Similarly to when I was in Brazil I realise that it's the colours of and in a country that I miss in Europe. The women's bright saris are like candy in my eyes and I want pictures of all of them, loving that when they walk in groups they look like colourful marbles rolling down a path made of bubblegum wrappings.
Man, my bum aches.
Scrawny dogs dart among the tracks of the railyway. On the stations the vendors all rush to us at the sight of Carolin's long blonde hair and my comparatively fair skin. I catch sight of a skinny monkey in a leash, sitting like a misplaced puppy in the throng of brightly clad people. The air is full of scents, of hot food, of fried oil, of urine and other human remnants, of spices faintly recognisable to my nose, the jasmine perfume of the women and the general sweat of us all. And let's not forget the humidity of the red earth.
The sky is never clear, for the moisture and the pollution. The train is rocking to heavily now for me to write. Landscapes of virile green flash before us to the deafening sounds of the railway, children shrieking, people talking.
