The flight is short and full of Indian families. One thing seems to be obvious: Iam the only passenger who is traveling by myself. ... and the other thing is obvious: I am the only white person on the entire flight. Female, white and alone. That those three facts may turn out as a hurdle to pass boarder check points in India, well, that's for sure not in my mind at all. But well, it becomes a hindrance - a funny one. A hindrance of western and female discrimination or just a way of passing the time for bored airport officers, being curious, being intrigued? For sure, it is a special welcome in India - for me, being white, female and on my own. My arrival couldn't be a better one. It couldn't be much more adventures in India.

The airport is tiny. One enters the building, a small stairway leads directly towards the many counters for immigration. The bulk of flight passengers splits, lines behaved in equal amounts of people, waiting patiently to pass the passport control. Just behind one can see two conveyor belts where already the first pieces of luggage appear. Further down is the custom control, consisting of one woman (A WOMAN!) sitting on a chair next to the exit door. Opposite of the belts and the passport control are three low long metallic tables with officially brown dressed airport officers behind them.

Later I will find out, that they smell very sweet and good, after cinnamon and apple – but thats beside the point.

It's lining up time. I am the next. There are heaps of officers for such a tiny amout crowd of people. Passport in my hand, step forwards. 'Namas...'. Huch, what ... who is that? An other male passenger appears next to me, out of the suddon. The immigration officer ignores me. He gets served first. Thanks mate. What a welcome. My first official contact with an Indian. Ignorance. I smile. Well, thats how it works. Thats how female discrimination is lived. I smile. Why not? Haha, let's push it. 'Oh, sorry, do you mind serving a woman first?' - I can't help myself. Silence. An irritated look. Astonishment. Well done. Haha, thats enough. The officer is out of his comfort zone. Well done. Now, they take their time. The guy gets checked, passes and leaves. Now it's her turn ...

         ... and the show begins.

'Why do you come to India?' - 'For Holiday.'

'What do you do?' - 'Travelling.'

'Where do you want to go?' - 'Madurai, Tamil Nadu, Goa, Delhi. The usual.'

'What's the purpose of your visit?' - 'Seeing your country.'

'For how long will you stay?' - 'Three month.'

'What's the reason of your travel?' - 'Sightseeing.'

Her answers friendly, but short. His voice dominant, hard and rough. His questions more and more intimidating.

'What's your profession?' - 'I am a teacher.'

'Where do you stay?' - 'Madurai.' I've to give him an address. I choose a random one out of the Planet.

'Three month in India?' - 'Yes.'

'Ticket to your country?' - 'Yes. Somewhere.' (That is a lie.)

My answers don't satisfy him. He looks suspicious. An other officer enters the stage. A short talk in their mother tongue. In broken english the same questions are getting asked. Now two officers looking suspicious, asking intimidating. Funny.

'Why do you come to India?' - 'To see your country.'

'What do you want to see?' - 'The culture, the life, the sights.'

'No work? How to you pay?' - 'I worked hard, saved money.'

'How much money do you have?' - 'Sorry?'

Meanwhile there are six officially dressed and very important looking immigration officers alternately asking and repeating questions. Pushing more and more. I smile. What else to do? I stay friendly and repeat my answers over and over again. What do they want? What do they try to get out of it? Out of me? They are looking for a reason. Reason for what? To keep themselves busy? To demonstrate their power? To see how far they can push until I stop smileling and get nervous? Let them play their game. Again, the same questions. Broken english. I stay calm, smile and answer. They treat me like a terrorist. Of course, I am the only person who sticks out. The tone becomes more aggressive how more I stay calm. One push after the other. The officers try hard, changing looks, trying even harder.

Finally! Hey they let me pass! Well they were bored and she their target. Well if you are the only female, white person, I suppose that's enough to make the airport guard interested. 

