is that guy throwing a cocktail shaker in the air?

The calm before the storm

Brisbane - 2nd February 2011

I write this from beautiful, serene, clean Brisbane. A more stark contrast to Chennai would be hard to find. Since we landed late on Sunday night we've been enjoying a gleeful culture shock.

"The roads are so quiet!"

"Look! Pavements!"

"I haven't heard a car horn since we landed."

"Where's the litter?"

"Can we live here?"

You know the sort of thing.

We are being spoiled enormously by our great friends Berners & Leona, and loving spending time with my Godson Ewan and 'new' baby Cara (who's actually 1 year old now!).

But as you probably know, we've landed in the build up to a major news event. Just weeks after Brisbane suffered its worst flooding in living memory, the Queensland coast further north is about to get battered by Yasi, now officially the biggest tropical cyclone to hit Australia since records began.

So I thought I'd just give you a little insight into what life is like in a world sandwiched between massive and profound weather events. Yasi has been a news item since before we got here. While a smaller cyclone, Anthony, was having its fun on the Queensland coast last week I watched a BBC weather report in Chennai talking, albeit briefly, about a 'major cyclone forming near Fiji'. As it grew, fuelled by the warm Pacific ocean, it travelled west, and by the beginning of this week Australian forecasters were reporting the threat of a category 4 cyclone hitting Queensland.

The number 4 is from the Saffir-Simpson Hurricane Scale. Being the very clever reader you are, you probably already knew that cyclones, hurricanes and typhoons are the same thing. They just have different names depending on where in the world they happen. Mexico's hurricane is Japan's typhoon, while on the Indian Ocean and South Pacific it's the cyclone that's feared.

4. Not even half of 10. Sounds fairly innocuous. After all, our trusty old Beaufort Scale goes up to 12. If British sailors tune in to the shipping forecast to hear they're facing wind force 4 on Tyne, Dogger or Cromarty, they know that's a 'moderate breeze'.

Thing is, when they created their scale in 1971, structural engineer Herbert Saffir and his meteorologist mate Bob Simpson thought 12 was way too many categories. Even 10 seemed extravagant. Below, is the simple,and slightly scary, Saffir-Simpson scale.

You now see why a 'cat. four' as it was being referred to was very quickly Australia's top story.

This morning we woke to the news that Yasi is now category 5. Those in its path may not want to see Saffir and Simpson's 'damage' description for such a thing.

It's size and force has got newscasters wearing earnest frowns, meteorologists reaching for record books and politicians doing almost round the clock press conferences updating people on the threat to property, land, and of course, life.

A cyclone's path cannot be predicted, they are as likely to turn a hairpin as to go straight on, but as I write this everything is looking like Yasi will hit the coast just south of Cairns. Remarkably, here in Brisbane, all we're expecting to get is some rain off the fringes, but don't let that fool you into thinking Yasi is a 'localised' threat. Australia is very big, and Cairns is 12 hours drive north from here. 

The best illustration of Yasi's magnitude is this comparison in the Herald Sun newspaper showing how its size compares to the United States and Europe.

If you look closely at the Europe comparison, you can just make out Birmingham to the north east of the eye.

The eye of this cyclone is an estimated 100 kilometres across. That's just the eye, the dormant peaceful lull at the centre of the carnage. Forecasters predict it will take an hour for the eye to pass over those in its path. This remarkable phenomenon, the peaceful calm that is so often the cause for false hope, usually lasts just moments, a few minutes perhaps. The fact that some people will suffer 6 hours of 170 mph winds, then an hour of calm, knowing they've got another 6 hours still to bear is just incredible.

These facts and figures are alarming from a distance, but what must it be like for those thousands of people from Mackay up to Townsville and as far as Cairns who are preparing for tonight? Berners and Leona's parents are both up near Cairns and have been, along with a flurry of calls from friends throughout today, on the phone reassuring that they are fully prepped and braced for the worst. The advice from the authorities was initially to leave the coastal towns in its path, but from about midday today they advised it was too late to evacuate - the winds were already too strong. Now it's a case of batten down the hatches and sit it out. Parents and friends have stocked up on food, taped or covered windows, filled up the generators and gathered in groups and communities at each other's houses. Strength in numbers, I guess. Plus the power and phones will be knocked out soon, so the easiest way to know you're all OK is too gather in the same shelter. Aussies aren't easily fazed, of course. I heard a guy on the radio today being interviewed about his night ahead.

"Well, we've followed all the advice, got a few friends here, a fridge full of beer and few nice bottles of wine too."

The safest place in most houses is the bathroom because it's small and usually tiled giving it extra strength, so I've heard the Premier of Queensland, Anna Bligh, reminding people to prepare for a long night in the bathroom!

