Last post

Marian’s Ecover laundry liquid is not up to my load: the whites are still grey. Grrr. When I move back into my flat on Wednesday, I’ll get Daz onto it. But I’m back at last! And it’s freezing and expensive.

My 80 day trip is finally over. I have visited 19 towns and cities and have covered a satisfying 3000 miles on buses and trains:

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It’s been great, there are no regrets, but it’s been hard work and I’m knackered. All that is important now is to stand with the backs of my legs gently against a radiator and move through tonight. Still, I’m surprised by how smoothly it all went really, and even more surprised by how well prepared I was. Who’d have thought? I’d like to thank the following items:

> Osprey Wayfairer 80 litre travel pack
> Berghaus washbag
> Palmers cocoa butter with built in SPF15 (oh god, this stuff is amazing)
> Hot black Victorinox penknife
> Wuthering Heights notebook
> Front bike light
> Parker Vector mechanical pencil
> Pillow nicked from outbound Jet Airways flight
> Diazepam
> Parle G biscuits

I lost a few things along the way, mind you. The companion Parker ballpoint pen for one thing. I was pissed off about that. And the Del Monte hat is gone! Man, that thing was costing me money. I only wore it when I was in transit, just in case anyone wasn’t sure about my tourist status… It has a worthy new owner in Uncle Hash who looks bloody amazing in it (properly edited photos will follow). I ditched the blister packs too: around 250 anti-malaria tablets worth £40 went into a Palolem bin. Could I have sold them on eBay or is that sick? I also lost Mel, whose very different experience of India I cannot ignore or separate from my own. She arrived home safely on Monday, I saw her yesterday. We’ll talk about it all soon I’m sure.

I laugh out loud when I think about the beach holiday in Benaulim with Gita, Hash and Devimasi – it was so much fun – and I loved being in Dandi again, it was great to get to know the family there better. I feel overwhelmed when I think of the hospitality shown to us by Nagpal and his wife in Agra, and the Varanasi to Rajasthan stretch was made so much more bearable by having Leane around – I’ll definitely see her again.

I think bits of me are stronger than before – shoulders, stomach, knees – though I currently seem to be sweating something out that doesn’t smell nice. I’m hardier than I thought and can rough it when necessary. I have a new perspective on environmental issues, particularly litter / packaging and water. I have developed closer links with various sections of the wildlife community including dogs, cows, buffalo, crabs, rats, monkeys, a scorpion and a posse of camels. I have realised that 3 hours or 4 or 6 is not a long time to visit someone you like, but that transport is prohibitively expensive in the UK and it’s outrageous. But I was also often reminded of India’s corrupt system, how money can do anything and consequently how it is the ultimate motivator. I trust easily, I’m a soft touch, there’s nothing wrong with it, but it’ll not make me rich. I was ripped off time and again by men who will happily look you in the eye and say “I am not trying to cheat you.” Lechiness and leeriness do not a profitable customer relationship make. Dudes, this is not cool.

The other mindblowing thing has been how I have taken everyone with me. I only started this blog to put Mum’s mind at rest. What must travelling have been like before the internet? Poor worried mums across the developed world! I had no idea it would become a little project / outlet that some of you would follow for 12 weeks. Thank you for taking the time to read.

And back in time for new year too… and a new decade! Wooooo!! It hadn’t occurred to me until I learned about Unskinny Bop’s noughties special. I remember the last time we had a new decade. Not 2000 because that was a millennium. I thought century did very badly out of all of that. And what about that millennium bug? I’m glad everyone fixed everything in time. No, the last new decade when 1989 went into 1990. George sang about it on Waiting For That Day, we had Freedom ’90, Fame ’90 and Soul II Soul’s Volume 2: A New Decade. I was, as usual, in the Ellora that night with the family, in charge of the tapes and making sure the Big Ben/Auld Lang Syne/New York New York medley went off at midnight correctly. Ah, misty watercolour memories…

What are you up to tonight? I will be getting drunk on optimism for sure and counting my blessings through karaoke.

Happy New Year xo

Neptune Point, Christmas morning

Lol!

I love watching Brits on the piss. Booze Britain, Club Reps… I can’t get enough of that stuff. Watching Booze Britain is like going out on the lash yourself except that there are no repercussions. The party at Neptune Point – just the other side of some rocks from our resort – continued with amplified music until 4am. Poor Adrian, Jane and their two daughters from Cuckfield near Haywards Heath. Staying in a much fancier hut next to mine, they were not happy. Sunny, the mildly sleazy resort owner, was also at the party as were two of the Nepali waiters, Ravi and Gelbu (both great), and a guy I met in the dentist’s surgery whose name escapes me. It was as a club ought to be: glass bottles rolling all over the place and access all areas for smokers.

But before Neptune Point, I went to midnight mass in Chaudi. St Teresa’s Church was full: well-to-do men, women and perfectly-turned-out children in suits and colourful chiffon dresses. Chairs had been set up outside with a video link up so we could see the pulpit, but alas they failed to provide any sound, so we all sat in silence unable to hear a thing. It was in Konkani anyway and not especially joyous.

I loved my beach hut in the end. I didn’t attempt to meet anyone whilst in Palolem: I was quite happy to sit on my porch, have bottles of Kingfisher delivered to me from the adjacent restaurant, and stare out to sea like Shirley Valentine. This was my Christmas Day and I couldn’t have planned it better.

This is, I expect, my last entry whilst in India and my penultimate post on this blog. I’m in Margao now, I fly from Goa to Delhi tonight and will sleep in the airport, ready to check in on my flight back to London tomorrow morning. I am not prepared for the cold.

Sensitivity builds a prison

Day 74, Christmas Eve – Palolem, Goa

I hadn’t planned to be in Goa for Christmas but now I’m here I will embrace it. There is some crazy dance music party tonight, though I’m more inclined to go to midnight mass in Chaudi to see Goa’s many Christians in action. I have moved to a small hut in a pretty cove at the south end of Palolem beach, which has a perfect sea view from its plywood/bamboo sit out. I figured staying in a hotel watching movies was a cop out: besides, I was seriously disturbed by Danny the Dog and couldn’t stay awake for Conan the Destroyer. I don’t think the move has been a total error, despite a big spider in the bed on arrival and the nightclub right next door. Sanjeev Bhaskar did not do this.

Palolem feels a bit like Spain by day and Brighton by night: well over half of the foreigners are Brits I reckon, all kinds of them too. It’s way pricier than other tourist hot spots, but the shopkeepers / rickshaw drivers / hoteliers aren’t nearly as aggressive, one or two seem pretty desperate. There’s a dark side too: I’ve been offered drugs countless times by waiters and a restaurant proprietor! I also found this by Angry of Goa. Are India’s youth being corrupted? If they are, it’s here.

Pop music is back in my ears, but not wholly in a good way. I’ve just returned from my third visit to the dentist: the bottom-left quartile of my face is completely numb as I type. Seven of ten fillings have now been completed (at a quarter of the UK price) by Dr Rosomond D’Souza and his nurse Sunita. Dr Rosomond likes pop of the Magic FM variety and it is piped right through his small, comfortable, air-conditioned practice. He sings along, even when his head is hanging over yours and he has a drill in your mouth. Maybe this is all to put patients at ease: Elton’s Sacrifice , Cutting Crew’s Died in Your Arms , both Richard Marx classics Right Here Waiting and Hazard… He hummed along to the first MJ song I’ve heard since arriving in India: I Just Can’t Stop Loving You (good choice, I thought) but I missed most of it thanks to Sunita’s sucky tube. It was Elton who lingered: It’s a human sign / When things go wrong… I’ll be getting the last three done on Boxing Day.

I’ll be thinking of you all tomorrow!

Merry Christmas xo

Maggie Smith’s finest hour

At Christmas time in Goa, we let in light but we do not banish shade, because if we did we would all burn to death. Jesus it’s hot: could you turn it down a bit please? Those world leaders should have come here and stayed in the bamboo-plywood-palm leaf huts which make up the bulk of the lodgings: things might’ve turned out differently. Maybe not.

Palolem, the main resort in Goa’s deep south, is another tourist town that’s unusually quiet this year. Not that that means the sands are beautifully empty like in Benaulim: there are still a few thousand foreign and Indian tourists spilling across the beach including lots of young British meatheads in Reebok Classics. Rather than being sat here typing, I could be watching Burnley play Wolves at Molineux. (The last time I had anything to do with Molineux was when they were building it: I was 16 and doing a fortnight’s work experience at a chartered quantity surveyor’s office in Five Ways. They took me on site and everything, mistakenly thinking I would find this exciting. I would now, of course.)

I’m staying in Palolem until I fly back and I will learn to love the occasional assault of deep house from the beach shacks. But a quiet season is making the accommodation search a hassle: most places are waiting anxiously for a last-minute rush and are holding their prices at 1500Rs+ / night for the three days over Christmas. This risky strategy is also being employed by the owner of the concrete block in which I’m currently staying. But I am mighty glad I have eschewed the huts: this morning, I woke up to Sister Act on Star Movies. I really can’t see how a day can start any better than this.

I’ve been all about the wellness today. I did an Ashtanga Vinyassa yoga class on a rooftop in the late afternoon sun looking up at the palm trees. I booked an appointment at the dentist for a check up and scrub. I searched in vain for a copy of Allen Carr’s Easyway to Stop Smoking.

I was sad to read this piece about Peter Tatchell in The Observer. I interviewed him in July at his flat for an oral history project documenting, amongst other things, the work of Galop and the relationship between the police and London’s gay community over the last 30 years. Interestingly, it was the day after the news broke about India decriminalising homosexuality, which he was delighted about. And that picture, by the way, makes his front room look spacious – it wasn’t at all. He talked to me for over two hours that evening – I was his eighth interview of the day. He was clearly tired, he stumbled over sentences and would repeatedly ask if he could restart a response to a question. I thought he was just being control-freaky until I read this. Either way, it was hard not to be impressed by him. I think we should stop giving him flak and start appreciating him a bit more.

Thanks for your lovely comments about the blog. I doubt I’ll continue though, it would surely just be lots of whingeing!

And finally, Kate Bush has wished us a Merry Christmas, which is nice of her.

December will be mafting again

Day 68 – Benaulim, Goa

It has come to my attention that this blog is being read by some who have not yet made themselves known to me. There’s a name for people like you: LURKERS. So maybe you’d like to leave me a comment or a smiley or something just so I know you’re reading. Or perhaps post a favourite joke? I’ll start:

Q: How many French people were aboard the Titanic?
A: Cinq

I made that one up myself. It is under a Creative Commons licence, so feel free to use it at the dinner table next Friday if your crackers are cheap.

And I hear it’s snowing at home! Andy M reminded me of Kate Bush’s 1980 Christmas single – it made me a little homesick for a moment. Kate just doesn’t sound the same in this intense heat.

