New Delhi, India

I am in India. The plane journey was fine – plus now there isn’t much point me being afraid of flying anymore after the taxi ride from the airport. The tiny cars, motorbikes and canvas-roofed three wheelers weave and dart into each others paths, horns beeping incessantly, with terrifying accuracy. The lanes aren’t noticed, and oncoming traffic is ignored. A rush, more like pins and needles, shot through my arms and legs when I saw my first gang of monkeys lurking on the roadside. But then came rows of blue tarpaulins, held up with a stick or two, home to whole families. At a junction, a young girl twisted her arms behind her head, and through a small wooden hoop she contorted her even smaller body, picking it up from her feet. Her sister played a drum on the floor, her brother begged in the dirt. Another young girl holding a baby slaps it in the face to make it cry. This is culture shock. Not the rush of new smells and tastes, but seeing how people are forced to live, while I just pass on through.

Some of the roads are wide and long, the buildings in the Centre are huge – Reebok, Nike, McDonalds are all here. The grand Victorian architecture exists a taxi ride away, but this isn’t the real Delhi. The roads are thin and caked in mud, the drains overflow with waste. At night, kids sleep on their backs on the pavement and in the road. Some, on their hands and knees, search through the rubbish for food. Slow, skinny dogs wander all over.

I’m in a big hostel in the diplomatic area, and have met lots of people, including Indians who’ve shown me around the city. There’s a lot to see and to learn. The three-wheeler taxis are called ‘tuk tuks’. Men here hold hands. Young women call old men ‘Uncle’. Indians often speak to each other in English; 'the Englishers left, but their language stayed', my new friend told me. It’s a very strange place, not quite like anywhere else and completely different to home. I’m still just finding my feet.