Madurai 'number one cheating town all India'

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It is the perfect temperature at about 7am when we breakfast but unfortunately it does not stay like that for long. The restaurant manager tells us that summer has arrived early this year. This seems to happen every year we go to India....

The sweepers (who all belong to one of the lowest castes) are busy around the hotel going about their endless task of sweeping dead leaves from one place to another. The keeper of the little Shiva shrine has already put the idol's new clothes on for the day and given him a new garland.

As we drive out of the hotel we see a 40 seater coach about to load up its English tour party and take them off to their next destination. Never in one place long enough to see anything properly, no control over where you go or how long you spend anywhere and enforced visits to the ‘craft workshops’ where the tour guide gets a special commission. And apparently a requirement for the men all to wear non-branded polo shirts tucked into too short shorts and belted tightly, with black socks and sandals. A ghastly way to go on holiday.

We set off in due course to visit the Thirupparankundram Murugan Temple, which is a short distance out of town. Mr. Hussein does not let us leave the car until he had delivered his “Madurai number one cheating peoples in India” warning. This temple is dedicated to Lord Murugan (Shiva's son, apparently). The first hustler appears as soon as we enter the temple. “Camera fee 100 rupees each”. “No there isn’t, there is no sign”. “Yes is give me money”. “No”. “Come with me get ticket”. “No, get lost”. Eventually he gets bored and wanders off. In fact he was trying to con us into buying a special prayer ticket.....or just robbing us, who knows.

This temple existed from at least the 6^th century. The outer precincts of the temple are a bazaar – gaudy trinkets, toys, offering to the gods, all for sale. It is a favourite temple of the Tamils and very crowded. The temple interior is a huge rectangular chamber carved out of the hill, with side chambers housing various deities approached via narrow passages. Rather than joining the free queue which snakes away up steel bar line passages, we pay our 50 rupees and join the express queue to the inner sanctum. Seems like here you can become a temporary Hindu and get let in to the sanctum. The sanctum itself is pretty impressive; five (or seven?) separate chambers housing Shiva, Vishnu etc, each attended by Brahmin priests, lit by flickering candlelight, while at the front one Brahmin gives the blessings while in the back three or four others are busy doing whatever Brahmin priests do. Everywhere around there are subsidiary idols, carved pillars, with devotees prostrating themselves, offering bananas, coconuts, milk and so on.

We leave the temple and for some reason forego the opportunity to walk to the top of the baking bare hill behind the temple to visit a small Muslim shrine. Even serious site viewers have their limits.

Unfortunately now David needs a wee. We have smelt the only place in town on the way to the temple. “You can do it”, Sara assures him. David approaches with trepidation (at times like this I envy James' ability to go ten hours without needing a toilet). I bind my cotton scarf twice around my mouth and nose. The stench rises like a miasma from hell. The urinal has tiled walls about three feet high. There is one step in, then another tiled step where you have to take up position to do the needful. The upper step is covered in filthy rag rugs soaked in piss. Oh Lord please do not allow me to slip over. Holding my breath I get on with it. Please do not allow my sunglasses to fall off my face or they will be lost for all eternity. I try not to look at the urinal, or at the fetid green yellow stuff at the bottom of it. Oh no, the sink hole is blocked! Fortunately I am finished. Now I find my flip flops are sticking to the matting. What if they come off my feet?? I curl my toes to grasp the sandals and step back into thin air to step down. Footwear stays on and I do not stumble. I stagger out and gratefully suck in a lungful of delicious diesel fume laden dusty air. I have survived! Sara congratulates me and declines to use the ladies' equivalent.

Sara meanwhile has been checking out the array of motorbikes and scooters. It feels as if everyone has either a bicycle (always of the ‘sit up and beg’) variety or a motorbike/scooter. The ultimate status symbol is a Royal Enfield motorbike, now made solely in India. But these are few and far between. Honda seem to have cornered the market, and the girls all opt for a pink ‘Scooty’ model. Certainly in Madurai you get places much faster on two wheels than four, weaving in and out of the traffic in what should be death-defying manoeuvres but in fact often looks almost languid. Until you get knocked off......

On to the last temple, the Koodal Aligarh temple, this one having Vishu as its “presiding deity” as they call it. The man at the “free chapel stand” demands money for his free service. We go in. “Camera fee 100 rupees”. Oh just get lost, not again......it is an interesting temple, but we may have reached our temple limit now. “Camera fee” squeals a toothless crone with no apparent relationship to the temple when Sara raises her lens. It's all a bit much, Mr. Hussein was right all along, “Madurai people number one cheating in India”.

We abandon cultural activities and ask Mr Hussain to take us to Big Bazaar, one of a chain of small department stores. He clearly thinks this is one of the more sensible suggestions we have made. Sara buys some lightweight cotton trousers for £3, and we stock up on fruit, soft drinks and crisps. The urge to buy more packs of spices is almost overwhelming, but Sara reminds herself that she checked the cupboards before leaving home and we really do not need any more. We buy a couple of jars of pickle in compensation, and return to the hotel.

Tomorrow we are off to the hills – cooler weather and no more temples for a while.

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