Devimasi doesn’t understand the concept of a beach holiday, of lying around in the sun and doing nothing, of eating food in restaurants that you could’ve made yourself at home. We hired a driver on Wednesday and visited a waterfall, a temple and the old Portugese churches of Old Goa, which were all very pretty. One of the churches, the Basilica of Bom Jesus, houses the grim remains of 16th century missionary St Francis Xavier. Bits of him are missing though: over the years relic hunters have made off with an arm, grabbed a handful of intestines and bitten off a little toe. This is proper rank like. We went inside the Sé Cathedral too, just across the road. It contained over a dozen altars, including ones dedicated to Our Lady of Hope, Our Lady of Anguish and Our Lady of Three Necessities. What are these, I wondered? I’m guessing cigarettes, Diet Coke and a copy of Grazia.

Gita, Hash and Devismasi are back to Dandi tomorrow, and I’ll be making tracks too. Possibly Hampi, possibly Palolem – not sure yet.

Have you all done your shopping?

Village people

Correctly addressing uncles and aunties is a complex affair. There are no less than eight sorts: the maternal uncle (mama), his wife (mami), the maternal aunty (masi), her husband (masa), the paternal uncle (kaka), his wife (kaki) and the paternal aunty (fui) and her husband (fua). And they’re just the Gujarati names. It’s like trying to identify trees using a key from a biology text book that nobody has provided you with.

And then of course there are those uncles and aunties who aren’t actually related to you at all, in which case I’ll use the same name that Gita uses, like Kaka – an old friend of my grandad’s – even though I guess he’s more my nana than my kaka. Anyway, Kaka is 90, has lived in Canada for most of his adult life, but these days returns to Dandi each winter. He doesn’t really talk to you when you go round, but he’ll happily fetch you a beer from the the fridge before returning to his TV program.

Then there’s Mad Kaki (no relation) – my grandparents’ next door neighbour before they left for England, and she still lives in the same ramshackle house. One example of her madness: she recently set fire to a patch of land in the village where the memorials are (including my grandad’s). But it’s no wonder she’s lost it: a couple of years ago, her son got into a row with some guys at a wedding. Days (weeks?) later, they came to the village looking for him: they beat him senseless, dumped him in the sea, he died. I heard all sorts of other stories: a woman in an unhappy marriage recently killed herself. Another, they say, practices black magic. We learned that only last week Mad Kaki’s brother hanged himself, but no-one has told her yet. She came round to the house to see us a few days ago: Gita told me about it afterwards. I’m painting a rather dark picture of village life, I don’t mean to. It feels like a very tight saf community here, and I’ve been made to feel welcome by everyone. I really liked Naranbhai, a strikingly handsome man in the village who keeps buffalo and brings us milk each day, and he made sure we ate as much as possible – served us himself he did – when we wedding crashed the other day.

I’ve already mentioned all the big, shiny new houses in the village built using foreign money: the divide between the haves and have-nots is no plainer than it is in Dandi. We have two relatives out here who still live on the poor side of that divide: my mother’s cousin, also called Devi and around the same age, and her 28-year-old son Chetan. Devi was widowed some years ago, and they rely solely on Chetan’s income. Chetan almost died in March after a motorcycle accident: he broke all sorts of bones, had a blood clot on the brain, an eye even popped out, and he was in a coma for over a fortnight. Miraculously, he’s right as rain now – money poured in from rellies on all sides to help pay his hospital bill – and he went back to work a month ago in a soap factory where they make Imperial Leather.

Devimasi has come to Goa with us at Gita’s insistence. On Sunday, the four of us caught the train to Mumbai, roughing it in the sweaty crush of second class unreserved (80p each for the 250km journey). We had hours to kill in Mumbai before our overnight train to Goa, so we got a cab to the Gateway of India just in time for sunset. Oh look, there’s the Taj Mahal Hotel – you know, that one wot got bombed. The call of a luxury loo was too much to resist, so we went in and predictably ended up eating there: Asian High Tea they called it – unlimited sandwiches, savouries, tea and cakes. Treating Devimasi to five-star luxury was all highly amusing for us, and had more than a whiff of Pretty Woman / Hannah Hauxwell about it. She found it all rather fun too, wasn’t fazed by it at all.

She is finding all the white women in bikinis a bit shocking though: she’s not seen anything quite like it before. (“Do they go to work like this?” she asked Gita). We’re in a small resort called Benaulim, it’s bloody gorgeous here. It’s about 32 degrees, the beaches are perfect, and you can get beautiful spicy seafood for pence. We’re staying in beachside huts too. Devimasi, however, is not quite sure what to do with herself…

A dry patch

Day 61 – Dandi

I have just returned from Navsari station where I finally managed to book tickets to Goa for me, uncle Harshad and aunties Gita and Devi. What a fanny on! I won’t bore you with the intricacies of the rail reservation system, suffice to say that it involves filling in lots of photocopied forms, clamouring at little windows and a world of no.

I’ve had a bad experience. In fairness, it’s never been this hard before, and it’s mainly to do with the fact that the Mumbai – Goa stretch is one of India’s most popular at this time of year, and I’ve left it until the last minute.

I’ve been here a week now, and in that time I’ve eaten about seventy meals. Gita has bought her own supply of chocolate biscuits and a carrier bag full of Asda SmartPrice sweets – wine gums, dolly mixtures, foamy fruits – all of which contain beef gelatine, I pointed out to her last night. The camp bed on which I am sleeping was brought from England too. My gran was adament that Gita didn’t take it with her, went on about it for weeks apparently. “People will talk!”

And there’s been a lot of talking and gossiping, which Gita’s really getting into. In the evenings, we have to turn off the outside lights and bolt the front door if we don’t want any more women from the village wandering in with bowls of some savoury snack or other: a ruse to sit and gossip! It’s all very dull for me, of course. I nod and smile when I sense that I’m being spoken to.

Gujarat’s a dry state too. The sale of alcohol is strictly prohibited, and you need a liquor permit if you want to drink it… which explains why I’ve had more booze this week than I’ve had on the entire trip. Uncle Hash bought cheap whiskey and cans of 8% beer with him, and the other night I got tiddly at uncle Mohan’s house on this stuff made from figs I think. He’s sending his son round with two more bottles later on.

Just 18 days left and I still haven’t made it south of Mumbai yet. All the books said that you can’t hope to do the whole country in one trip. I didn’t believe them, I thought 12 weeks would be plenty. South India will clearly have to wait. It might have to wait a while.

March to Dandi

On 12 March 1930, a 61-year-old Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi and 78 of his followers set off from the Sabarmati Ashram in Ahmedabad and marched over 390km to the coastal village of Dandi in protest against the British tax on salt. He vowed never to return to his home at the ashram until independence for India had been won. When he arrived in Dandi on 6 April 1930, he broke the salt law by picking up a lump of mud from the shore and boiling it to create illegal salt. He implored millions of his followers to do likewise in what became one of India’s most widespread acts of civil disobedience. “I want world sympathy in this battle of right against might,” he said.

On 4 December 2009, a 32 year-old Rasheed Rahman made the very same journey from the Sabarmati Ashram to Dandi. He vowed never to return to Ahmedabad until the whole lot had been pedestrianised. When he arrived in Dandi on 5 December 2009, he lay down on the swing seat on the veranda of his gran’s new house. “I want tea and probably could do with a shower,” he said.

You can still wander around Gandhi’s ashram, peer into his spartan living quarters, and see some of his possessions in old cabinets (wooden sandals, spinning wheel, stone plate, etc). There’s a bookshop, a small library and an exhibition too, which charts the Mahatma’s life through uncaptioned photographs and a detailed timeline in Gujarati, Hindi and English. Most of the information was straightforward:

4 September 1888 – Left for England to become a barrister, leaving his family at Rajkot.

6 November 1913 – Led the Great March consisting of 2037 men, 127 women and 57 children from Charlestown. Arrested at Palmford.

Some of it was intriguingly vague:

October 1918 – Affected by illness, condition very serious.

24 November 1925 – Fast for seven days due to moral lapses in the ashram.

There were other interesting exhibits too, like a copy the letter that he had written to Hitler in Christmas Eve, 1940 asking him to stop the war. It wasn’t that persuasive an argument, given how insane the recipent was. I left having learned that Gandhi had bad handwriting and small feet.

This is my second visit to Dandi. I was last here almost six years ago when I came with my mum, and it’s grown in that time: more ostentatious houses have sprung up, built from money made in the UK, Canada and New Zealand. When I arrived, they were celebrating the grand opening of the new temple in the village. We ate there on one of the days, and went back in the evening to watch the dancing. They’ve almost finished building a new clinic too. I think my gran has contributed to both of these new additions from her 10,000Rs/month freedom fighters’ pension, which she receives in recognition of the three months she spent in jail as a 14-year-old following a protest.

It’s all very low key and peaceful here. We’ve visited the beach a couple of times, which is crawling with tiny crabs the size of small houseflies (I’m not a fan myself). It seems that the authorities are trying to develop the village as a tourist destination, though if they can’t even keep the beach free of litter, then I can’t see it being especially good for the place.

There isn’t much to do here, so I’m trying to get through my book, Shantaram, which I’ve been lugging around for the last eight weeks. It’s 1000 pages long, and while the descriptions of India are vivid enough, I’m feeling a bit India’d up to be honest. I did manage to read To Kill a Mockingbird in Pushkar, which I hadn’t read before. It was brill, of course.

Kamal Khan

Day 53 – Udaipur

I’m missing Spotify. While there’s no shortage of music – the sound of soaring strings and warbley women is everywhere – it’s been a while since I’ve been able to singalong to anything. I can count the number of western pop songs I’ve heard on one hand: Abba’s Dancing Queen , three Tracy Chapman songs, and this load of tripe (warning – explicit lyrics), which made me realise what a Clockwork Orange-style dystopian future would sound like. Except that fuck me, we’re already there! I was disappointed to later learn that the radio-friendly version I Wanna Love You was nominated for a Grammy. Akon, Snoop: less is more, guys.

It was my last day in Udaipur today, so as usual I attempted to cram all the sights which I’d failed to visit into one day. First a boat trip on Lake Pichola from the City Palace. I’m not great with large expanses of water, I saw The Poseidon Adventure for the first time earlier this year and vowed never to board a ferry or cruise ship again. But this was only a smallish boat. It took us round the two floating palaces, and let us off to wander around one of them (the other one is a fancy pants hotel and off limits to the likes of me).

Then it was on to the Monsoon Palace, perched on the top of a hill about 5km out of town. This one featured in Octopussy quite a bit – it was where the baddie Kamal Khan lived – so the drive up the hill felt a bit glamourous for a second. The palace itself was shit, but the views were great. I was anxious to get back to town so could get a drink in a lakeside rooftop restaurant in time for sunset. What time is sunset tonight? 5.30pm? 5pm? Earlier? I asked my driver: he shrugged. I kept checking my watch. It took a whole hour before I thought to LOOK UP AT THE SKY, YOU DICK.