My bag circles lonley and forgotten on the conveyor belt. I pick it put. Ready for India. The exit is close. So close. I can see the skyline of India through the airport glasses. One step and another ... oppla, a pull back. A rough pull back. I almost fall over. Backwords. 'You follow, your back is marked.'

... I turn around ... slowly ... and look ... down ... into two brown eyes, belonging to an airport officer, dressed in a matching brown uniform. High like width. I want to burst out laughing, but his mout formed to a serious thin stroke tells me that wouldn't be clever thing to do. He doesn't look very nice or friendly. A small dwarf in brown with a dash as a mouth, putting all this lack of masculinity in an angry looking face and determinant glare. What to do. I follow. Nothing important, nothing forbidden, nothing illegal.

For one nano second I am in my parallel world - imagine a hidden, secretly smuggled into my bag package of thief good, drugs, rare distinctive animals, corals ... The smuggler play is on. I shake the thoughts away, don't let them become reality. Than this other story is happening in my head.  Have I left my backpack unsupervised – somewhere? Am I carrying a forbidden parcel? What kind of? Why have they marked my bag? Panic is rising in my chest. Naa, now way I woulde have left my backpack out of eye sight for just a single second. When sI bought coffee! No. While I was on the toilet? No. In the rest room? No. Naa. A deep breath. The moment is gone.

Happiness and ease back in my heard, carried as a smile on my lips.

Still, I have to get through the check. I follow the dwarf to one of those low metallic tables. Two other officers waiting for me. A young one, an old one. No much talk, no much kindness. But a welcoming look. The young one opens my bag. ... and for sure. What is the first thing to fall out? My pink slip. Well done!!! Couldn't it be more intimate? I mean, if something like that has to happen, than, please, the full programm. The old man takes over. Damm! He smells good. Intense, but good. He goes through her stuff. Hey, the suspicious wrongdoer is found. I can stuff all my belongings back into my back and make a x-ray check. The check is fine, the guy doesn't even bother to look and I can leave. Finally.

WELCOME INDIA
THANKS FOR HAVING ME

FINALLY

The drive to Madurai city takes longer than expected, on bumpy rough streets through places you may can call it an Indian suburb ... or just a random collection of some concrete buildings, used as homes and shops. All very simple and ordinary, cluttered with western style advertisement. Mainly men - of course what else - are on the street. India is men country. Mhh, they are standing around. Some having coffee, some a conversation, most are standing. Others are carrying packs of wood on their shoulder, others vases of water on their heads. The cloth they wear is worn out, pale in colour and covered with a veil of sandy dust. A simple, but hard life. A grotesque mixture of busyness and slack. A small world of its own – for me.

A man throws his empty bottle to the many already laying on the street. An other is spitting. An other kicking a dog out of his way. A girl lifts up her skirt in front of her parents shop entry and shits. Her shit is in an intense bright yellow colour. The landscape is nice. The area itself is dirty, overloaded with rubbish. It's like a patch carpet where every now and than a bit green breaks through. Cows, dogs and goats everywhere. On the street, on the side, on the rubbish, in the rubbish. People around them, living their daily routine.

Madurai rises up at the horizon. The traffic becomes more, the streets stay bumpy and rough. She realizes one of the main thinks about India and its habitants: THEY LOVE HORNING! That's it. There is nothing more to say. THEY LOVE HORNING!

Haha, it wouldn't be me, if there isn't.

There are two aspects to mention about the horning. First of all, the horns come in different sound varieties, loudness, length and intensity. It's not just one kind of horn, it is a horning concert. As many mobile phone ring tones you can imagine, as many and more kinds of horns exists in India, Madurai. It's one thing: Incredible. Incredible loud. ... and incredible annoyingy funny. Because, second of all, the Indians horn all the time. If you can't hear any horning, something has to be wrong. In Europe the sound of the horn shows that a driver did something seriously dangerously stupid. You hear it ones in a while and than if you hear it, you better check if it was meant to be for you and you are driving like a wanker. Here it is a sign of 'Here I am! This is me! … And now get out of the way, I want to pass!' They horn even when they arrive at a street light, seeing obviously that the lights are red. But, hey, they have to let all other standing and waiting cars and rickshaws know, that they want to pass. Ridiculous funny. ... and after a while, … a very short while a bit of annoying. They horn for well ... EVERYTHING. A Person, a car, a rickshaw, a cow, a dog, a bird, a nothing.

