Another tumultuous day in the Subcontinent comes to and end, and in hindsight, it was a day I was pretty lucky to make it through. Had I not tied my shoelaces properly this morning, I may have been coming home in a box….

You see today, I was set upon by an enraged Muslim mob, and had it not been for the thousands of armed police and soldiers at the particular protest I happened to stumble into, I'm certain Mw would be no more... It only happened a few hours ago, so I can't yet seem to put a comic spin on it, so I'll tell it like it was...

On this day, six years ago, a Hindu mob trashed the most sacred monument in Hyderabad, and so on this day each year there after, massive protest are held. The fact this was the sixth protest, on the sixth day of December, seemed to see the mob more fiery than usual, I'm told. There were reporters and journalists from all over India, however I was the only foreigner.

Long blonde hair, a bright red shirt, and boardshorts, I was a lynch mobs pin up boy...

I didn't really know what was going on, just that there were thousands of riot police about the place, and the bustling markets of yesterday that I had gone to photograph, were all closed up, with the metal shutters down...

I parked my bike, and went for a wander. Guys with guns were everywhere, as well as loads of other photographers.

I spoke to a few of the guys, who were helpful and friendly, and told me what was going on. I really didn't even stop to do a risk assessment; the thought of danger was far from my mind. Hey, it was a beautiful day, and as the other photographers told me "You will make good pictures today..."

Groovy, I thought to myself, and gave it no more thought. Then the police tensed up, formed groups, and started checking their guns... I got out of their way, noticing a change in the note of the teeming crowd. Looking up, thousands of protesters were heading towards us, yelling and screaming. The mood I was in, they appeared a pretty innocuous site. I all but laughed at them, as I snapped a few shots. They fronted the police at about thirty yards, yelled for a while, then seemed to withdraw. I looked for a position of elevation, to get a few shots, and saw a concrete roundabout in the middle of the road that looked perfect. I walked over to it, and shot a few frames of the main mob with my 80 - 200 , while hearing a steady roar of protest from them. I don't remember much else, I can't say I was remotely prepared for what came next.

As I peered through the lens, on 200mm, the roar of the crowd suddenly got a lot louder. I lowered my camera to check my rear perimeter, which suddenly seemed to have fallen well back. Looking up again, the roar became deafening, and I had thousands of Muslims charging me, while a few loud explosions started going off. I spun round to run as a few of them caught me with wayward kicks and punches, and ran for the line, just as a bunch of police charged into the mob that was after me. I think I clipped one guy with an elbow as he tried o grab me, from there, it was just running, head down with a Nikon in each hand. Some of the guys I ran into behind the police line grabbed me and surrounded me as the mob was driven back by the police, swinging their wooden batons... I've kept running until I jumped the metal fence around the monument. Even then, I had no real comprehension of what had just happened. I think I might have even still been laughing...

Fucking hell.. Suddenly I'm surrounded by a mob of journalists and photographers and police, while the guys shooting vision laughed and clapped me, in light of the primo footage I had just given them...

Everyone seems very worried about me "Sir, are you hurt" "Did they hit you" "Sir. please be careful..." I was still in a bit of a daze at this stage. Then the senior police grabbed me and hustled me out of the sight of the mob, who were still yelling and screaming...

No one was angry at me for doing what must surely be the most stupid thing I've done yet on my travels, i.e. get amid a Muslim mob with nothing but a few Nikons to protect me...

Eventually I went back to survey the scene. The mob had reconvened, and the police had formed a line ready to charge. Whether they were baying for my blood, who knows, but the crowd were pissed...

And then more of the journalists and photographers were gathered around me, talking, touching me, reassuring. It was weird. They were pro's, and had just seen the action of a complete idiot, yet were still concerned for me. What had happened was just sinking in, and I wasn't laughing so much any more. The questions came in thick and fast "Who are you working for" "How you are transmitting images" etc... Within five minutes, most of my business cards were given out. And if ever I had regretted my business card design, it was now... They looked at my card, read the details, then saw the tits.. Oddly enough, this seemed to impress them. Even the shooter from Reuters (big global news agency) was there, asking for a card...

A guy from The Times of India (biggest national daily) gave me his card, then told me that unless bombs started going off, I would feature prominently in his story... "That's great mate, can you sent me your copy" I told him. I told him the email address on my card was not my travel email, so I would write it on the back.