Finally got hold of Uncle Harshad in Dandi today, he and Gita will meet me at Navsari on Saturday afternoon. Best go and book tomorrow night’s accommodation in Ahmedabad – a huge, polluted city apparently. Fortunately, I’ll only be there for 18 hours.

Shopping and wucking

There’s a big tortoise and a baby tortoise in Panorama Hotel, they live on the terrace just outside my room. They were eating chopped tomato for breakfast this morning.

You might wonder why I’m spending so much time online. Apart from a general addiction, it’s the easiest way to plan anything, plus I’m working for Tamasha this week. But I am finding time for some shopping inbetween. Anyone want anything? I’ve finally found somewhere that’s not a rip off (I think).

I spoke to mum last night, sadly Grandma didn’t make her flight as she has the flu, not swine flu though. It’s best that she’s at home in Brum though. I’ll see Aunty Gita and Uncle Hash in Dandi though, and if they’re up for it, Kerala might turn into a posher holiday. That’s if I can get hold of them. And no internet in the village…

And just spoken to Madame Melanie Evans, who had just finished a portraiture class. This cafe’s like a little office!

Jaisalmer

Day 51 – Udaipur

I’ve been playing amateur investigative journalist, like a skinny and under-qualified Roger Cook, so this will be a long, boring post, with loose quotes and lots of missing vital facts, I’m sure. But I have been at the bhang cookies, so my mind has been whirring like a food processor. If I get it all down, maybe it will stop.

I’m in Udaipur now. I arrived yesterday and once again it’s a bigger city than I had imagined with a population of about 700,000. They call it India’s most romantic city, but I’m not so sure – it’s no Venice. Octopussy was filmed here, and every budget rooftop restaurant screens it at 7pm if you buy dinner.

But this post is about my four days in Jaisalmer.

Before Leane and I parted ways in Pushkar, she let me rip out all the sections of her 2009 edition of Lonely Planet that she wouldn’t need, but which I might find useful (apparently travellers do this all the time to make their books lighter). I had been quite happy with my Rough Guide until recently, when I noticed everyone carrying around this new LP. They must be market leaders – you see them in so many languages – there are very few RGs by comparison. Leane calls it Paranoid Planet, but neither book holds back when it comes to describing the scams, annoyances and possible dangers you might encounter whilst in India – particularly the risks for women travellers. I tore out the sections on Jaisalmer, Udaipur and Ahmedabad and waved goodbye to Leane.

I arrived in Jaisalmer on Thursday morning. The westernmost city in Rajasthan, about 150km from the Pakistani border, it is right in the middle of the Thar Desert. It’s dubbed ‘The Golden City’ because of its all made from honey-coloured sandstone, and its centrepiece is Jaisalmer Fort: built in the 12th century and still inhabited by over 2000 people, who live alongside the palace, old temples and numerous hotels, shops and cafes. Rajasthan is prime tourist territory, but it takes time and effort to make it as far as Jaisalmer, just look at the map. I almost left it out too, but I’m very glad I didn’t.

I loved the sleeper bus this time. It was still bumpy, but it was clean, and had glass screens and little curtains, and felt a bit like sleeping on a shelf in a wall unit! KK, the owner of Hotel Goreck Haveli, met me off the bus at 8am with a paper Rasheed sign.

The hotel was brand new and lovely, built from the same sandstone and decorated with intricate carvings in keeping with the rest of the town. As I had come on Bunty’s recommendation, I paid the same rate as I had done in Pushkar – just 300Rs (GBP4) per night – but the room must’ve been worth at least three times that.

Jaisalmer used to be a rich place, so the books tell me, from its location on trade routes to Central Asia, but its fortunes declined with the advent of shipping and the port of Bombay. When Partition happened, the trade route disappeared. It now plays a strategic role for the military, as well as being firmly on the tourist map – in the early 1980s, director Satyajit Ray made a film set there and the right roads were built. According to one of the traders I spoke to, 80% of the 70,000 people who live in the town rely on tourism for their income, as do around 50% of the 430,000 inhabitants of the desert villages of Jaisalmer District.

And Jaisalmer is in trouble. The growing population within the Fort and the huge boom in tourism (domestic and international, and in all price ranges) has meant that the amount of water flowing through the Fort has massively increased. The archaic drainage and sewage systems can’t cope (I’m sure our loo roll doesn’t help), and water has been leaking into the foundations causing it to crumble like a sandcastle, which is essentially what it is. Three of the 99 bastions have already collapsed. Both LP and RG have printed special boxes to alert travellers to the problem. RG tells its readers that they can make a difference by choosing to stay outside the Fort (as I did), or if you do choose to stay inside, by conserving water as far as possible. LP, on the other hand, took the decision not to list any hotel or restaurant operating inside the Fort. Both books give details for the British charity, Jaisalmer in Jeopardy, which aims to raise money for Fort repairs.

Remember those local elections I was talking about? Thursday was results day, and I stumbled on the victory celebration for the winning Congress Party candidate in the Fort ward. I got talking to two guys, Deepu and Kuku, who told me all about it. They turned out to be the younger brothers of the winning candidate, a thirtysomething lady called Prabha. This was the first time Prabha had stood for council, she had previously worked for the Fort authorities, responsible for keeping it clean. Deepu in was really friendly and invited me to join the parade, and it was a great walking tour! There was chanting and drumming and marigold garlands and sweets given out and smiling men, women and children everywhere as Prabha visited each street in turn and thanked households personally (she was already related to or friends with 200 of the 1130 voters, her brother later told me). It felt genuinely optimistic though – I tried to imagine similar post-election celebrations happening in Ealing Broadway or Solihull. Kuku told me that Prabha’s campaign promise was to “sort out the Fort and promote tourism”. Then Deepu introduced me to his friend who was the best German-speaking guide in the town, and also his toddler nephew who greeted me with “Hola, que tal?”

Deepu and Kuku run a cafe inside the Fort and organise camel treks, but you can hardly call it a cafe. There were two plastic tables and a few of chairs out. Their main asset was a great terrace with amazing views across the town and into the desert. I went back there to watch the sunset.

The next day – Friday – camels were on again. It seemed a shame to go all that way and not to do a short trek. KK organised my half-day “cultural programme”, which began at 2pm. There were four of us in the group: a tall, beautiful Italian woman who KK obviously had taken a liking to, two Israeli backpackers and me. We took a jeep along a long straight road into the desert, about 40km southwest of the town. Part of the cultural programme involved stopping off at a couple of rural desert villages to see the simple sand-and-stone huts and watch an old turbaned man make a clay pot using a potters’ wheel fashioned from a car tyre. Our guide told us that the majority of the people in the village were Rajput caste, while the musician caste lived to one side – they would provide their services whenever there was a village event in exchange for a goat or similar. The primary-aged children of the village who followed us around were keen to impress us with their tourist English: “What is your good name?” “How are you today?” “You are fine, I am double fine.” As we got back into the jeep, they crowded around and begged for money. It was all a bit comic relief / human zoo, but I guess that was to be expected.

Then came the camels. We drove on to the village of Khuri and to a small but seemingly well-run resort (listed in LP I think), whose camel drivers got us mounted and walked us for 30 minutes to the sand dunes where we dismounted to watch the sunset. Then we rode back to the resort, where four sets of cushions and bolsters and low tables had been set up for our meal – a delicious Rajasthani thali. Five local musicians entertained us before, during and after dinner, as did a pretty dancing girl dressed in a glittery blue costume. (KK had previously told me that the dancing girls are prostitutes from Jaipur working in Jaisalmer. But it’s good work for them, KK told me: the troupe of musicians get a monthly wage of 23,000Rs (about GBP300), while the girl gets 8,500Rs (about GBP115), regardless of how many tourists there are each night – and I guess some nights there are none. I don’t know if this is good money or not. KK would occasionally nudge me and say things like “She’s very beautiful, yes?” and seemed to think she had taken a shine to me. I’m generally oblivious to these things, but it did amuse me to be back in a world where everyone assumes me to be straight – it’s been so long! After dinner, the girl and the musicians tried to get us up to dance, which we did in the end but being such a small group we were all a bit self-conscious. We headed back just before 10pm and the dancer got a lift back with us some of the way, and she told that her name was Sonia and that she was 15. But all in all, it was a great experience, well organised and great fun – it cost me a tenner in all.

On day three I learned some of the finer points of Rajasthani embroidery. The man in Kamal Handicrafts Emporium spent over an hour showing me different kinds of fabric, and telling me how to look for quality craftsmanship: stitch density, patchworks versus single pieces, the different kinds of threads and dyes used, etc. He told me how the best pieces are made by the most experienced women, while the cheaper ones are made by the younger girls learning the craft. The market for these items is huge, and gives employment to god-knows-how-many rural women. And until ten years ago, the competition was all about who could make the highest quality stuff, but now customers just want cheap souvenirs, and standards have declined as a result. Most of the good work, he told me, is not on out at the front, and that he sells much of it through fixed-price government shops.

But it didn’t feel like a good year for the traders in Jaisalmer. I visited two other handicrafts shops after KHE, and flaunted my new found expertise! I didn’t buy in the end, but both shopkeepers earnestly asked me to buy something, telling me how quiet they had been. It then occurred to me that the only reason why I was staying in KK’s brand new hotel for 300Rs a night was that only 5 of his 70 rooms were occupied.

I started to feel very sorry for these businesses. I had found them all to be honest enough people, and Jaisalmer didn’t seem to be anywhere near as touty and hassley as other places I’ve been. Varanasi! Khajuraho! Then I started to get cross. No wonder these shops are doing badly. By the time the average tourist gets to Jaisalmer, they’ve most probably been tricked, lied to and, in the case of women, treated to lashings of unwanted sexual attention. Add to that the fact that you are blinded by the sheer colourfulness of everything, and how on earth are tourists expected to feel confident in spending a bit more on the good stuff? These traders – the hotels, the handicraft shops, the tour operators – should organise to welcome and inform their guests (build it in to the cultural programmes or give talks or demonstrations) and give up the hard sell. Some sort of code of practice that these responsible traders can sign up to – rebuild some trust with the tourists. I’m sure they can do it, they’re a small enough community, clearly everybody knows everybody. Maybe I’m expecting too much?