If you read this during Wednesday or Thursday, you may want to check out this official Government site that shows a live satellite feed of the cyclone's progress, HERE.

11pm local time is when the violent edges hit the coast - so at 1pm Wednesday in the UK, spare a thought for the already weather weary Queenslanders who are huddled in their bathrooms, in the dark, sitting out a terrifying and historic weather event that may just make Mister Saffir and Mister Simpson wish they'd considered a number 6.

Put Us Up Down Under

Miles driven - 8,253

Miles travelled - 11,580

Hello reader! Isn't life wonderful? Today, for instance, I'm in Bangalore, a city I can't tell you much about because we arrived last night as darkness fell, but not even the choking smog and gridlocked traffic can stifle the joy in my heart. Today is one of those 'anything is possible' sort of days. Can you feel it? You could change the world today, I can sense it. You've got that super-confident 'world at your feet' aura about you. You look great, too. Have you lost weight?

OK, enough of that. I'm after a favour.

Our aim, as you know, is to busk our way from Liverpool to New York. Surprisingly, despite 18 months of planning, that's about as detailed as our mission got. Being under prepared, under rehearsed and under funded was what made it exciting. Making plans day by day, learning to play our instruments and trying to make our cash stretch are all daily realities to be embraced. The next leg of our journey is through Australia and New Zealand, and we've realised we need your help.

The funny thing about Australia is, as we've travelled and we've told people our route, that's the one place about which people have said "I've got a friend in Oz if you need somewhere to park your van for the night". And when I reply "Yes please! Can I have their address?" they don't look even slightly alarmed.

From various random places between our 'home from home' staying with friends in Brisbane (while we wait for Penny's ship to arrive), and our 'jumping off' point in Melbourne we've had genuine offers from generous 'friends of friends' inviting us to camp on their drive. This is a really valuable offer, not only because 'wild camping' is a big no-no in Australia and the cops are quick to move on stray campers, but because we'll get to meet lots of new friends. Friends with a toilet! And maybe even a washing machine!

So then we had an idea. What if we offered something in return? A song? Hmmm...hardly Charlie's golden ticket, is it? It was Bethan's passion for baking that clinched it. She's survived almost 6 months without an oven and one of the first things she'll be doing in our friends' kitchen in Brisbane is baking her legendary lemon drizzle cake. 

"That's it!" said Jill. "We'll offer a traditional English high tea!"

"Ooooooooohhhhh" we all responded, eyes wide at the prospect of cake.

"Cucumber sandwiches, crusts cut off, a pot of tea and Betty's cake," she went on. "We can buy the ingredients pretty cheaply, and if they'll let us use their kitchen we're sorted."

And so, project Put Us Up Down Under was born.

How can you get involved? Simple.

If you know anyone living on the east coast of Australia who might like a visit from us, a delicious English tea and, if they're really unlucky, a song, then put us in touch! Email them NOW with a link to our web site www.beatnikbeatles.com and to this blog at
http://beatnikbeatles.blogspot.com/2011/01/put-us-up-down-under.html

Then, having checked us out online, if they're up for it, they can email us at sim@beatnikbeatles.com

From Mackay in the north down to Melbourne in the south, we're making it our aim to try and get all the way down Australia just using 'friends of friends' power. As well as saving us money on campsites and hotel rooms, UNICEF can benefit too. One 'friend of friend'  who's been in touch (remember Fiona who did our Indian cookery class?) is organising a charity barbecue, gathering a load of mates for a Beatnik Beatles singalong and fundraiser. Brilliant! We'll also be popping in to local radio stations in towns we visit to do some PR and try to bolster our UNICEF pot.

If you're reading this and you've got friends in New Zealand, we need them too! North Island, South Island, we need 'em all! Put them in touch. And if you're the person in Tasmania who used the 'comment' button on the blog to invite us to your place...yes please! We're going to Tasmania, and we'd love to visit you! Email us - sim@beatnikbeatles.com

This blog has had over twelve and a half thousand hits. Wouldn't it be an amazing experiment in harnessing the power of the online community to see if we can travel the height of Australia just by hopping between one reader's mate and the next? It would also be a very cool chapter of the book, and you can be part of it!

So spread the word, ask around, and Put Us Up Down Under! It's the ultimate feel-good gesture that'll give you that yummy warm feeling inside, almost as good as the feeling your friends will get eating Betty's lemon drizzle!