I tried, but my hands were shaking so badly I could barely write. Jesus... I could hear all the Indians saying "Shaking, shaking..." but there wasn't a whole lot I could do about it.

Looking up, no one was laughing, they were still touching me on the back and giving the sort of sweet platitudes that I didn't deserve. One guy was saying, "Very brave photographer..." I'm like "Very stupid photographer..." Most laughed, but were discreet in their agreeance...

Then I notice all the guys shooting vision, have turned away from the Muslim mob, which had dispersed, and were filming me. For the first minute or so, this was a novelty. But it soon wore off. Between people talking to me, were video camera lenses, as the crews filled in time filming me.

I asked for a cigarette, suddenly noticing how melodramatic this looked. The, struggled to light it with matches as my hands were still shaking. Then, finally sparked it up, only to look up into more video camera lenses...

The fool from Australia who almost got lynched, would be the apt tag for this footage.

Then the numerous senior police wanted to talk to me, advise me, and warn me... Again and again I was told the reason for today's protest, with the ubiquitous "We know it is not your fault" To my ubiquitous reply "Yes, I know, but they thing I am American" to which the police nodded in agreement.

It was now round two PM. A police officer who may have been in charge told me I was his responsibility, and so should not leave the compound around the monument. I agreed.

A few film crews were still following me around, but the photographers and journalist had dispersed. Muslims were starting to file into the perimeter, previously held tight by the police.

The same policeman who appears in charge strides up to me again. "Sir, do not give out your identification". I don't have to ponder his words, he points at a group of Muslim youths who have somehow procured one of my business cards. The one with the naked breasts on it, in case any of you had forgotten. 'Oh fucking great' I think to myself...

Every time I sit down, or stand still, the youths surround me, and glare. Eventually, I start taking photos of them. They lighten up a bit.

I watch the Muslims, as they watch me. I hear 'American' muttered many times, so I tell all and sundry that I am Australian... We smile, we talk cricket, and I argue that Adam Gilchrist, who comes from the state I live in, is the best batter in the world... With these guys, tension is diffused. I look out at the thousands standing outside the perimeter glaring at me, and wish it could all be that simple...

Then a policeman calls me over; he has a finely dressed Muslim by his side. We are introduced. "I help to save your life" he tells me flatly... "What?" I reply... "The mob who were chasing you, I pushed them back, do you not remember..."

"No I don't, but thanks anyway..." I tell him. I do remember men running into the Muslim mob as I ran the other way, and in hindsight, it was, probably only to help me He smiles broadly and shakes my hand. And then three more Muslims tell me the same thing... "We help you Sir, we help you..."

More and more Muslims are filing in, dressed in black. I take a look at myself, then at the Muslims who are defiantly glaring at me. Then I look around me. I am the only person wearing shorts, and you do not, wear anything that exposes your legs, while visiting Muslim monuments. Fucking great... Even my dress offends them. I feel about as popular as a pork chop in a synagogue… And their numbers of surly looking Muslims are swelling by the minute. Why the fuck are thousands of riot police outside the monument, just to let the Muslims in... The tactical sense of this defies me, so I discuss it with the guy in charge.

"It is their monument" he tells me, which, in terms of tactics, tells me nothing. If your idea of holding a line is to let the troublemakers into your midst, then don't come to Australia looking for a job in security, I feel like telling him. Instead, I nod in appreciation of his sage like crowd control wisdom.

And then a nasty realization hits me. My motorbike, is parked out in the crowd. Fine, it's a Honda Hero, like any other Honda Hero... Except it arrived on the train two nights ago, and hence, has a huge tag on the petrol tank, saying
Michael Wylie
Perth West Australia.

And by now plenty of people know where I'm from, what my name is, and that I work for foreign anti Islamic media.

Currently, this is no place to signpost the fact you're foreign...

In case you've forgotten, operation Enduring Freedom, is in full swing - these guys aren't that thrilled about Afghanistan being carpet bombed…

I've been told to stay within the perimeter till four, and that I will eventually be escorted back to my hotel. By that time, I don't reckon I'll have much of a bike left...