I left Jaisalmer on Sunday. In the morning, I went to the pharmacy to ask about the burn on my finger, which had started to fill with watery pus. His assistant drained the blister there and then with a fresh needle and cleaned it with iodine – free first aid for tourists apparently. He also told me to take a course of antibiotics. A great service, I thought. In the afternoon, I went to say goodbye to Deepu and Kuku. We talked over tea – I mentioned how all my conversations with local businesspeople had reminded me of my dad’s Indian restaurant, how he made a living from exporting Indian culture, and all the hard work that it involved. Deepu asked me what he could do to improve his cafe. We were on his sparsely furnished terrace again, and I didn’t really know what to say. His main asset was the view, but tourists don’t want to sit out in the blazing sun during the day. Kuku pointed to his half-finished two story building adjacent to the cafe – he had been planning to expand the business – but it was sagging heavily in the middle. It was falling down, and for the first time I saw the fort’s structural problems glaring at me. Then I realised how unsafe it was. Is this why LP aren’t listing them?

I’d heard all sorts of stories about the state of the Fort, what repairs were needed, and what the present situation is, etc. and I still didn’t get it. I asked Kuku, who thought that the decision by Lonely Planet to boycott businesses in the Fort has been really bad for the town. “People treat that book like a bible.” It’s true. “If one of our businesses gets listed in there, we celebrate like it’s Diwali. But if we have more years like this and we lose our businesses, then what will happen to the Fort? It will be full of thieves and beggars.”

What about his sister who’s just been made local councillor for the Fort? On paper it’s all there, he said, the money is there, but the work on repairing the Fort is not in progress, it needs to happen now. The Congress party never do anything. But on Thursday, he was chanting and punching the air in Prabha’s victory parade? “I was supporting my sister, not the Congress Party. The Indian government want to move everyone out of the fort, they offer us 50 lakhs or 1 crore (GBP67,000 – 134,000) but people have been living in this fort for 850 years. When they move us out, then what will happen to the Fort?” Kuku doesn’t know why the Government wants to empty the fort. And what about this British charity, Jaisalmer in Jeopardy? Kuku said that they send money, but it goes to the authorities and doesn’t get spent. I think I’ll drop them a line and get their side of the story.

I started to think that LP might have been a bit harsh in their blanket ban, but I guess if it’s falling down, then it’s falling down. But Kuku told me that there are lots of hotels in the Fort that ask their guests to abide by water-saving rules, the residents themselves are subject to regular restrictions, so why can’t LP let us make up our own minds like RG does?

This is LP on shopping in Jodhpur:

The usual Rajasthani handicrafts are available here, and Jodhpur is famous for antiques. However, we recommend that you do not buy genuine antiques as the trade in antique architectural fixtures is contributing to the desecration of India’s cultural heritage (beautiful old havelis are often ripped apart for their doors and window frames). Most places can make you a piece of antique style furniture and prices aren’t bad.

Whatever happened to Cash in the Attic? Can we not buy antiques at all? And why can’t these people flog bits of their own houses if they need the cash? My beautiful fireplace used to live in Crouch End.

As if I wasn’t confused enough, I then got this response when I was in the Udaipur branch of Rajasthali, the fixed-price government shop. I asked the smartly turned out salesman how business was: not brilliant but reasonably good, he told me. I said that I’d just come from Jaisalmer and that they were having a bad year. “They deserve it,” he said vehemently. “For years they’ve been misusing their location.” But he wasn’t just talking about a watery Fort: he was referring quite plainly to a history of sexual assaults on lone tourists in the desert. “I can give you a hundred reasons why Udaipur doesn’t have the problems that Jaisalmer does.” I asked the other men in the shop if they thought the same, two nodded and the other stayed quiet. Neither LP or RG warned about that, and they’re normally so hot on this kind of thing.

I guess I should also ask LP for their take on this. They have so much influence on a whole chunk of the market, maybe they can work more closely with the town to help root out the bad guys? Whatever the deal is in Jaisalmer, I hope it gets through it. It’s really amazing there.

Hello to the Queen

I’m leaving Pushkar today for Jaisalmer, and the lovely people at Everest have organised everything for me. Alas it involves another sleeper bus, but Bunty’s mate Kailash will meet me off the bus and take me to his guest house, Hotel Gorakh Haveli. It’s brand new apparently, Bunty showed me a leaflet. It began:

Hotel Gorakh Haveli is a place where a tourist is treated like God.

I wonder if I will be going to sleep tomorrow night surrounded by tealights and sugar crystals. Or maybe the staff will start exploding around me. Speaking of which…

Reasons to Quit Smoking
No. 327 – Matches are dangerous

I have picked up a few bad habits off my late father. One of them involves falsely accusing the nearest person (e.g. partner, flatmate) of moving something (e.g. a set of keys) if they are not in the first place I look (i.e. whatever surface is in front of me). Another one – far more irritating and, I have now discovered, dangerous too – is putting dead matches back in the box. It might save on litter, but it causes needless anxiety to self and others. Last night, in a restaurant with American Lindsey, I did this very thing, except the match wasn’t quite out. The whole box caught alight with a mini-explosion, during which it attached itself to my hand. I yelped and flailed like a girl, and the box, now containing 40 dead matches, flew across the restaurant. The incident has left me with a very sore, two-inches-long burn to the forefinger of my left hand. It’s in a mini-bandage now, and looks rather fetching alongside my coldsore.

Miserable, with a bag of ice in my hand, I treated myself to pudding: one Hello to the Queen please! This curiously-named dessert has been softly calling to me since I first saw it on a menu four weeks ago in Manali. It consisted of hot banana crumble with vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce. It was okay but far from great – the crumble was powdery for one thing – but with some work I think it could be a real winner.

Through a cow

Day 43 – Pushkar

A productive day started with an 8.30am yoga class with Leane and two twentysomething British girls that Leane met in Darjeeling: Claire from Nottingham and Laura from Merseyside. And I’ve just returned from a stiff walk to the top of a high hill to visit Savitri’s temple and enjoy the smoggy sunset over the town.

Savitri was the first wife of Brahma the Creator. The story goes that Brahma needed to perform some sacrificial ritual at some auspicious astrological moment, and one of the requirements was that his wife be present. Savitri didn’t show up on time for one reason or another (making herself beautiful was one version I heard), so Brahma was forced to find a last-minute replacement, which he did by marrying an untouchable girl, Gayatri. But in order to make Gayatri suitably pure for the ceremony she first had to be passed through a cow. Naturally. When Savitri finally rocked up and discovered Brahma had married someone else, she lost it and put a curse on him. From then on, Brahma could only be worshipped in Pushkar, explaining why there are hardly any other Brahma temples anywhere else in India. To appease Savitri, a temple was built on the highest hill over Pushkar, while Gayatri’s temple sits on a lower one – pilgrims should always visit Savitri’s first. Lucky for me, I did.

Camel trekking is off the menu I have decided. I saw a handful of working elephants in Jaipur, ferrying people to and from the Amber Fort, and while I got excited and took pictures and I told them that I loved them, something about the whole thing was sad. I don’t care so much for camels, but I’ll pass even so. But Pushkar is famous for these animals: the annual Camel Fair is a world-famous event and tourists flock here for it. Gareth and Michelle (as in Gareth and Michelle from McCleodganj) were here for it just three weeks ago and confirmed it was quite the spectacle. I’m glad to be here though during this post-festival lull though: it’s laidback and accommodation is cheap.

But it has been noisy at times over recent days – campaigning for the Pushkar local mayoral election has been taking place across the town – they go to the ballot boxes today. It’s important apparently, the mayor has real power in the town. It’s between the Congress Party candidate and the BJP candidate and, according to the man in the pharmacy, it could go either way if the drumming-chanting-honking-of-horns factor is anything to go by. I have no idea what any of this means of course, even after reading this, but I’d thought I’d take an interest.

I’ve made plans for the next couple of weeks too. After here, it’s on to Jaisalmer in the Thar desert (for the sandstone fort) followed by Udaipur (for the floating hotel out of Octopussy). Then it’s on to Gujarat for a week at my Gran’s house in the seaside village of Dandi. My Grandpa grew up here, and my mum was born here too, though she left for England when she was two. It’s an historic village too, being the final destination of Mahatma Gandhi’s first major act of civil disobedience in opposition to British rule in India: the 1930 Salt Satyagraha, or the Dandi Salt March as it’s more commonly known. As it’s on the way, I’ll make a stop at Ahmedabad too – Gujarat’s capital and the march’s starting point. More on all this soon…

Dry lake

Day 41 – Pushkar

These northern tourist towns and cities have turned us into horrible, jaded, suspicious people. It’s really not a nice way to be and the negativity and aggression have been spoiling the trip. By the time Leane and I stepped off the bus in Pushkar yesterday, we had grown so sick of the hard sell that I found myself yelling at the handful of hotel reps who had inevitably encircled us before any of them had the chance to utter a single word. Mel has had more than she can stand of it, and has decided not to join me again for the south, instead staying in and around Varanasi after her teaching finishes for a couple of Buddhist retreats, which will see her through to January.

But Pushkar, as it turns out, is lovely, and where we are staying, Hotel Everest, is perhaps the friendliest and most comfortable place I have stayed so far – run by a lovely young lad Bunty, and his equally lovely dad. It has a great rooftop restaurant with a hammock and they can’t do enough for us. I still can’t shake this cold, so I reckon I’ll hang here for a some days yet. Sadly, Bunty was one of the poor men I shouted at when we got off the bus. Do you see what I mean?

Pushkar is a compact Hindu pilgrimage town on the fringes of the desert – Brahma dropped a lotus flower on earth and Pushkar Lake appeared, so they say. It has hundreds of temples, including one of the world’s few devoted to Brahma, most of which surround the lake. Alas, the lake is currently dry, but there are temple-topped hills to climb with amazing sunrise/sunset views and camel trekking opportunities. In fact, I could even do a camel trek to my next destination: Jodhpur (5 days) or Jaisalmere (10 days), though I would first need to gather together all the antihistamines in Asia. What do you reckon? It seems a bit unfair on the poor things…

Home jogger

I love Telemall (the video!)

Day 39 – Jaipur

Jaipur sounds like it should be lovely. Maybe it’s the -pur bit, making it sound pure, or the ‘Pink City’ moniker, making it sound pretty. But despite its forts and palaces, it’s neither pure nor pretty; it’s just another noisy city with pushy hawkers and litter and dust and construction and public urinals that make your eyes water from the wee of a hundred dehydrated men.

I met up with Leane again, so at least I haven’t had to suffer the place alone. We went to Amber today to see the inside of the palace and the outside of the forts, and saw camels and elephants along the way. But that’s as far as we got with the city sightseeing.

Last night, we tried to go to the cinema to see 2012. We didn’t in the end – it was dubbed into Hindi – but as we lined up at the ticket window, a security guard complete with beret, moustache and big wooden stick stood over us ensuring that the men and women stayed in their respective queues, and he would enforce this by intermittently hitting his stick on the steel tubing barrier that seperated them. I couldn’t help myself and gave him a gobful, something about it being a cinema, not the court of Jahangir. I mean really, what do they think will happen?