PS - On the subject of new friends, remember Stefano and Federica whose wedding rehearsal we crashed in Italy? Here's a photo they sent us of their wedding day. (Details in blog 'A scary day - parts 1 & 2')

PPS - The Agonda gig went well, Jill did play the recorder and we raised £37 for UNICEF! Pictures, video and the new India (part 1) photo album are all online now at www.beatnikbeatles.com

Boxes, Boyle and Bent Bobbies

Mumbai

Countries driven through to get to India: 12

Officials' signatures required to drive Penny through those countries: 6

Officials' signatures required to drive Penny out of Mumbai port: 23

India loves her paperwork. Every hotel or hostel, for instance, since the passing of the Foreign Visitors Act of 1939, requires each person staying to fill in a page of information about themselves, where they live, where they've been, where they're going, and sign it - even the children. The simple process of getting a refund from the YWCA for a couple of nights I'd paid for in advance but then didn't need, required a meeting with the manager in his office, and then the writing of a letter explaining why we needed the refund. On checking out, several different breakdowns of our bill were produced for us to keep, and then as I turned to leave, a flustered cry - "Sir! Wait!"

Another piece of paper was being handed to me. It was a hand written slip, although I couldn't read its scrawl.

"What's this?"

"Your clearance pass", explained the receptionist. "You give it to the security man outside as you leave."

"What will he do with it?"

"He'll file it."

I wouldn't be surprised if the security guard had a boy to file these pointless slips of paper. Job creation schemes like this appear abundant in India.

But nothing I've ever seen can compare to the unfathomable process of releasing a vehicle from India's customs authorities. I could write a book about the intensely complex, bewildering and comical procedure overseen by a myriad of self important egos in uniform. It would be a short book, like The Little Book of Calm, but called The Little Book of Fury. It would have far too many characters, incomprehensible dialogue and a mind boggling plot that went round in meaningless circles until finally proving utterly pointless and leaving the reader exhausted to the point of tears. I should probably pitch it to Dan Brown.

The entire 3 day process of reclaiming Penny, 2 of which I spent at the port, was surreal. My clearing agent, John, repeatedly begged me to complain to my Embassy about the process, in the hope that one day it might improve.

"No one sees how ridiculous this has become", he would moan. "Because no one person is overseeing the import of a vehicle under Carnet, it is falling to many many people, none of whom sees the full procedure. If you drove the car into India," he went on, "one man would stamp the Carnet and you'd be through. But because it comes on a ship, we have all this."

'All this' involves running around and between 2 large buildings at the port (each a tuk tuk ride apart, just to make it more of a challenge), persuading a total of 23 people to sign various forms, each in the correct order, and almost all needing to be told why they have to sign it. My agent was a trooper - I don't know how he keeps sane. But isn't any of this system computerised? you may ask. Yes, it is! One vital part of our 2 day marathon involved visiting an office where we were to hand a floppy disc to a man who attempted to load data from it onto a computer programme written in MS-DOS. For our younger readers, MS-DOS was what Bill Gates wrote software in before he invented Windows (late 1980s), and a floppy disc is...well, just ask your parents. People who remember The Early Days of the Home Computer won't be surprised to hear that the floppy disc didn't load, so we had to go to a different building where another man could access the data and adjust it so the DOS programme on the first computer could read it properly. It's computer nostalgia heaven, and all to the rhythmic whine of dot matrix printers!

The only reason the entire pantomime only took 3 days rather than the threatened 4 or 5 is because my agent used my white Western face to push us past crowds of other clearing agents and get to the front of the queues - "If they see a foreigner they will deal with us quicker". He also knew exactly who to bribe along the way (most people, as it turned out - more on India's corruption in moment), and when no one appeared to be taking the promised action of finding our container and delivering it to the customs inspector, I went and searched for it myself.

"Where will it be, roughly?" I asked John. "If I can find it maybe we can get things moving."

"Oh God", he held his hands to his head. "It'll be somewhere over the back".

'Over the back' was an area of open desert behind the main massive storage warehouse at the Speedy Container Shipping Terminal. (I know, 'Speedy'. The irony wasn't lost on me.) An area of about 2 square kilometres was home to a few thousand containers piled 3 or 4 high in rows, squares, random stacks, all over the place.

"Yeah, but there must be a system, right? A grid system or something so they know roughly where my container is."

He shook his head.

"How do they find it then?"

"The manager will radio his junior supervisor, who will send men out to look for it."

There's that job creation scheme again. A plethora of cheap manpower compensates for a complete lack of order. It's the Indian way.

So, at the risk of putting several men out of a job, skipping an entire layer of bureaucracy and therefore bringing the whole house of cards crashing down, I strode out into the dusty heat to "find my own flippin' box". And in a surprising triumph for a man who can't even find a jar of Marmite in the cupboard - "It's in there! You might have to move something!" - I stumbled across UACU3222307 after about 10 minutes. Many, many pieces of paper later I was opening the container, Penny started first time, and eventually we were free to leave and drive wide eyed and sweating through Mumbai's rush hour traffic at nightfall - a modern and convenient way to reduce your life-span by several years without the costly need for cigarettes or drugs.