I bail up a Tourist Police director that I met earlier, and tell him of my predicament...
"Where is your bike?" he asks, and we are off. The most senior policeman has told me explicitly, not to leave the perimeter, but looking around, I figure Muslims out number police by about six to one now, so I'd rather chance it in the crowd...

We find my bike, and it is unscathed. The policeman agrees to escort me to my hotel, on my suggestion. He jumps on the bike, starts it, and then I jump on the back, trying to hide behind him, where possible. As the road is oneway, we have to fully circumvent the monument to leave. Aside from a few heckles that could have been aimed at anyone, we escape un noticed...

Now, I an in the company of an Indian policeman, so I am not so stupid as to feel relieved.

Rightfully so...

We ride off down the main street. The monument is in the middle of a three way junction. The Muslim mobs, had been retreating down one road, then reappearing up different roads twenty minutes later throughout the afternoon. There was, I realized, every chance we could ride straight into another mob.

Super…

Our ride was chaotic but uneventful.

After returning to the police station, to report of my well being, we return to my hotel. The hotel staff, who have been lovely to me, wear looks of grave misapprehension, as I walk in with a policeman. The staff converse in Hindi with the cop, which I take as my queue to leave.

I head up to my room, and immediately make flagrant changes to my appearance. While not exactly professing to be "The Jackal" I try and look as little as possible like the dimwit Aussie who enraged the Muslim mob a few hours earlier. I change all my clothes, opting for subdued colours and long pants and sleeves over my current lurid colours, as well as tying my hair back, and wearing a hat.

My plan, to get to the train station, to get the first train the fuck out of Hyderabad

When there is a knock at my door.

I am not surprised. I open it, and am told, "The manager would like to speak to you."

Fucking ripper.. I tell him I will be down in five minutes, and two minutes later there is another knock at the door. It is the cop.

It's bizarre. On the bike ride, I discover the cop is nineteen years old. He looks 24. He cannot believe I am 32. When I asked him, after much deliberation, he said I looked, "Twenty..."

He walks in, and as he passes me, I flick a towel over this lap top I'm typing on now... He makes a few minutes of circular conversation then noted my clothing. "You are different, no?"

What to do. This guy is on the make, and after surviving a lynch mob, I've got to have the skills to get through this... Still, its odd getting bent over by a nineteen year old...

"Come, we go.." I say, and lead him from the room. "You must get back to work, and I can not give you a lift, I will pay for rickshaw"

We walk down the stairs, I lead him out of the hotel, and under the guise of shaking his hand for all his help, palm him 100 rupee., to pay for his taxi that will cost him 10 rupee.

Then I stride off. He pursues... "I am not required back till 5, I will help you purchase train ticket"

Great, I'm stuck with him... We go to the train reservation office, where he insists on doing everything that I have done a hundred times in the past.

Finally. "There are no trains out of Hyderabad for four days, we will go back to you room. come, you are my friend, no?"

And so again, I grab the bull by the horns, push through the queues and demand a ticket, and, get one.

Now, I leave tomorrow...

We leave the reservation office, ticket in my hand. We approach the police station. He looks at me. I look at him. He got me out of a very dangerous situation this afternoon, and I gave him more than half a days wage for it.

Neither of us can sense any further use for each other.

Handshake.

Game...

And then, as I finally feel a sense of relief over proceedings, a traffic accident between a motorbike, and an auto rickshaw happens right in front of my eyes as I head back to the hotel. The most amazing thing about the accident was not the prang itself, but the response of the bike rider. Even as the bike lay on the road seeping petrol and the beautiful female passenger dragged herself out from under it, the rider was already at the throat of the rickshaw driver, landing some impressive left right combo's. Even more impressive was the fact that he was about the only Indian that I have ever seen wear a helmet. And so he was cracking the driver in the head, and leaning into any counterpunches with his helmet soaking up the blows, which only served to fuck the rickshaw drivers hands..

Quite an amazing spectacle to watch, a punch up where one bloke is wearing a full face helmet. Truly the unfair advantage...

And as the lopsided brawl went on, hundreds of Indian watched, and the beautiful girl just stood in traffic as the bike seeped fuel onto the tarmac.

"Jesus, will one of you useless fuckers do something" I shout at them, as I eventually stride out into oncoming traffic, right the bike, and get it off the road...