But my stop before this one was really very lovely: Orchha in Madhya Pradesh, which was once the capital of the Bundela Rajas in the 15th century, whoever they were. During their stay, they built two amazing five-storey palaces, a temple, fortifications and other stuff before being chased off by the Mughals in the early 17th century: the monuments have lain deserted ever since. Archeological Survey of India hasn’t officially recognised these monuments yet, and MP Tourism has only been promoting them for the last 15-20 years. A local guy said that until relatively recently, local kids used to play in them, people used to sleep in them, and you could walk around the village and come across ancient coins. But the upside is that you can spend hours wandering around them, looking out across the surrounding jungle, without being pestered by guards or hordes of other tourists. And the village was pretty, friendly and low on hawker-hassle. It was maybe the best stop on the trip so far. Why I only spent one night there I don’t know: it took 12 hours on the overnight bus to get to Jaipur, which was like trying to sleep in a cement mixer.

Off to Pushkar in the morning with Leane for some desert action: just three hours on the bus – far more civilised.

On religion

Day 36 – Khajuraho

Where would we be without religion? Without conflict, some like to think, though I can quite easily imagine a world of atheists warring over territory, resources, the best way of doing things, etc. For the most part, it appears to keep people on the straight and narrow (even if this does involve some rather suspect superstition), and gives these poor sods some bloody hope in life.

But perhaps most importantly, it gives us things to visit and take pictures of when we go abroad. Without the weird, wonderful and, quite often, awesome art, architecture and rituals that it inspires – some going back thousands of years – my days here would go something like this:

8am: Wake up
9am: Go for breakfast
10am: Sit around a bit and read
11am: Walk around and look at poor (and now hopeless) people
1pm: Eat some lunch
2pm: Walk around some more
4pm: Use the internet
7pm: Eat some dinner
9pm: Go to bed
9.10pm: Remember that I’ve not taken my malaria tablets

But admittedly there are people who have been made insane by religion. Before I left Varanasi, I took a trip out to Sarnath – the place where the Buddha gave his first sermon to five disciples. The tidy park housed the ruins of a number of ancient stupas and gompas, as well as a tree formed from an offshoot of the original tree in Bodhgaya under which the Buddha first found enlightenment.

No problems here. But the Jain temple next door… Closely linked to Buddhism, Jainism also practices non-violence and Jain followers avoid harm to all souls that exist in humans, animals, plants, water, fire, earth and air. They don’t eat onions or garlic or pluck fruit from trees. In practicing non-attachment, they don’t use cups, plates or any implements with which to eat and drink (which they only do once a day). They don’t wear leather, of course. In fact, Jain monks don’t wear anything at all, instead carrying a fan of peacock feathers to cover themselves in the event of an erection. Why peacocks? Because they are pure and don’t touch each other when procreating apparently (you can look this up if you want… this is what the guy told me). But alas, if you are a nun, India will not accept your nudity, even in name of worship. So you girls will need to keep covered up, albeit with a simple white robe. But as you are not practicing true non-attachment, you cannot hope to achieve nirvana at the end of this life. Sorry ladies – the best you can hope for is that you will be reincarnated as a man in the next. Yawn…

But it wasn’t always like this. I left Varanasi the night before last for Khajuraho – a small collection of villages in Madhya Pradesh famous for its incredible, intricately sculpted Hindu temples, build under the Chandella dynasty during the 10th, 11th and 12th centuries. Depicting the whole pantheon of Hindu gods and goddesses, they are also famous for their celebration of sexuality in all its forms, with explicit scenes adorning each side of the temples, including graphic depictions of orgies, masturbation, bestiality and girl-on-girl action. Afghan invaders saw to the decline of the Chandellas soon after the temples were completed, but somehow they were missed by subsequent invaders and survived. Lost in the jungle for 700 years, they were rediscovered by the British in 1838.

It took fifteen hours to get here, and it was all over in 90 minutes. I guess that’s a bit like travelling to Belarus to watch your football team play. I hired an audio tour: a cassette walkman (fast forward only) with an informative, if flowery, guide to two of the main temples: “Marvel at the symphony of line and form which stands before you… Pause for a moment to imagine the sculptor caressing each sandstone block in a tireless labour of love.” The narrator also tried to make excuses for the eroticism of the temples, pointing out that they only accounted for a minority of the carvings.

I am off to Orchha today, before heading on to Jaipur tomorrow, no doubt for more temples and more photos. I’m actually getting quite bored of taking photos. I don’t see why I can’t have something installed in my face so I can just double-blink and have the image automatically uploaded online. Besides, I’m not great at photography – Mel’s way better than me, she has a real eye for it. Some of you may not know that she’s a very talented artist…

Ghat to be there

Day 34 – Varanasi

It rained here yesterday, turning the maze of alleyways in the Old City (where I have been staying) into a sludgy, slippery mess, like the day after heavy snowfall. Except this was shitfall.

This place can take its toll. You can’t trust anyone – if they speak good English, you better watch out. But while it has more than its fair share of junkies and con artists, for the most part they are just trying to lure you into their silk emporium, so their boss can then give you the hard sell, which is bad enough. I feel very sorry for every middle-aged tourist I see trying to grin and bear.

But there is definitely an ambience here. Varanasi is one of the oldest living cities in the world, founded, legend has it, by Shiva himself. The point where the Varuna and Asi rivers meet the Ganges, it is the epicentre of the Hindu world – a place where the gods can come down to earth. Anyone who dies here achieves instant liberation (no more tiresome reincarnations) and consequently lots of people come here to die. I am leaving today for Khajuraho, but for the last two nights I have been staying close to Manikarnika Ghat – the burning ghat – the part of the river where the cremations take place. There are towering piles of wood (sandalwood and others which mask the smell of burning flesh) and, of course, constant gawpers.

I took a dawn boat ride this morning with my new friend Leane – a 47-year-old waitress from Vancouver who says comedy things all the time like “He’s a frickin’ dork!” Fortunately (but slightly disappointingly), no body parts bobbed past us.

We arrived here four nights ago, and went straight to the 300-acre campus of the Krishnamurti Foundation where Mel will be living and working for the next month, and a very lovely place it is too – with lush gardens and riverside walks. Rajghat Besant School is a very exclusive and well-resourced place, and the people seem lovely enough. She will be quite safe and happy there. We’ve parted now, and will meet up again on 11 December in Mumbai.

I’m getting blog fatigue – I think I’m generally a bit worn out at the moment. You must be bored too surely?

The kindness of strangers

Day 29 – Agra

I had no idea that Agra was such a big city. Once the capital of the Mughal empire, it is now one apex of the so-called Golden Triangle. Tourists come here for the elaborate, awe-inspiring and perfectly symmetrical Mughal forts, palaces and mausoleums, including, of course, the Taj Mahal. Consequently, it is notorious for having some of the most aggressive touts and hawkers in all of India. We, however, have had an easy time of it.

We left Rishikesh on Friday: up at 3.30am for the 6am train from Haridwar, some 30km away. We had berths in a sleeper carriage: I managed to kip until 1pm, woken by a ruckus: a passenger – a middle-aged, well-to-do man with thinning, hennaed hair – was complaining about his food from the pantry carriage. The man with whom he was arguing was refusing to bring the complaint book, probably fearing that he would lose his catering contract. There were heated words, and a crowd of onlookers, and I too quite unselfconsciously stared down from the upper berth. About an hour later, the book finally arrived, and a yellow-shirted man was enlisted to complete the form as henna man dictated:
“Okay… name…. B. K. Shah. Address…. [he told him his address]. Nature of complaint… okay… i need to think about this, one minute… Okay, write this: Food…. quality…. is…. third… class… yes. Human… beings… cannot…. take… this… type… of… chapatti…” And so it went on – oh how we sniggered! Though yellow-shirted man turned out to be a right sleazeball, as Mel discovered later in the journey.

Mukesh received us at the station. Mel met 33-year-old Mukesh last year on a ferry in Scotland – he is a follower and translator of the work of spiritual philosopher J Krishnamurti at whose Foundation school Mel will be teaching later this month. Agra is Mukesh’s hometown, and as well as feeding us at his family home and giving us a tour of the sights on Saturday, he arranged our accommodation at (Mel had told me) his friend’s apartment.

In fact, it was his friend’s son’s house: the 57-year-old Nagpal-ji, his wife, and their 21-year-old son Mani (I am in Mani’s bedroom as I type), Mukesh’s friend being an octogenarian now living in a Delhi ashram. So since Friday, we have been guests of this family (Mukesh left for Delhi on Saturday night) and have been treated to some Indian hospitality: three home-cooked meals a day, ferrying here and there and a point-blank refusal to accept any money from us. We are leaving for Varanasi tonight – we somehow need to escape from the house, find a decent shopping area, and buy some thank you presents….

If you can put up with the constant pressure to buy bits of tat, there’s lots to see in Agra. So far, I have been successful in securing the Indian nationals’ rate on entry to the major monuments, though I did have a bit of trouble at the Taj Mahal. My strategy has been to employ the look of a retarded mute, able only to nod, grunt and say my city of residence (Chennai, where not everyone speaks Hindi). On this occasion, the suspicious man at the ticket counter asked me who the Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu was. I looked back blankly and grunted some more. Another man asked me again where I was from. I told him Chenni and grunted again (I clearly understood English… hadn’t thought of this bit). He took pity on me, and bought me my ticket: 20Rs (about 27p) to Mel’s 750Rs (almost a tenner).

The Taj is as impressive as they say, though much better from the outside and from a distance. There was a very, very long queue to get to see Mumtaz’s tomb (Mumtaz was emperor Shah Jahan’s favourite wife for whom he built the monument – we know that she was his favourite as she bore him fourteen children) and there were some very fierce guards with guns making sure we queued neatly. At one point, I fell out of line, and a potato-faced female guard barked at me loudly and publicly. My gut response, as ever, was to give her a mouthful, though thankfully I didn’t. (I’m not sure where this instinctive disrespect for authority has come from – maybe it’s because thhe consequences back in the UK are generally insignificant, or maybe it harks back to that childhood visit to the Tower of London when my mum got taken away by the Beefeaters: we had gone to see the crown jewels, and you’re supposed to keep moving around the display cases whilst looking at them. “Keep moving round please” they would tell you repeatedly. Mum stopped at one point for a closer look – she’s only little. “That means you too love,” one of them told her with a heavy prod to the shoulder. Obviously, she kicked off, and wouldn’t leave without an apology for this unnecessary assault. This, however, all took place behind closed doors, as I – about eight at the time – waited outside on Tower Bridge with Aunty Jackie, bawling my eyes out, convinced that she was going to be beheaded.)

We also paid visits to Agra Fort, the lost city of Fatehpur Sikri and Keoladeo National Park, where we saw all sorts of birds, some deer, turtles and – best of all – fireflies! We heard the call of the jackal, and avoided the angry wild boars and cobras.