*

Before Christmas I promised to tell you about the Dharavi slum. This is the triangle of land between 2 of Mumbai's major railway lines, the same size as London's Hyde Park, that is home to 1 million people and was made famous in the film Slumdog Millionnaire. 'Reality Gives' is a local charity set up by a Brit - Chris Way from Birmingham. He realised while staying in Mumbai that the Dharavi slum, which long before Danny Boyle's film was already famed as India's biggest slum, was misrepresented. Keen to show it for the positive people and values he found there, he gathered the various 'tribal' elders from the different religious 'districts' within the slum and proposed Reality Tours. These small, unobtrusive tours offer tourists the chance to explore the slum and meet the people, while profits are ploughed back into the community. Since they began in 2005 Reality Gives has paid for a kindergarten (and the training of 20 local pre-school teachers), a high school with 33 pupils and a community centre where computer skills are taught.

The dilemma about taking the tour was obvious: It's a very fine line between 'expanding your social awareness' and voyeurism. The fact that cameras weren't allowed (I didn't take the photos you can see here), and that a few articles in Indian newspapers seemed to back up the charity's claims about the way the community was benefitting, eventually justified the visit.

There were only 3 on my tour - 2 Australian women and me plus our Indian guide, so we didn't stick out too much in the throng and were able to spend 2 hours winding our way through the slum, seeing and smelling slum life close up. In some respects it was exactly as you'd imagine: Cramped, dark dwellings line a maze of endlessly twisting alleyways and cut-throughs. Smoke fills the air and you have no idea what you might be stepping in. Yet in other ways it was full of surprises: Industries such as pottery, clothing manufacture and leather tanning thrive. Plastic and metal recycling occupies another quarter. Beneath the corrugated metal rooves and plastic tarpaulin shelters is a hive of productivity. Dharavi's commercial output stats. are astounding - the annual turnover of the slum is about 650 million US dollars. Its social statistics also confound expectation - 80% of children go to school. That's significantly higher than a lot of the villages in Rajasthan we were talking about with UNICEF.

The most surprising discovery of my visit was how happy everyone was. I had naively associated slums with misery, yet Dharavi is anything but. In fact, it turned out to be the least threatening place I've been to in my month in India. No one was begging - something impossible to consider outside the slum where, from Delhi to Mumbai and in every town in between, there are beggers at almost every corner. It was a genuine shock, and demanded a mental re-adjustment, when children ran up to me and didn't ask for money by putting one hand to their mouth to mime eating while the other palm is thrust towards me. Instead they wanted to talk. They are all taught English from the age of 4 and are thrilled to see a white face they can try it on.

"Hi! What's your name?" is the chorus as they offer to shake hands, a gaggle of grinning faces. The first child I saw in the slum wasn't interested in me, she was a girl of about 6, neatly dressed in a smart school uniform and she was dancing and skipping through the alleyways ahead of us. She swung every corner knowing this gloomy alien world like you know your own neighbourhood. She stopped at a door, shouted up to her mother and quickly scaled a ladder to reach a single room on the second floor. This was home, and this girl was as happy as any I've ever seen. If a group of 10 year old boys approached you in Delhi, you'd brace yourself to march through a barrage of begging and sleeve pulling. In Dharavi a similar gang surrounded me...to show me their toys - a wooden spinning top expertly propelled into life with a leather cord was the current craze. They insisted I had a go - laughed at my efforts and held out my hand so they could place the quivering top in my palm, as if to show how easy it was. Imagine that, I'm the white guy in the slum and I'm holding out my palm to them.

It wasn't without its poignancy. My spinning top tuition took place at one edge of the slum in the shadow of 2 high rise concrete towers built by the government in the 90s to rehouse some of the slum dwellers. Our guide had been there in 1995 when Prince Charles had officially opened them.

"This area," he remembered, "was a beautiful playground. The grass was like The Oval."

Now, it was a rubbish dump.

"The Governement tidied it up for the Prince, but now they just send a truck every few months to collect the rubbish."

As he spoke, in front of us a young girl of about 4 was hitching up her pretty dress and defecating on the litter. Even this space wasn't wasted though. Behind the preoccupied girl, spread across the mounds of waste, were animal skins drying in the sun. The output of these leather workshops is exported to Europe, and at least 2 major Italian fashion labels use their hides. I'll smile the next time I see one of those designer leather jackets, its owner unaware of the prestigious garment's humble beginnings at the little girl's toilet.

