The heat was rampant when leaving the airplane. Inside the terminal the cue was long and silent; slowly but diligently working migration officers repeatedly wanted to know whether I had ever been to Afghanistan. Finally, I managed to get the stamps into my passport and the luggage on my back to skip past the experienced moneychangers out into the bright sunlight. Tamil Nadu welcomed me with 35°C at ten o’clock in the morning.
Counting about one million inhabitants, Tiruchirappalli is in size rather a town for Indian standards. It attracts masses of pilgrims who visit the famous temples of the city and its surroundings. For Trichy, the travel- guide representations of being ruthlessly confronted with poverty and masses of people at the gates of Indian airports did not hold true. I was neither hassled by the often referred to rickshaw wallahs or hotel scam attempts, nor by marriage proposals or ruthlessly grabbing hands of people trying to get my luggage, thus me, into their taxies.
The “really far away” cashpoint turned out to be only a 50 meters walk on the way to the rickshaw wallahs who greeted me with warm smiles. We calmly and laughingly decided on a fairly reasonable price. Apparently, my first rickshaw ride turned out to be a rather fast one – whether this was due to the heat, the smooth price negotiations, or the driver’s desire to return into the shadow will remain unknown. Almost flying past other rattling rickshaws, overloaded motorbikes, slow bullock carts, even slower bicycles, and of course the holy cows, I did not even have time to think about the security of the various vehicles or the seeming nullity of any traffic rule. Suddenly, I was standing at Trichy’s bustling bus station, feeling the pressing need to attend to the most basic human needs – water, food, and shelter...