By now, as you would have expected, the biffo is over, and oddly enough, the rider of the bike is unscathed... As for the rickshaw driver...

The rider thanks me for helping with the bike, and the Indian girl too, is gracious...

Me. I just grab two Kingfisher beers and head back to my hotel hoping that this has in someway evened the score on wherever my karma may be sitting at the moment...

As between a lynch mob, a bent cop and road trauma, who among us can be certain...

Yours, in Subcontnental reticence...

Mw

The NEXT DAY…….

Well travel lovers, I don't know if this a high, or a low point of my travels, but anyway...

I am front page news, on all the newspapers, local, and national. Every paper has me on the cover, fleeing the mob. And, what pictures... In one, there is a wide shot of me running, in a not uncool fashion, however inserted in the pic, is a close up of me looking over my shoulder as I run, with a look that could only be described as 'cool contempt...

In "The Times of India, I am described as "an Australian, mistaken as an American..." and the pic they ran is pretty scary. The whole mob, is after me, with a bloke just about to belt me... Not lookin too cool there, but you will all agree, the back light shining through my hair is beautiful... How to be hip, while fleeing a mob... Hmmmmm, a difficult task...

Now as every Westerner reads "The Times of India', in my experience, and I am the only photo on the cover, directly beneath the mast head, this should considerably boost my subcontinental profile. And is their story about the riot? No, it is basically an interview with me... He was the guy who I wrote me email dress for with well shaky hands, and, he described me as "visibly shaken" Fair enough too, its not every day you're attacked by a Muslim mob...
Yes, so I truly am famous, its just a shame there is not one Westemer to enjoy it with, for I would appear to be the only foreigner here....

Damn...

I cruised down to the train station this morning at sunrise to check the newspapers and people knew who I was before I'd got off the bike. They all laughed their heads off, although all seemed genuinely concerned for my well being... Even the local language papers have m on the cover. Don't worry, I bought plenty of copies of them too...

Apparently I was also on the television news services repeatedly last night as well.

I leave Hyderabad at 5 40 this arvo, and I'm glad... This would be a hoot in Delhi or Calcutta, where there are more westerners, and religion is not so fractious, but here. The Muslims are mid Ramadan, and Operation "fuck Islam", or whatever they're calling George WWW's latest operation, is in full swing This is preying heavily on their minds of the local Muslim community... The sight of a Westerner on the cover of their papers, will not elicit a comic response from many I feel.. After emailing last night, I went to ride home, and my fuel line on my bike was "broken". Well, as the bike is less than a year old, I would say "slashed". I pushed the fucker for half a kilometre back to my guesthouse, just waiting for a Muslim mob to jump out and kick the fuck out of me. The bike still had the "Michael Wylie" label emblazoned across the fuel tank... Clever…

I made it home alive, and replaced the fuel line this morning. Still, one more reason to get the hell out of here...

So yes, I flee, having achieved one of the primary objectives of the Subcontinent charter of Operation Enduring Freedom... A spectacular, high publicity strike against the enemy...

A success?? A failure??

Does it really matter?

I am in all the papers... At least they're talking about me...

Mw

It is now mid day in Hyderabad, and my fame, has become a tangible thing... Everywhere I go I am recognised and waved too. There appears no malice at all.

My fame is manifest. I am a fucking celebrity. I can not exaggerate this. Honestly, everyone seems to know who I am.

It is truly, truly weird. People no longer slink up as give you the old "Hello, what is your country. No, now in Hyderabad, they walk up to me with benign grins and say, "Hello, you are Michael, the photographer from Australia? Yes?"

And then proceed to ask me a quick one hundred questions about what happened to me. The first question always seems to be "Please Sir, you are not hurt?" They are achingly sweet to me. And very, very angry about what happened.

All apologize for the actions of the mob. "Please forgive those people, they are bad people, very stupid…" I tell them it is fine, I am not angry. And by the time I've told one person, a fan club like mob has gathered around me, to ask the same questions again. It is too much. I can not walk the streets. At the post office, sending home copies of the papers, I caused an enormous commotion as people recognized me and swarmed around me to offer apologies and best wishes.