The streets, by the way, aren't awash with sewage. Since Dharavi was made a 'legal slum' in 2000 the Government pipe in mains water for 3 hours per day, (and most dwellings now have electricity), so although raw sewage is still around, you're not up to your ankles in it. However, only 1% of homes in Dharavi have a toilet. Most people use communal facilities, which are massively over burdened. I don't know what the ratio is in your house of people to toilets, but if you live in Dharavi it's 1,500 people per loo. Even with those conditions, though, Dharavi comes with a price tag. Dwellings are rented for the equivalent of about £28 per month, and people can only get them if they know someone living or working there who can vouch for them.

Even in India's biggest slum, demand has out-stripped supply and capitalism has been the result.

It was a fascinating day which my tour buddies and I agreed had been essential in getting a better understanding of the city. It took me about a day to let the onslaught of sensory overload sink in, and the overwhelming feeling I had when I left is the one that stays with me now - that contrary to the menacing squalor of Boyle's Slumdog, Dharavi slum is one of the most uplifting places I've ever had the pleasure of spending time in.

*

Right, before we head off to Goa, here's a quick word on Christmas. As you know, we 'd planned to stay at 'The Y' (as the YWCA is known) for Christmas day and head south to Goa after that. We'd even sourced a local caf that was offering a turkey dinner for those die hard Brits growing weary of curry. At least part of this plan was altered in the nicest possible way by a generous gift. We had an email on Christmas Eve from some great friends in the UK telling us they had bought us all a night in a 5 star hotel on Christmas night! So we started the day in our decorated room at The Y (Ella had drawn a Christmas tree to put presents under), Beth and Edie had planned a Christmas service with carols, a bible reading and a sermon from Edie(!) after which we all opened the gifts we'd bought each other - typically 'budget' and very Indian - tops, sandals, a fake Rolex for me (from the woman whose father worked for Trading Standards) and the surprise hit - traditional string puppets from Rajasthan. Ella and Edie love them! I can't believe we bought Beatles Rock Band for the Wii last year when a puppet would have done.

We asked a splendid Canadian woman we'd met at The Y called Marilyn to join us for lunch and had a slap up feast of turkey, mash and sprouts! What a result! Then we drove for a couple of hours (about 10 miles, then) through Mumbai's terror-traffic to our swish hotel near the airport. We only encountered 2 impacts on the journey, which locals assure me is a remarkably incident free journey through Mumbai. One bus simply changed lanes into the side of us scraping our plucky wing mirror all the way down his side, and a dozy driver in a surprisingly new car pulled out behind us, got his timing wrong and scraped the back of the van...the same panel that had been repaired after the bus incident in Jordan! There's simply no point stopping to deal with these minor scrapes - no one has any road insurance and I've witnessed a few much worse bumps than that always result in a shouting match in the street before both injured parties simply accept they must drive away. It's knock for knock, or rather dog eat dog out there. 

The only other interesting aspect of the journey was our realisation that India's police really are as corrupt as several newspaper articles claim. Actually, corruption in India is so rife that you see signs asking you to report corrupt officials. (But how would you trust the people you're reporting them to?)

We crossed a busy junction along with lots of other cars, tuk tuks and cabs and a traffic policeman blew his whistle and waved at us. We were lost, so pulled over to ask his for directions. He looked at the map and told us the way before telling us he needed 500 rupees. Why?

"Penalty" he smiled. "You crossed a signal. Dangerous driving."

"Er...it was green, and we crossed with everyone else."

"No, no, no. 500." he insisted.

I remembered something my clearing agent John had said as I drove him back into Mumbai that first time. As we approached a police check point he'd said "Stick close behind a truck. If they see a foreign car they'll pull you over."

Jill stopped me arguing with the bent copper and offered him a hundred (about £1.40), which he took happily.

A little while later, while driving through the suburbs in a line of traffic a police motorcycle pulled along side my open window.

"Where are you going?" asked the young officer. I genuinely couldn't remember the name of the hotel, so simply shrugged.

"Dunno!"

"Pull over!"

"No thanks!"

And still he stuck with us.

"Pull over up here!"

"I haven't broken any law!" I insisted. He dropped back but then re-appeared.

"Pull over!"

"Stop distracting me!" I calmly instructed. "I'm trying to drive!"

At which point he dropped away, turned round and headed back to his territory.

A third traffic cop tried to wave us down as we pulled across a junction with all the other traffic but we just ignored him.

The only trouble, of course, is that with all this corruption around, how will we ever know if one of our wheels is falling off, or if we have an angry monkey on the roof? No amount of waving and whistle blowing is stopping this big yellow bus. Next stop - Goa.

Getting down in tinsel town

Mumbai, India

It happened at the Gateway of India.

A fitting monument from under which a monumental opportunity should arise.