Imagine a very small street, more like an alleyway. Just one car fits through the space in between the both sided stalls. From both directions comes a car. The start horning at least 5 meters away from each other. Still driving. No slowing down. Horning. Expecting from each other to stop, drive back and let oneself through. But because both cars expect exactly the same from each other. Non of them stops. No, instead they are horning all the five meters until they have to stop right in front of each other. ... just to keep horning. … and horning. … and horning. Oh! … and horning. It's unreal to watch. 

Yeah, there is something about their affection about horning. Yeah, and it's kind of cute how every one of them chooses an individual sound for it. Well, Indians.

TWO NIGHTS IN MADURAI
THE CITY WHO NEVER SLEEPS

Here I am. This is me. In the middle of noisy, dirty Madurai. My first Indian city. Old Madurai is a farm. Hiyihiyiho. And on this farm there are some cows. Hiyihiyiho. Here a cow. There a cow. Everywhere a cow. Cow! Holy cow! Holy shit. EVERYWHERE HOLY COWS. You read about it. You see it in docuentaries.  But to seriously SEE it, that's different. I have to laugh. Those cows are pretty peacefull, just running around the streets. Calm and chewing. Those cows just belong to a typical city scenery in India, I suppose.

Yeah, Madurai seems alright. Nothing special. Nothing unexpected. Garbage and rubbish everywhere, males, business, more males, hectic, horning. That's India. My hostel is basic, but clean. The price alright. Happy to have a room. Clean, central and budget.

… and that should become to my personal Madurai nightmare. The first night is horrible. The second as well. After dinner and my first Indian photo session with strangers (later more about this Indian affection) it's time for bed. The room is stuffy. It doesn't has air-conditioning nor a fan. BIG MISTAKE. BIG MISTAKE. The air doesn't move at all. Warm stale air. … and it is hot. So hot … and stuffy. The try to make the air move while opening the windows is an invitation for thousand thirsty mosquitos. They start to celebrate for their gourmet dinner of german sweet blood. Great, now the window is open, the mosquitos are in and the air still doesn't move. Windows closed – again. Heat. Tremendous heat. Stale hot air and mosquitos … and street noise. Horning. Mooing. Horning. Mooing. The whole night. Madurai never sleeps. NEVER. Restless sleep. No bed sheet to cover my delicate, soft body. Instead my body a fest for hundreds of hundreds of mosquitos. I stand up two times in the night having a shower. Freeing my body from sweat, soaping it with herbal smells, trying to make me feel some sort human … and unattractive for all those blood sucking monster insects. Finally sleep! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh! What is this? There is somebody singing. No yelling. A sort o a mixture. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh! What the hell! I am sitting upright in the bed. Sleepy. Irritated. Tired. … The daily morning praying. What a pleasure! Well, I just have to laugh about it. What a start in the day! What a night! … and there will come at least one more night in Madurai. I can't wait! … and the second night is as sleepless as the first one.

So what is Madurai like? For me – every ten meters a coffee stall. Coffee on the go. Sugary and sweet. Like Milchmädchen coffee back in the days. Jammy! A sip here, a sip there, everywhere a sip sip. What else? Not very touristy. Well, it's out of season. The ultimate Guide for traveling and everything in India recommends a short stop in Madurai, the 'soul of Tamil Nadu'. So whats the soul spirit of Madurai like?