There’s lots more to say, and pictures too – especially of our lovely hosts – though there’s only so long you can spend in a stranger’s bedroom…

Ode to mosquitos

Hai Ram!
A bite on the arm
Must prevent further harm:
Mel, pass the tiger balm.

Hacked off

I am furious that I won’t get to see the Michael Jackson film in Agra, which ended its run today (we get there tomorrow). I am also still cross that I didn’t get to go on that elephant safari. But today I did swim in the Ganges, so I am at least pure of spirit (and teeming with bacteria).

As the late Whitney Houston once sang:

No matter what they take from me
They can’t take away my dysentery

The Trouble with Asian Men

Men, they say, think about sex every seven seconds. I, on the other hand, have thought about it maybe twice in four weeks.

So why is it, I wonder, that I don’t fancy Indian men? Is is because:

1. They hurl snotty, phlegmmy spit all over the streets, making loud throaty noises as they do so?

2. They suck their fingers when they eat, often four at a time, again accompanied by great slurping sounds? Or is that

3. Growing up with over thirty cousins led me to mistakenly believe that every brown person must be related to me in some way?

Dunno. But this is not a new thing: Asian men have never done it for me. Now many people would construe this kind of statement as racist. If a white person were to say this, my first response might even be to think the same. But in Gayland, such stipulations are quite acceptable. Spend a few moments browsing the many profiles on Gaydar (though I really don’t recommend this) and you will find a plethora of personals along the lines of:

Really into hairy guys, skinheads or men into socks. Please don’t message me if you’re Asian, Arabic or really fat. Sorry, no offence guys, just doesn’t do it for me.

But let’s not despair, it’s not all bad. Over the years, I can certainly claim to have had my fair share of attention from gentlemen who harbour the ‘men of colour fetish’, though these people are generally over 55 and alcoholics. At Kudos, the bar near Charing Cross, Sunday night’s Long Yang Club used to be devoted exclusively to Oriental men and their admirers (rice queens, I think they’re called). Why am I telling you all this when my mother is reading? Um…

This has been on the telly lots. “Double strong fragrance”. Nice.

No elephants

Apparently all safaris are off until 15th November for some unknown conservation reason. What about my needs?

Day 23 in Rishikesh, and I have been trying to brush up on my Hindu gods, seeing as this place is such a holy town. Legend has it that Lord Rama, an earthly incarnation of Vishnu (the blue guy with four arms), did penance here for killing the demon king of Lanka. It’s a bloody complicated religion though. I have only just learned that Vishnu has no less than 1000 names – Hari, Krishna and Rama being just three of them. And it seems that there are almost as many variants of Hinduism as there are villages in India.

Rishikesh certainly has some pull for pilgrims though: the place is full of rowdy Indian families circumambulating shrines and buying cheap souvenirs. Surinder, the guy who works at the internet cafe attached to our hotel, thinks there are an unnecessary number of places of worship. “Vishnu temple, Shiva temple, Parvati temple, everywhere temple temple,” he said. “Haridwar, Rishikesh, Dehra Dun, temple temple temple. Too many temple. People make their money, then when it comes to holidays, they come here to waste their money.”

Two nights ago just after sunset, I went to watch arti (evening worship) by the river close to our hotel, where people sit on the steps of the ghat, singing devotional songs and floating candles down the Ganges. It was all very pretty, if a little pushy and shovey at times.

Rishikesh is full of sadhus too, men and women who have renounced all worldly possessions in their final days, and who live in temples, forests, caves or on the streets, meditating to achieve their final goal of life – moksha (liberation). But beware: thieves have been disguising themselves as sadhus since medieval times so the guide book tells me.

It seems the holier the place, the more cows there are, and the more cows there are, the more cow shit and flies. There really are loads of flies. But it’s funny how quickly some things become normal here: the incessant honking of horns, blind amputees… We’ve found a nice little cafe though, The Little Buddha Cafe, where you can lounge about on cushions and read. I’m off there now, in fact. It’s a hard life.

In the news…

Apparently yesterday was Indira Gandhi’s “25th Martyrdom Day”, which I presume means 25 years since she was assassinated. I know this from her Cruella De Vil-like mush appearing on every other page of Times of India in big tribute ads taken out by various government organisations. These include:

> The Congress Party (half-page)
> Ministry of Commerce and Industry (half-page)
> Ministry of Information and Broadcasting (full page)
> Delhi Government (quarter-page, the cheapskates) and
> Ministry of Steel (half-page) which read:

“Your vision and guidance has inspired us to create a better future. Our steel has made a major contribution in the development and growth of this nation.Today, we pay homage to your foresight and sacrifice.”

Didn’t she order the gunning down of a bunch of Sikhs, hence being killed by her own bodyguard? And did she not implement a brutal program of slum clearances and force vasectomies on thousands of men? (Yes, I’ve read A Fine Balance). Either way, she still seems to be held in high regard here. But what is this subcontinent-wide obsession with martyrdom anyway? It surely can’t be healthy.

I agree with Tamsin Bop when she says that The Beatles were overrated. Sure, they wrote great songs, but other artists performed them way better. Take Stevie Wonder’s version of We Can Work It Out, The Carpenters’ beautiful rendition of Ticket to Ride, or Candy Flip’s not-at-all-dated cover of Strawberry Fields Forever. So why was I yesterday compelled to visit the now deserted, decrepit and overgrown ashram of the late Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, once patronised by the Fab Four? Perhaps because there’s naff all else to do in Rishikesh, and we’re here until Friday.

I went alone, against the advice of the Rough Guide as a number of muggings have been reported. ‘Atmospheric’ the book called it. ‘Terrifying, like the set of a 70s horror film‘ would be closer. I carried my Jungle Formula mosquito repellent aerosol in my pocket so I could deet-mace any potential attackers.

We have abandoned the idea of staying in an ashram – neither of us are prepared to give up satellite TV and hot running water – though yesterday Mel went to a (disappointing) philosophy talk and I went to a (much better) yoga class. All being well, tomorrow we will pay a visit to Rajaji National Park in an open jeep to meet the wild elephants. This might be the single most exciting thing that has ever happened to me.

Memsahibs

Day 19 – Rishikesh

I have found myself talking stupid. I’m dropping all sorts of conjunctions, definite and indefinite articles, and putting on a cod Indian accent to make myself understood. It works! But more concerning, I have no inclination whatsoever to learn the language. It’s a bit crap really. I can speak more French and Spanish than I can Hindi. I mean, horresco referens, I can even speak more Latin! This is the extent of my Hindi vocabulary:

Haa – yes
Nahi – no
Acha – okay

You’d be surprised how far this can get you. But just you wait, when I get to Gujarat in a month, you won’t be able to shut me up! Because I also know how to say:

Le – there you go
Bas – that’s quite enough food thanks

There have been many occasions over the last three weeks when I have had to remind myself that I am in fact a 32-year-old man and not that scared 10-year-old hiding behind my father’s legs, happy to let him do all the talking. But the hyper-machismo which I once found super-intimidating is now not scary at all. It’s actually quite funny, pretty cheesy, and at times downright gay! Two men walking down the street with arms draped around each others’ shoulders in a show of brotherliness is a common sight. Add perfectly combed Just For Men hairdos, thick moustaches and chunky beige jumpers and hey presto! (Incidentally, Mel and I have agreed to investigate India’s gay scene when we get to Mumbai in December. Homosexuality was decriminalised here earlier this year, though I suspect that will mean little to the masses. Though we did spot this guy appearing (predictably) in the Indian Big Brother, which they call Bigg Boss. That haircut is strangely familiar…)

We left Shimla yesterday – I thoroughly recommend it, but not to anyone who doesn’t like walking up extremely steep hills. We paid a visit to Viceregal Lodge, the summer base of the British Raj, which now houses the Indian Institute of Advanced Studies – a place for post-doctoral scholars in social sciences and humanities to hole themselves away and read books. It was as you’d expect – grand and imposing with lots of wood panelling and fancy ceilings. There were pictures of all the Viceroys and their wives, and old photos of Gandhi, Nehru, Jinnah et al arriving for the ill-fated Shimla Conference. We saw the table at which poor chap Cyril Radcliffe drew those hurried, arbitrary lines partitioning India and Pakistan, resulting in the biggest two-way exodus in history and the death of up to one million in the ensuing communal violence. Then we went for tea and scones in the five-star Oberoi hotel like a couple of old memsahibs.

While we were there, we ran into the Texan couple we had met in town earlier that day: Chet and Sunni. So lovely, and not Republicans at all. We ended up back at the Oberoi with them the next night, swimming in the swanky pool and drinking Indian sauvignon blanc (recommended). Incidentally, this was the hotel where Kipling used to stay – a large part of Kim was set in Shimla, not that I’ve read it.

But now we’re on the banks of the Ganges in Rishikesh in the state of Uttarakhand. It took 11hrs and three buses to get us here. As I type, Mel’s looking at ashram opportunities. I’ll let you know how we get on.

Dhobi

I am obsessed with my laundry:

Haircut

Eminem:

Everyday use:

Cheeky monkeys

Day 16 – Shimla

No photos, I’m afraid, as the portly man sat next to me who runs the internet caff has told us “No, no uploads, we don’t have the bandwidth”. He’s a big liar.

We left Manali yesterday. I tried washing a few clothes in the bucket in our bathroom before we left, though not sure how successful it was. I do know, however, that they got thoroughly wet and then thoroughly dry.

Sunday saw the latest episode of The Objectification of Melanie Evans: near the hot springs in Vashisht, a group of excitable-but-harmless Indian lads insisted on having their photo taken with her. (I do have a snap of this amusing scene, but fattie won’t let me show it to you.) Mel found the whole thing very funny, she said she felt like a celebrity. I kept thinking of the angora rabbit.

Yesterday was taken up with a 9hr bus journey through the beautiful Kullu Valley to Shimla, the capital of Himachal Pradesh and the former summer HQ of the British Raj. We met a couple of young Brits as we were waiting at the bus stand, Sunny and James (“but everyone calls me Barnsey”):

Me: “Where are you guys from, you sound Northern?”
Them: “St Ives”

We’ve gone upmarket for Shimla: a 25 quid “super deluxe” room in Hotel Le Royal, which has funny little bellhops and amazing views. It’s immaculate here, a bit sloaney, and set out across seven high hills, which are dotted with churches and mock-tudor and gothic buildings. I have just had to duck into an alleyway to have a fag. “NO SHMOKING IN ANY PUBLIC PLACE IN ALL OF INDIA! SUPREME COURT RULING!!” an old man told me disapprovingly. “Is that recent? When was this? This year? Last year?” I asked. “YES!” he said.