We had travelled to Mumbai on the overnight sleeper from Delhi. Since watching Michael Palin grapple with the Indian railways over twenty years ago I had wanted to experience them for myself. The brilliant film The Darjeeling Limited only strengthened my desire. I'd already suspected that the wonderful 1940s wooden panelled four-bunk compartments on the picturesque Darjeeling line would have been superceded by more modern carriages on the Rajasthan Express, so wasn't too disappointed to find ourselves in a 'British Rail circa 1970s' plastic palace. The class system on Indian rail is complicated and offers almost a dozen different ways of getting from A to B, from 1AC at the top (air conditioned sleeper in a four bunk booth) down to unreserved sleeper class where, even after purchasing a ticket, you're not guaranteed a place on the train until boards are published on the platform bearing the names of the lucky few.

We'd chosen the third rung down, 3AC, which meant sharing in a booth of eight bunks. The most surprising thing about the journey apart from the price (about £21 each for a 1500 mile journey!) was the constant food we were brought. We only discovered after settling in and chatting to one of our Indian co-bunkees that the Rajasthan Express is the only train line in India which provides food included in the ticket price. It started just after departing at 4.30pm with afternoon tea - a sandwich, a samosa, a cake and tea or coffee. Unfortunately for us, we all thought this was our main meal, and as we hadn't eaten since 8am tucked in with such gusto that when our neighbours offered us their unwanted samosas and sandwiches we heartily unburdened them. It was with some surprise, therefore, that two hours later we were served cups of spicy tomato soup. Delicious, we thought. That'll be supper just before bed.

Then came another tray. Dal, paneer masala, rice, pickle, papads, nan. And still our travel companions were offering us more. 

"You want?" asked bunk six (Kohe, a Japanese student) offering me a nan.

Oh dear. I'm new to sleeper train etiquette, but I imagine vomiting is frowned upon.

We bravely battled on, doing our level best to clear our trays, before collapsing in a bloated sweat.

"Amazing," we panted.

"Brilliant," we gasped.

"Why don't Chiltern Railways do this?"

And just as Ella groaned "I couldn't eat another thing," the porter reappeared.

"Ice cream?"

"Ooh yes please!"

Mumbai is a sixteen hour train ride from Delhi, but is a world away. The narrow, chaotic, smoke-filled streets of the capital are replaced by wide boulevards with trees and daylight above. Traffic stops at traffic lights. There is barely a cow to be seen, and certainly no hogs, camels and piles of burning trash on every corner. The architecture is stunning, a glance to the left looks like Georgian London, while one to the right finds a gothic church sandwiched between tenements reminiscent of New York. The buttresses, domes and stained glass windows of the Victoria Terminus have seen it described as 'to the British Raj what the Taj Mahal is to the Mughal empire' - a stunning mixture of Victorian, Hindu and Islamic styles which is now a World Heritage Site. Our wide eyed first impression of the city as we drove from the station to Colaba was borne out by our experience on the streets. Yes, there were beggars and hawkers - as you'd expect in this touristy part of town - but after Delhi it felt as comfortable as strolling through Oxford. Its relatively obedient traffic, its occasional smart cafe or swish gallery made it feel cosmopolitan, the most western, and 'Western' city we'd seen in India. We've met a few travellers here from all over the world, and it gives us a quiet feeling of smugness to hear their alarm at the noise, pace and sensory overload of landing in Mumbai from Australia, Italy or London. A chap from England used a phrase Jill had herself coined in Delhi.

"It's just a complete lack of order!" he exclaimed.

"You wanna try Delhi," we would smile, grateful now for our toughening up in India's fire-pit. Only one foreigner we've met, a girl from Portugal, had been to Delhi and she described it as "my least favourite city in the world," which made me laugh. I thought that was a bit strong, but it was reassuring to know it wasn't just us who felt a wave of relaxing calm on arriving in Bombay.

And so, having installed ourselves in the YWCA, it was time to explore. The YWCA, by the way, is a fantastic place to stay; clean, cheap and breakfast and an evening meal are included. Best of all, it requires membership, so it is with much pride that I now carry my Young Women's Christian Association member's card. I'll keep it with my Brownie uniform.

*

It was a lazy Sunday morning. Mumbai's streets were surprisingly quiet and we planned to cross a tiny stretch of the Arabian Sea to visit Elephanta Island. (There are no elephants there. Please don't get distracted). I was buying the ferry tickets in the shadow of the Gateway of India when it happened.

"Hello, I'm from Bollywood," said the voice. "Would you like to be in a Bollywood film?"

I laughed out loud. Now I'd heard them all. Hawkers are constantly bombarding you with lines - "Excuse me sir", "Hello, how are you?", "You want taxi? Hop in!", "City tour?", "Sir! Wait!". Eventually you get immune. But this was a new one.

"Please, I'm serious," said the man, and he looked it. Everything about this should be a scam, I thought, but I recognised the look in his eyes. It was the look of a beleaguered production assistant who'd been tasked with the impossible.