Have I mentioned the cows? The holy cows? They are part of Madurais soul, for sure. Scooters packed with an immense block of ice, to serve fresh crashed lime frapee? Hot pineapple with chilly spice on a piece of newspaper? The colourful Minakshi temple? The holy ceremony I could watch there - soooo funny. I loved it. Holy Religion. So holy religion. So funny. Yeah, that is part of the soul of Madurai, for sure.

Litter everywhere? Some baggers? Men pissing in the street? Children selling bamboo flutes? Tour guides? Rickshaws and horns? Small alleyways? Strangers who talk to you on the street? Strangers who take pictures with you? Yeah, that is part of the soul of Madurai, for sure.

Oh, oh … and what about the penetrant street sellers? They follow you for hundreds of meters through whole Madurai. 'Madam, you want jewellery?' 'Madam, madam, do you want flute?' 'Madam, Rickshaw?' Quite intense. Nothing helps. First you start with a friendly 'No, thank you.' Hey, thats an invitation for them. Second you try it with a determinant 'No'. They still try it just more penetrant. Third you ignore them. Well, they keep going talking and talking and talking to you. They have their strategies. Yeah, that is part of the soul of Madurai, fore sure.

My second day in Madurai is a special one. The day of the red moon. Moon Eclipse and although a big festival for the hindus in town. Reason enough for me to check out the Minakshi temple at night.

On my way I get stopped from three Indian girls. Family holiday for them. The oldest is talking most of the time. Recommending street food, like the hot pineapple with chilly I try. Delicious. Well and those three girls are telling me proudly and excited about their future ambitions: They want to become soldiers. Oookay … What shall I think about that? An elven year old girl stands in front of me, telling me with such a conviction she wants to become a soldier and fight for her country. In the background, between the shoulders of the girls, the big fat face of the father, proudly smiling. Well, what shall I think about that? 'What's the reason to become as soldier?' 'I saw a lot of soldiers and they inspire me. I like to write adventure novels and being a soldiers is adventurous. I like to do something good for my country and serve my country.' The big fat face in the background bursts almost for proudness. Uhhh, that's not my world. The pineapple was tasty, the meeting had a foul aftertaste.

… and there she is. The beauty of Minakshi. The holy monument of hinduism in Madurai. Mighty, almighty, colourful, motley – from the outside. The inside stunningly intimidating. Massive stone columns forming a hall way, enormous statues masoned out of one single stone. I am walking on an 600 years old stone carpet, through 600 years old stone halls … Quite impressive on me. I sit down. Just watch. I still have time before the ceremony starts. No cameras allowed, by the way. I sit and watch by myself. … not for long. I am surrounded by six talkative children. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh, what's going on? A second ago it was so nice and quite and calm. What is all that stupid noise? 'Where you from?' 'What's your name?' 'How old?' Six talkative indian children with their family members surrounding me. I am a sensation. Seriously?

It's ceremony time. Well, it's the end of the ceremony and the end of the ceremony ends with a procession from the praying hall to the vault of the tiny little golden buddha statue, who is hidden all the time. This walk is just hilarious. Four brahman (or do you spell it brahmen when you are talking about more than one man? Funny english. Funny language.) Okay, also, four brahman carry a sedan. They are dressed in traditional short sarongs. Their waists naked, hairy, scruffy and painted. The holiness and seriousness about their profession is just incredible sensational. … okay, I am making a joke here, alright? All four of them look so bored and languid and dull. The holy flower ritual the best ever live show of job fulfilment. At one part of the ceremony walk, the whole crowd stops, gathers around the sedan an the main brahman guru begins with such a devotedly passion (pst, joke, alright?) his flower and flour ritual. The other for brahmen (I go with that spelling) standing around. Bored. Languid. Dull. One of them fells asleep, puffing out his ball round belly. That's my moment of the day. I wish I had my camera. The picture is just brilliant. His look, his posture, the surroundings … it's just all together. This moment makes my day. If I wouldn't stand in holy halls I would burst for laughters. I love it! Holy holy. Holy shit.

next