There are also loads of monkeys cruising around: the famous Jakhu Temple dedicated to monkey god Hanuman means that these beasts have now become accustomed to receiving offerings from visiting worshippers, and now they’re pretty aggressive. We have heard all sorts of scary stories of monkeys bag-snatching or stealing sunglasses off your head. We’ve also been told not to open the bigger windows of our hotel room because of them. You can hire a stick on the way up to the temple to fend them off. I will have no qualms about using it should I need to. Sorry.

We are also trying hard to find somewhere to watch the Michael Jackson movie, but it looks like I’ll have to wait until we get to Agra on 6 November.

BJ Toast

On Friday, I got beaten up by the man who cut my hair. An Indian head massage: I thought I knew what it would involve, but no. Thirty minutes of slapping and pummeling, I thought my brain might erupt, and it hurt. However, he does seem to have dislodged 60% of my cold from my head. The haircut, by the way, is short with a super-straight fringe.

I feel I’ve given a bad impression of Manali from all the poo talk. It’s actually very well-maintained: Vashisht is spotless each morning, the cows and dogs all seem well-cared for, and Manali town is ordered and sane. A couple of days ago, our tuktuk got stuck in traffic: a far-too-big coach was trying to get round a tight corner on a narrow lane going up to Old Manali, and it felt for a moment we could’ve been near Wimbledon Common or Hampstead Heath. Smoking has been banned from the streets of Manali town – the is the case, Lonely Planet tells me, in lots of other Indian cities. Plastic pollution is a problem though: plastic bags have been banned, but the heaps of empty water bottles grow. We are well aware of how we’re contributing to this.

Watching other Indians on holiday has been interesting. We joined them in visiting a 500-year-old cave temple dedicated to Hidimbi Devi, worshipped, so I have been told, in times of adversity. It is also where your children can enjoy a short ride on a yak, or have their photo taken with an ultra-fluffy angora rabbit. Manali also has a Tibetan community, evident from the prayer flags hanging from the roads on the approach into town. There was a cool gompa, an attraction for the Indian tourists too, and everyone joined in with the turning of the prayer wheels. A couple of days ago, we had lunch in Johnson’s, an upmarket, rather pricey hotel, and saw some of those burgeoning Indian middle-classes we hear so much about.

We’ve just come from breakfast. Usually, I go for BJ Toast (toast with butter and jam), but today I had parathas with pickle (minced chilli basically), curd and masala chai, while Mel had apple tea (hot, local apple juice), fried eggs and a cheese toasty. We’re big fans of yak’s cheese.

Oh, and we might have found Mel a husband:

Manali’s Buddhist Temple:

Indian tourists (I felt like the woman on the bench):

Latters:

OPP

I will talk a bit about poo. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t an issue. I won’t mention it again.

Mel has been having tummy bother for around 6 days now, and I must say that mine hasn’t been too clever either. I try to reassure her that any day now we will have stomachs lined with Tata steel which will serve us well for the rest of our trip. But PPPs (personal poo practicalities) take up so much time, thought and forward-planning. Most of this goes unspoken, but the issue always looms large.

We left McLeodganj on Tuesday night – we booked a ‘deluxe’ private 9-seater bus for the 10hr trip to Manali. I ate some dodgy momos just before we boarded at 9pm – I was fine as it turned out, but PPP paranoia preoccupied me nonetheless. We were the only two booked on this bus – great, we thought, we each get a row of three seats on which to sleep. No such luck – our driver picked up a succession of random men en route who were waiting at state bus stops. We arrived much earlier than expected at 4.30am. I have never been so cold in my life.

An auto-rickshaw took us to a room – a very nice room, in fact – in a new but unlicensed guest house in Vashisht, a village 3k up from Manali town. We woke up to this view from our balcony:

It’s the end of the season here (most of the mountain roads are now closed for the winter), so it’s peaceful as well as picturesque. Manali stands in the heart of the Kullu Valley, full of pine forests and orchards, with the ski resort of Solang Nala just to the north. It’s as much a destination for domestic tourists and honeymooners – they come for the thermal baths and the sight of snow – as it is with foreigners. A river winds through it, the River Beas. But wait: this is no Teesdale, there is no country code. And you have to watch out for OPP (other people’s poo) nestling between the boulders at the river’s edge. All the bottled water we’ve been drinking so far has come from Manali, but I won’t be supping directly from the River Beas. Sorry any Beas!

This place is also famous for its cannabis – Manali charas is, I hear, the best in the world. Hilariously, it grows thick and wild everywhere:

We’ve got a telly too, with Star World, Star Movies, HBO and BBC World. With both of us still ill, it was as if someone had thrown us a lifeline. Holed up in our room with pizza, crisps and bourbons, Mel took control: Everybody Loves Raymond, America’s Got Talent, King of Queens, Notting Hill (all kissing and bedroom scenes edited out, of course), Freedom Writers and chick-flick, 27 Dresses. I secretly enjoyed this last one quite a lot.

Men dominate the streets in India, but where are all the women? At a guess, I’d say they’re sitting at home watching Star World, Star Movies and HBO, plagued by non-stop advertising from usual suspects Unilever, L’Oreal and Garnier, crying over how black and ugly they are, and dreaming of achieving skin that’s two shades lighter by using products from think-nothing-of-them brands like Ponds, Olay, Dove and Vaseline.

Watch this:

and this:

Lemon essence? Isn’t that just like spraying yourself with Sun-In? I did that once to my hair when I was about 15. I looked RIDICULOUS.

We’re feeling better today, so we’re off to Old Manali and then to the Hadimba Temple somewhere in the woods.

One company, many networks

Mel has been spending a lot of time hanging out with the young, largely Western volunteers at the Rogpa cafe, an enterprise to raise funds for various projects which help the local Tibetan refugee community. It’s a lovely place, and serves yummy chocolate cornflake crunch things and proper coffee.

I’ve made some new friends too, including a couple of shopkeepers I met whilst buying chai a couple of days ago. 28-year-old Sahil runs a money exchange-cum-travel agency, while the older, more authoritative Rafiq runs a handicraft store, Crystal Forest. Yesterday, I sat with them in Sahil’s small office, chain smoking and drinking tea, while Rafiq kept one eye on his shop across the street.

Sahil’s a really sound guy. A Himal Pradesh local, he married a Sikh Punjabi girl at 21 (“a love match”) much to the consternation of both families, but they now have a five-year old son, and both sides are coming round. “You know Rashid, there is just one god, one company”, he said. “One company, many networks, and how many SIM cards… millions!” I liked this.

Sahil was off to his cousin’s “marriage party” later that day and he invited me along. I declined, I had Dr Rashpal’s yoga booked. “This will be a different kind of yoga, you know, huh?”, he said with a grin. I wish I had accepted now: last night we were kept awake by the frenetic drumming, whooping and general good times of another wedding celebration reverberating through the valley. The yoga was okay, but there’s plenty more time for that.

Today, our last in McLeodganj, Tibet’s story became shamefully clear to me.

I visited the Tibet Museum, a small exhibition in the grounds of the Dalai Lama’s residence put together by former political prisoners and refugees. It documented the last sixty years of the Tibetan struggle – invasion, resistance, destruction, human rights abuses, and systematic cultural suppression: 6000 temples, monasteries and monuments destroyed (some almost 1000 years old), Chinese “re-education” policies, an influx of Chinese settlers into Tibet, and the destruction of Tibet’s ecosystem through deforestation and the dumping of nuclear waste. Of course you all knew this already, but I didn’t.

This morning, I walked down to the Central Tibetan Administration compound – a twenty minute walk out of town, down a steep hill to a small, dusty village. It included, amongst other things, the Library of Tibetan Works and Archives – an impressive repository for the remaining sacred texts and manuscripts carefully removed from Tibet and carried across the Himalayas into India. It also housed an extensive photo archive, an oral history department, a Buddhist study centre, and a small museum with bronzes and other artifacts that were actually interesting to look at. Avalokiteshvara was a favourite – the eleven-headed, eight-armed deity of compassion (just imagine all those words of comfort, all that hugging) – though his black, wrathful manifestation Haryagriva was also pretty cool.

While Sahil, Rafiq and I sat drinking tea yesterday, a Tibetan monk came in to ask something in Hindi. I told Rafiq about the Tibetan restaurant giving out sweets on Diwali night. “It is very harmonious here,” he told me. “So many tourists, we work together so we can all make a living.” What did he think about the plight of the Tibetans? “It’s the 80% of Tibetans in Tibet that will make a difference, not the 20% outside. They need strong leadership inside Tibet, not this backdoor leadership from a religious man.” This seemed to make some sense – maybe you can post your thoughts on this.

So now at least I understand why the slogans say ‘Save Tibet’ as well as ‘Free Tibet’ – time is ticking away before this rich, ancient (and seemingly very sound) culture disappears forever. It’s something worth fighting to preserve – I’ve come away with that much – whichever network you’re signed up with.

Offices of the Tibetan parliament in exile

Library of Tibetan Works and Archives

It's Norris again

Sahil outside his shop

Kill it, Mel!

There’s a spider of significant size in our bedroom and it’s making me anxious. I could do nothing but leave the room and PRAY TO GOD. Mel says that it will go away, I know that it will cruise around in my bed until I return. And this isn’t any old spider, it’s a hardy, Hindi-speaking, Himalayan one – I’m no match for this thing.

This is our penultimate day in McLeodganj, before we move on to Manali, another hill station in Himalchal Pradesh and backpacker hangout. It’s been relaxing here, eating momos (Japanese gyoza basically) and drinking lemon + ginger + honey tea.

Diwali did make itself known after sundown the other night, kids as young as four threw firecrackers in the streets (it was pretty scary actually) and the Tibetan lady in the restaurant we dined in passed round Indian sweets at the end of our meal. I had forgotton how sickly they can be.

Yesterday, I had a half-hour ayurvedic massage from a young lad called Shammi (three quid), before biting the bullet and trying out one of Dr Rashpal’s meditation sessions. I was the only one there, so we started from the very beginning. He introduced me to the seven chakras and the three nervous systems, and guided me through about forty minutes of cross-legged Om meditation, as I struggled to find my third eye and forget how hungry I was and how much my legs ached. “Miiiinnnnddd controoool….. relaaaaaaxxxxx…. relaaaaaxxxxx… conshentrayshaaaan…. aaaaallll tenshaaaan gaaaaaan….. breeeeathe iiiiinnnn…… ommmmmmmmm….. ommmmmmmmm…”. Despite being more than a little Absolutely Fabulous, there was definitely something in it – enough for me to be returning today for two hours of yoga, physical preparation for a further hour of meditation.

After Manali, we’ll be heading to Rishikesh – the world’s yoga capital and the place where The Beatles met the Maharishi in 1968 and recorded a large part of The White Album. Will we end up staying in an ashram? Watch this space.