"I need to find 20 people who look English for filming tomorrow," he explained.

"Where's your card?" asked Jill.

The man was taken aback. So was I.

"Er, it's in the car."

"Let's see it then."

As he scurried off to get his business card, Jill explained. She'd read about this happening, which is how she knew the drill - get their card, ask the terms, where the shoot is, all the details. It's not uncommon for Bollywood films to recruit Western tourists as 'background artists' ('extras' to you, me and Ricky Gervais) in the hope of adding some glamour to a movie on the cheap.

"Glamour? Clearly he's more desperate than we thought," I said.

And so it was, that at 8am the next day we were picked up on the Bollywood Bus - destination: Destiny.

At this stage I need to make a few things clear. The casting agent, Imran, who had found us at the ferry terminal (or 'the bottom of the barrel' as it's known in casting terms) had told us the film title, the star, that we could all be used (although Edie may be too young but he'd do his best) and that we'd get to meet the star, take lots of photos and be well looked after with lunch and drinks thrown in. Also, we'd be paid the handsome figure of 500 Rupees for our trouble.

"Seven pounds for a day's work!" I had remarked to Jill later. "It's a bit of a cheek, isn't it?"

"Hmmm. Like you wouldn't have paid them to do it," she pointed out, knowing me far too well.

"And what will we have to do?" I had asked Imran.

"Just dance," he smiled.

"Well, we're all brilliant dancers!" I lied. "Will we be shown what to do?"

"Just freestyle. It's a party scene."

"Freestyle. My favourite!" I beamed.

The rest of the day was filled with nervous chatter about movie stars, costumes, luxury trailer dressing rooms and how on earth we were going to avoid being the five people in the scene who looked awkwardly like they'd been dropped into the party straight off the ferry from the land of Twoleftfeet.

We had duly researched the movie that would herald our big screen debut, and if anything it upped the stakes. Ra.One is a sci-fi movie that holds the impressive accolade of being 'the most expensive Bollywood movie ever made'. It's pronounced 'Rah one' as opposed to 'Ar ray one', (which is a shame because 'Ar ray' is a scouse term of disagreement, as in "Ar ray dat's cheat'n!").

It stars Shahrukh Khan, known as King Khan 'round these parts, who is Bollywood's numero uno, bar none. As well as being the Brad Pitt/Johnny Depp of India, he's the founder of two production companies (one of which - Red Chillies - is making what from this point forward shall be called 'my film'), he's considered to be one of the world's most successful movie stars thanks to fans numbering billions and has a reported net worth of 540 million US dollars. He was also in Newsweek's Top 50 'Most powerful people in the world'. As if that's not enough, he's even been on Friday Night With Jonathan Ross! I was slightly sheepish I hadn't heard of him.

When we arrived at the 'lot' (that's what us movie stars call the studios, plural) we were escorted into an empty 'stage' (that's what us movie stars call the studio, singular) where brightly coloured fabric walls had been erected on bamboo frames, making separate areas for 'makeup and wardrobe' (that's what us movie stars call makeup and wardrobe).

While an eager gaggle of twenty or so tourists waited expectantly, a girl with a clip board, earpiece and wearing a Batman tee-shirt pointed at people, beckoning them inside. Oh no! A selection process! Before I had time to fully gather what was happening she pointed at me.

"You. Inside."

I stepped forward, but suddenly felt that awkward twist in my stomach, like the immigrant men who, trying to enter America, had been separated from their families at Ellis Island. I couldn't leave them, could I? I looked back at their faces. They looked just as uncertain as I did. But none of them reached out to stop me, so I ran towards the light.

Having been duly made up by Santosh - conversation limited:

"I've covered your spot."

"Santosh, you're a wonder."

"Next!"

I was bustled into wardrobe. Girls who just minutes earlier has been bleary eyed travellers in rag-tag clothing on our bus were now tottering about on precarious heels wearing little more than glittery string. Clearly by 'Western glamour' Bollywood meant 'Western flesh.' One girl asked if she could wear something that covered her up a little more and was told "Oh no! This is what London girls wear!" The 'Batman' girl re-appeared.

"What shall I wear?" I asked, secretly eying the heels.

She shouted to a man next to rail of shiny shirts, and shoved me towards him.

"You're behind the bar. Bar tender," she said.

"That's uncanny. You have a gift," I replied, and was squeezed into the campest bar tender's outfit possible without introducing feathers.

Reunited with my family in my shimmering satin shirt, crotch clenching pants, golden bhangra braces and a sequinned (yes, you heard me) tie, I judged by their laughter that they weren't too sore about not being in the film. Ella, Bethan and Jill were repeatedly offered the chance to dress up and go 'on set' (that's what us ... oh forget it) but the sight of what all the other girls were wearing (or not wearing) put them off. They installed themselves in the wings to read, play cards, watch TV and laugh at me.

