The final leg of my journey saw a quick trip into the mountains to the small town of Ooty. It was billed in the guidebooks as the British Madras government's mountain retreat; for when the South Indian kitchen got too hot for them at summertime. It was a fairly idyllic place (except for the extreme poverty) and the guidebook had mentioned a few 'must-see' tourist attractions, such as the botanical gardens. However, after spending five and half hours on a coach to reach my destination, I was a bit mutinous towards the shackles of sight-seeing and had also realised that, whilst travelling alone, I don't have to pretend to be interested in non-popular culture.
So I went Go-Karting. Alone.
After the Go-Karting, I was at a bit of a loose end so I found the town's only bar and watched the vital Cricket World Cup tie between Pakistan and Canada. I had a fun afternoon and made friends with some Sudanese chaps as well as a very friendly Indian couple who were away on a weekend fueled by forbidden love. He was a Christian and she was a strict Hindu. They said it could never work!
On my way back from the bar, I thought I'd have a little look at another relic of Britain's past dominance of the town, Ooty's famous racecourse. After walking round the track for what must have been at least ten furlongs, (not a clue as to what a furlong is, I thought he played for Chelsea) I came across some horses with very long faces. I deduced that they must have been a bit peckish, so I started to feed them some chocolate biscuits from my bag. The horses were very appreciative but their owner, who also doubled as an auto-rick driver, came up to me and ordered me to stop feeding them. I panicked and started to try and lie myself out of the situation, telling him that I was British, owned horses and knew how to treat them. He then sidestepped my lies brilliantly by telling me that, "these horses not British, these Indian horses". You can't argue with that sort of logic.
So I went Go-Karting. Alone.
After the Go-Karting, I was at a bit of a loose end so I found the town's only bar and watched the vital Cricket World Cup tie between Pakistan and Canada. I had a fun afternoon and made friends with some Sudanese chaps as well as a very friendly Indian couple who were away on a weekend fueled by forbidden love. He was a Christian and she was a strict Hindu. They said it could never work!
On my way back from the bar, I thought I'd have a little look at another relic of Britain's past dominance of the town, Ooty's famous racecourse. After walking round the track for what must have been at least ten furlongs, (not a clue as to what a furlong is, I thought he played for Chelsea) I came across some horses with very long faces. I deduced that they must have been a bit peckish, so I started to feed them some chocolate biscuits from my bag. The horses were very appreciative but their owner, who also doubled as an auto-rick driver, came up to me and ordered me to stop feeding them. I panicked and started to try and lie myself out of the situation, telling him that I was British, owned horses and knew how to treat them. He then sidestepped my lies brilliantly by telling me that, "these horses not British, these Indian horses". You can't argue with that sort of logic.
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