And another of my paranoid delusions has had an explanation provided... Last nights slashing of my fuel line outside the internet cafe, was seen by myself as the actions of a vengeful Muslim. I was fairly non plussed by the action. Well, at least they didn't slash me, or burn the bike. Or, lay in waiting for me, to kick my head in...

I figured I was lucky... However, when I left the internet cafe today, after sending you all that cool pic, I was not so sanguine. Someone had fucked by bike over again, by kicking the sparkplug until it snapped. No easy task.

Fuck this, I thought to myself, then surveyed the scene. A group of six rickshaw wallers were calmly gazing at me, as I surveyed my damaged machine. And behind them, I saw a streetside bike repair shop.

This, was a bit rich...

I strode over, and demanded "Did you see who did this, Who did, who did???" Vacant stares prevailed, but their was no enmity in them; these guys didn't appear to be the culprits. All they wanted to do was talk about my pictures in the paper.

I strode up to the bike repair shop, and was about to start asking questions there, when a well dressed Muslim guy tapped me politely on the shoulder...

"Sir, the breaking of your motorbike, it was none of these people, it was the police..."

Fucking ripper, I'm thinking, obviously my 100 rupee kickback yesterday, was insufficient, and now I was being hounded...

The Muslim, noting my discountenance, continued... "Sir, it was the police, because you are in a no parking zone..."

You fucking what, I'm thinking to myself... I stroll back, and sure enough, I am, in a no parking zone, and probably was last night too...

It all falls into place... If you park your bike, in a no parking zone, they simply vandalise it... The whole notion has a brutal simplicity; I have to smile. But what do they do to cars? Slash the tyres? Break a window and pop the hood, then steal the distributor cap?

It must be quite a cathartic experience, being a traffic cop in India. Having a bad day? Then just walk around, kicking the fuck out of rich people's cars. And slash and bash the odd motorbike...

You can laugh all you want, I've been getting parking tickets in Australia for the last ten years, but I give you the warm tip, I won't be parking in a no standing zone in India again...

I stroll back to the streetside mechanics, all thought of accusation gone from my mind, and show them the damage. They all laugh, but they re not looking at the bike. Then one of them holds up a paper, and they laugh some more..

I laugh too. I mean, what are my options. There's me again, getting chased by the mob...

So we all stand round laughing a me for a while, then, attention gradually turns to my bike...

Orders are shouted in local dialect, and I am told to wait. "It will be thirty rupee sir", I am told.

"Fine", I reply. And a bloke of no more than fourteen sets to fixing my bike. I sit down with two of the heartiest laughers, and we chat. Vic, is the Hindu owner, and like me, is doing an MBA. We laugh some more. He told me his full name, I tried to say it once, then said "Nope, its Vic for you..." More laughter... Apparently most people call him Vic anyway.

The guy next to him, is watching as his bike is torn to pieces on the side of the road. "After six years, a new cluchplate, not so bad..." he tells me. I offer to buy a round of chai, but as it the usual way when this offer is made, it is turned into a request from me, and they provide the tea. For the hundredth time, I try and explain, I wish to buy them tea. 'No Sir, you are our guest..." Mohammed, the bloke with the bike in bits on the road, can not take chai for Ramadam reasons... They are the sweetest guys...

"Mohammed, you have a brother?" I ask...

"Yes", he replies...

"I know", I replied, "Yesterday, he was chasing me..." I say, and point to the front page of the paper.

This killed him, I thought he was going to shit himself he laughed so hard... Eventually my line was translated, and the whole workshop pissed themselves. So did I. These guys were so cool.

And then a roar, as I see my bike started, and revved to about 12 000 rpm by the fourteen year old mechanic...

Bingo... I'm back in business.

I reach for my wallet, to pay,
"No sir, it is not necessary..." Vic tells me.
"No, I pay" I reply.
"No Michael, you are our friend, you can not pay..."

What to say. I shake hands with all, and make good my departure.

This has been the story of my day in Hyderabad today, relentless acts of kindness and generosity from a myriad of Indians who only know me via the pictures on the front of the newspaper.

I leave this afternoon. Maybe I should stay. I love these people.

I will be in Bangalore on the 19 th to watch the third test between India and England and I had always assumed I'd be in the white mob, going bezerk with the rest of England's barmy army... But now I am not so sure.

I am finding it harder and harder to consider supporting anyone, but India...

Mw