Just to clarify, this man is straight

I've never been an extra before. It's a lot less fun than it looks in the Ricky Gervais series. Cameras and mobile phones were banned, but, undeterred by my lack of pockets, I snuck mine on-set in my shoe - sorry the shots aren't great. The scene was in a London nightclub and the set was impressive - a central illuminated dance walkway and circular stage, raised tables and seating around the sides, huge video walls leading to a wondrous bar at the back. Behind that bar is a less than wondrous barman. In fact there are two. A long haired guy from Norway and a bloke in unfeasibly tight trousers.

Because the scene was a music number, it was shot in tiny chunks. Rather than having a sequence of events, or dancing that you shoot a few times from different angles (which is what happens in TV) the entire jigsaw was precisely built, tiny piece by tiny piece. This means fifteen or twenty minutes of setting up a shot (the first four bars of the song, for example), and then about twenty takes of that same four bars. After each take, the music stops, everyone stops dancing, the director shouts "Re-set," and we all hang around for five minutes until, again, the cry goes out "AC off!" (air conditioning off - that's so they can use smoke) "Dry ice!", and then "Sau sau!" which was the director's way of asking for 'Sound'. Once again the first beats of a banging bhangra dance tune would start. "Let's go! shouts the director loudly. "Energy!" and the room would burst into life, I'd allow myself a small amount of grooving and do a fine impression of Tom Cruise in Cocktail, but without the bar skills and juggling talent.

A standard shooting day in Bollywood is twelve hours. I got to know pretty much every other extra there that day, including Indian models who do it for a living and even an English girl from Norwich who lives in Mumbai and does agency acting to make a bit of cash. There was some unrest a while ago when Indian actors threatened to strike because of studios using tourists as extras, a fact brought sharply into focus when I chatted with Gordum, an Indian model at my bar. He was pleasant enough and we talked for about half an hour about films and music and books, but only after he'd quizzed me on my visa status and what I was being paid. I think the locals still resent white skinned Westerners walking into a day's work. He was earning ten times what I was, so there were no hard feelings.

By 8pm we were all shattered. Jill and the girls were a lot less bored than I feared, and in fact grateful they had not been on the set, where hanging around doing nothing was driving me crazy. At least they had their laptop and books to read. Our scene had got about as far into the song as the first verse. Shahrukh Khan had made an appearance for about an hour to do one shot, where he beckoned the singer over from the edge of the dance platform (I believe it'll be R'n'B star Akon in the film - I can reveal it was a double for this shot) and pulls him off the stage. I never saw him after that, so sorry - no pic of me and one of top fifty most powerful people in the world. My bar tender buddy, though, shared the toilets with him.

"Shahrukh Khan, a man worth 540 million dollars, uses the same loos as us?" I asked, amazed.

"Apparently," shrugged my Norwegian friend. This was quite some revelation, given the typically Indian quality of the facilities. 

Shahrukh Kahn's toilet, yesterday

The floor manager was doing his best to motivate the party people. "Come on! Let's go! It's a party! Keep the energy up! And that includes the barmen!" I'd been noticed! Maybe not for the right reasons, but still ...

By 8.30 I was getting gung-ho with my moves. Years of working in TV weren't wasted as I spent every shot making sure I was within sight of the lens, and lacking the permission to use the bar props (the bottles were all fake - props guys made whisky by diluting cola) I was tossing a chrome cocktail shaker in the air with casual aplomb. I doubt for a moment it will distract the viewer from the eight scantily clad female dancers in the foreground who appeared to be tasked with an enormous amount of 'booty' to shake, but I was having fun.

Again ... and again ... and again we did this shot. When will it end? Let me go home!

Again the music started. Again Akon started singing about a girl who is apparently 'criminal'. Again I smiled jauntily as I spun the chrome beaker into the air. I winked at a girl, because I think detail matters and De Niro would have done it. I dropped the beaker.

CLANG!

Everyone near the bar turned round.

The director shouted "CUT!"

I held my breath.

"That's a take!"

Of course it was. Twelve hours of 'barman' solid gold and they take the one where I drop the cocktail shaker.

They asked me back the next day to continue shooting the scene but I declined. I don't want fame to change me. I learned from 'Norwich Girl' that they're taking five or six days to shoot that one scene, and as 'Norwegian Man' was also occupied the following day, it's safe to assume the bar staff may change five or six times during one song.

But when Ra.One is released next year, and you hear Akon's tune start in a busy nightclub, just keep an eye out for Barman 2. 

And if you don't see me, just listen for the clang.