No more dharma

Day 6 – McLeodganj

This is our third day here, and it’s full of Western hippies chanting, philosophising in cafes, and sometimes playing the didgeridoo. Even though it’s Diwali today, it’s all about the Buddhism.

This morning, we went to the temple complex for day 2 of the Dalai Lama’s teaching (we didn’t manage to get past security yesterday, not realising that we couldn’t take in tobacco, cameras, lighters or my penknife, but we knew better this morning). We didn’t register in time either, which meant that we couldn’t get into the temple itself, so we had to be content with sitting in the grounds – a kind of Buddhist Henman Hill, if you like – listening to the man over a loudspeaker relay system, though if you wanted to hear an English translation, you had to buy a shit, unreliable radio and tune into a shit, unreliable broadcast. Gareth lasted all of half an hour, I left after about 45 minutes and got some tea from a nearby chaiwalla. Mel and Michelle stuck it out though.

Om mani padme hum can be heard at all times everywhere. It’s a bit like being in a very calm nightmare. I must say that I only recognise this as a Buddhist chant because of that Tina Turner biopic where Angela Bassett walks out of that hotel with a mashed up face and goes to see her old mate. Everyone’s got to start somewhere.

We went to the local ‘cinema’ to see Inglourious Basterds last night – a tiny basement with about 30 seats and a pirate DVD filmed in a Russian cinema with the English subtitles replaced. The whole thing felt rather uneasy and didn’t feel very Buddhist at all. But I enjoyed it.

I feel like I ought to do some yoga or mediation or get a massage maybe from Dr Rashpal or one of the many other practitioners who advertise their services on every wall, tree and doorway. But all I really want to do is find someone who can sell me some dope. Then I might get into this chanting stuff.

Mel eating a choco crunch at our new favourite cafe

Greedy girl

Como te Lama?

> Knock knock
> Who’s there?
> The Dalai Lama
> The Dalai Lama who?
> My sentiments precisely

Day 5, and we’re in McLeodganj – a hill station in Himachal Pradesh on the fringes of the Himalayas and the home of numerous Tibetans in exile, including the Dalai Lama himself. And guess what, he’s at home.

Now at this point I have to profess to knowing very little – nay, fuck all – about this man and the Tibet situation, except that Bono wants me to help free it, and that it has something to do with Chinese oppression (doesn’t everything?). Mel, however, it at the ready with her meditation cushion and stool to do some serious learning from His Holiness, and it would be a bit foolish of me to miss the opportunity to learn something new.

This place does not seem like India at all – it is distinctly Tibetan in feel, though of course it is the Indians that run most of the hotels, businesses, and anything else that involves money changing hands.

It took all of 11 hours to get here yesterday, though we have made two new friends in Gareth and Michelle, seasoned backpackers from Ireland (Gareth’s Kiwi). We met at Amritsar station at 6.30am, where Mel and Michelle miraculously managed to buy our tickets from the carnage that was the ladies’ queue in the booking hall, while Gareth and I looked after the luggage. It was an arduous journey, but not entirely unpleasant – I had a window seat on the 3hr rickety bus ride up through the hills, and we stopped off at a roadside dhaba, where I had the most delicious rice and dal I’ve had for some time.

So it looks like I’ll be spending the next few days listening to this man, though every time I see a picture of him, I think of Norris from Coronation Street. Reckon we’ll be here for some time yet, the views are pretty breathtaking and it’s an epic 10hrs on the bus to our next stop, Manali.

Tibetan prayer flags

self-explanatory

Gareth and Michelle with colds wot we gave them

Caught a lite sneeze

Day 3 – Amritsar

An early start this morning, to catch the 6.45am train from New Delhi station. 

By the time we left Delhi, we had both grown rather fond of the place where we were staying, we discoved a pleasant roof terrace, where little Akeel, a lad in the hotel, would fetch us cold bottles of Kingfisher – “but no tell man downstairs”.

On the train, we had two of these fried potato pattie things on the train, sold to us by just one of many vendors working the carriages. “Omelette omelette cutlet omelette cutlet omelette omelette cutlet” he chanted misleadingly. It was a 7hr journey, made more bearable thanks to the valium I bought for 60p, though we (and everyone else in the carriage) were travelling backwards for the whole journey.

We arrived in Amritsar - capital of Punjab, home of Sikhism, but essentially just another noisy, hectic city - just before 3pm, and checked into the rather shabby Lucky Guest House (our first cockroaches), where manager Jai advised us not to smoke in the street, frowned upon by Sikhs apparently. I did not know this. We visited the park where the British opened fire on a non-violent demonstration in 1919 and massacred up to 2000 Sikhs. It was a rather depressing, and naturally made Mel feel a bit bad to be a Brit. We visited the Golden Temple at sundown – hard not to be impressed. All Sikhs are supposed to make at least one pilgrimage here in their lifetime, it felt a rather special place, but still welcoming to foreigners. Again, lots of space dedicated to various Sikh martyrs – couldn’t help but think that they were dwelling on these things somewhat.

We’ve both come down with irritating chesty, glandy colds, so Mel went to bed early. I stayed up and hung around, eating jelabi on a street corner and telling a young lad Mandeep about what it was like to live in England. I’ve had maybe a dozen people so far ask me where I’m from, that I look Indian, asking where are my parents from, etc. “You are Muslim?” they ask when they learn my name. I tell them about how my father was Muslim, my mother Hindu, and that they met in the UK. Surprisingly, no one has a problem with this. It was one of the things I was most unsure about. “We are one people” is the response I’ve had on more than one occassion. Not speaking any of the Indian languages, however, is the bit that seems to amuse people – nothing new here, I’ve suffered this mild embarrassment all of my life.

Mel on the other hand has had very few people starting conversations with her, and continues to attract lots of staring. I can feel her increasing hostility towards Indian men, and by extension towards India itself. I try to reassure her that they are looking with curiousity, intrigue, even a little envy (in the case of the women), rather than assumptions that she’s of questionable moral character, though I don’t really know how true this is, and she knows this.

We were told to make sure we saw the Golden Temple again at 5am – like the Taj Mahal, it looks different at different times of day apprently. It didn’t. It did mean, however, that we were up in time to get to the train station early for our next stop, Pathankot, en route to Dharamsala…

Horn please

Day 2 in Delhi.

We’re staying in Paharganj, a market district just by the railway station which is hectic and noisy and filthy, but it feels familiar now.  We found Hotel Gush pretty quickly,  and it ain’t all that, but it’s fine for eight quid a night for the pair of us.

Yeah, Delhi’s pretty rank and full on, and everyone’s out to get our money.  Though apart from one sleazy auto-rickshaw driver who diddled us out of two quid, it’s all been good-humoured and people generally don’t cross the line. Much harder on poor Mel I think, who is getting a lot of staring. She is now, however, wearing a lovely royal blue embroidered punjabi-style  outfit, which really suits her, and goes especially well with the roll-up hanging out of her mouth. But I do feel for her.

New Delhi is actually a bit disappointing – I was expecting much more impressive Raj architecture, like the incredible VT station in Bombay (an exact copy of St Pancras), but no such luck, or maybe I’m looking in the wrong places. Bombay, like Brighton, has the sea, which gives it the edge for me.  That said, the Old Delhi sights were impressive, the Jama Masjid and the Red Fort were both worth the rickshaw ride out, and the markets near the mosque were intense but very pretty at dusk with all the Divali decorations on display.

Off to Amritsar in the morning, a 7hr train journey just to see the Golden Temple and maybe the border ceremony at Wagah, and then on to  McLeodganj on Thursday. Mel’s trying to talk me into doing a 10-day Buddhist retreat. I’m not so sure.

Mel in the bazaars by the Jama Masjid, Old Delhi

Bazaars by the Jama Masjid, Old Delhi

And we’re off…

It seems that there are more appropriate lines in that Odyssey song that I first thought. For the last few days I have been:

Drenched and soaked in pain

Back pain to be precise, which started on Wednesday and has progressibly got worse, culminating in this morning – the day that I fly out – when I could barely sit up in bed the pain was so intense.  I’ve never had back pain before, and the thought of feeling like this away from home – not least in hectic Delhi with a rucksack and no accommodation yet booked – made me want to cry. After the visa debacle, this eleventh hour ailment felt like some sort of sick joke.

I have since taken medical advice: I have seen two GPs in fact, as well as having two telephone consultations from my personal physician (i.e. best friend) Dr Marian Messih, currently surfing in Portugal. “You don’t need to be in this much pain,” she said. She’s right. It means that the total number of pills I will be taking today has increased to 15, comprising  8 x co-codamols, 3 x diclofenacs and 4 x anti-malarials.

There’s going to be a bit of a party in my tummy today. But I feel fine now.

Indian bureaucracy

The Indian High Commission has now outsourced all visa applications to a private company, whose staff are trained to scan application forms and circle anything that screams ‘terrorist’.

Like mine, apparently.

So my part-Bangladeshi heritage has meant that I have only been issued with a 3-month, single entry visa, rather than the standard 6-month multiple entry one.  Clearly my part-Indian heritage does me no favours, nor does the fact that I will be going to stay with my Indian Hindu freedom-fighter grandmother in Gujarat. (She gets a special pension from the government and everything).

I tried calling the High Commission, they passed me from pillar to post, then a woman hung up on me. I tried visiting the High Commission to appeal in person, they wouldn’t let me in the door.

So I am having to change my return flight (at considerable expense) and cut my trip short by over two weeks.  And it rules out the chance of seeing any family in Bangladesh, or a week of respite in Singapore.

It has made me HATE THIS FUCKING COUNTRY even before I have touched down.

Malaria gets scarier

My gran tells me that some of my family in Gujarat currently have malaria, which I’d rather not get.

I’ve been taking tablets since Sunday  – the  Paludrine / Avloclor “Travel Pack”, which I guess is supposed to make it sound convenient.  There is nothing convenient, however, about feeling like you’re gonna vom at any moment.

I have just read the information leaflet that came in the packet.  Here are some of the more common side effects (verbatim):

• Headache
• Stomach upsets
• Feeling sick
• Being sick
• Diarrhoea
• Constipation
• Stomach cramps

These side effects may occur if you use your Anti-Malarial Travel Pack for a long period of time (I will be taking mine for 15 weeks):

• Mouth ulcers
• Inflamed mouth (I usually have this, I get it from my mother’s side, I think)
• Feeling dizzy or light headed
• Convulsions or fits
• Mood changes or other effects on behaviour
• Skin rash
• Discolouration of the skin
• Changes in hair colour
• Hair loss
• Blurred eyesight
• Some or complete loss of eyesight
• Difficulty in focusing your eyes
• Hearing loss
• Ringing in the ears
• A reduced number of blood cells

…and my personal favourite:

• Changes in the way your heart works

Mother, has that put your mind at rest?