Sigh. The minutes are slipping through my fingers and the final moment is nearly here.
As many of you know, it was with both excitement and trepidation that I decided to take two months off work and come to India alone. I think my main fear had been loneliness. But I discovered the unimaginable advantages of travelling alone: the freedom and the increased likelihood of meeting an array of people, both other travellers and Indians. And it is the people that have been the highlight of my trip. I hope to stay in touch and cement friendships made (you know who you all are! I hope to see some of you in London and others, beware I shall be making trips to come visit!). I have been constantly touched by the friendliness and the kindness of those who have helped me out.
As it turned out, I didn't meet any other English girls travelling unaccompanied. Yet I found India one of the easiest places to travel. It is impossible to stand long in any public place before being approached by an Indian: a curiosity to be questioned and probed. And assisted. For the most part, I have found people generous to the point of fault, and chivalrous. Those people who approached me at midnight while I waited on a platform, or those who made sure I found the right berth on the innumerable trains, or those who insisted on helping me out time and time again (be it at the post office, buying me water, finding me taxis) have lent protection against unseen unsavoury elements. Actually, this was something I found amusing. I would be approached by a man. We would chat. Then he would close the conversation, warning me about strange men who undoubtedly would want to take advantage. They seemed immune to the apparent irony of their words.
I also enjoyed on many occasions the Indian sense of humour. For example, Lavi at Jaisalmer. When I went to take a picture of the Jain Temple he called out, pointing out to a sign 'cameras - 30 rupees'. I apologised and fished in my pocket for change. He burst out laughing at my gullibility. (I only had to pay if I entered the Temple with my camera.) Or the autodriver at Nizamuddin, who asked for 50 rupees to take me to the ticket office. We haggled for an age and finally agreed 5 rupees. I stepped in and he set off. We moved an impressive 5 metres; he stopped and showed me the entrance. And then howled with laughter at having pulled a fast one over the foreigner. The joke was good. And he of course refused my cash.
And the food is amazing, whether tiffin on the street, a bowl of grub on a train or dishes from a travellers' caf, I have not been disappointed. Nor have I been ill. I have gorged myself on lassis and paneer. Lovely, lovely stuff.
I have been less keen on the constant photographs men take of me. It is disconcerting when strangers pull out mobile phones and take pics. (Goodness, this even happened in Bombay airport.)
But I cannot pretend to have seen more than a mere snapshot of India. I am simply a tourist; a voyeur squinting over a fence and hungrily gobbling in as much as she can in a very short space of time. But I have been struck by the sheer complexity of this country. There is too much to see and do and to understand. And there are just so many people. Until you come to India, I don't think you can really appreciate what it is like to be constantly in such close proximity to other humans the whole time. I think it was Jawaharlu Nehru who said that India is "a bundle of contradictions held together by strong but invisible threads". I certainly see the contradictions. And there is a kind of common identity, but it is not straightforward. This is a country with multiple languages, dialects, foods, religions, colours, moods. In a moment, bonhomie can transform into the most incomprehensible display of violence and anger. This place is exciting. It is volatile. It is vibrant. It is pulsating organism that carries you along with it. It is unlike anywhere else. It makes you feel alive.
As I return home to massive changes in my own life, I hope I have learnt a few things from the trip, both about myself and other people.
Not least, I have discovered that I really enjoy writing. So beware!
Friday 7 September 2007
Wednesday 5 September 2007
Goa
Boys and girls
What an absolute giggle in Goa!
When I eventually touched down at the airport in Dabolim, it was extremely early and I was in Palolem (in the very south of Goa) in time for breakfast. I'd chosen Palolem based on its idyllic description in the Lonely Planet: perfect white-sand beaches lined with huts; palms swaying gently in the sea breeze; and a good traveller scene.
And I am sure that is how it is. In the summer season. When it is not raining. And when not everything is boarded up and covered in tarpaulin. The place was utterly deserted.
I made a quick SOS call to Jackie who said she would come to Goa later that day, but to the north. Dilemma, dilemma: stay on my own in the rain in the south; or have company in the rain in the north. I hopped in cab and headed back the way I came, to Baga. Jackie had asked me to find a hotel for four people. The responsibility was immense: I haven't been paying more than 150 to 200 rupees per night, whereas these people were not backpackers, but grown ups who live and work in India... They probably wanted a room with a view. I'd been lucky for the most part if my rooms had a window. But fortuitously, I stumbled on a delightful hotel, its balconied rooms overlooking a serene pool. And it was very quiet. Perfect.
And the mob started trickling in. It is always very special when a group of people -- who don't really know each other -- converge and gel, the conversation sparkles and laughter flows. First, I was joined that day by Jackie and two of her English mates from Bombay, one of whom is a freelance journalist and the other works for the English High Commission. In light of the lack of decent weather, it can come as no surprise that more imaginative pastimes had to be devised, mostly involving the local rum and late night swims (first in the sea and then in the pool). Judging from the scowls directed our way the next morning, my poolside caterwauling on Richard's harmonica at 2am was not readily appreciated. I thought I did a fine job for someone with no musical flair.
The whole affair brought back sweet, sweet memories of the San Pedro mafia (although sans Ring of Fire). One slight mystery was the disappearance of my clothes. We were astonished to recover them the next day on the beach; but it did beg the question how I managed to get from there to our hotel -- along the streets of Baga -- without them.
Otherwise, we engaged in the usual beach stuff. I had a massage (which was photographed frenetically by passing Indian men) and the others built a spitting-image replica of the Taj Mahal. I guess the major difference between our time on the beach and your habitual sun,-sea-and-sand escape was the fact there was no sun whatsoever. Periodically the skies would open and drench us. Unfortunately the humidity was around 98 per cent. This meant nothing dried. Within a couple of hours I'd worked my way through all the clean clothes left in my wardrobe (bearing in mind I only have two pairs of trousers it did not take long). And then started on the gifts I'd bought. (Mum, I promise I will wash the fishermen trousers before I give them to you.)
We were also joined by the hardcore French radio journalist (mentioned a few blogs back). And a delightful French law student -- randomly met by the French radio journalist on the plane -- living in London, but who has just spent two months on a placement with an Indian law firm. The French radio journalist was slightly more friendly this time insofar that he did not completely ignore me; occasionally removed his sunglasses; and quite shockingly stopped frowning and let his face rip in two when he cracked a smile. Also he was not quite as short as I recall. But still grey.
We continued to play very hard in the rain, including a trip to Panaji to wander around the picturesque lanes of the old Portuguese colony. Of course we were caught by a heavy shower,. Three of us tried to escape the downfall, squeezing into/under one cagoule. Certainly it wasn't ideal in my case: I was wearing a rather flimsy cotton dress and since my bottom-half was exposed, after the first five minutes it looked as if I was ready to enter a wet-sari competition. Monsoon rain and cotton dresses leave little to the imagination. Not wholly appropriate for Catholic mass.
As the weekend drew to a close, it was hard to say goodbyes as people made their way to their respective cities to return to work. A hardcore contingent was left. But we too eventually had to disband. I had a fantastic few days which is making my increasingly imminent return to London even more difficult to swallow.
On the plus side, my carpets and other packages have arrived safe and sound. I shall shortly follow suit. Just a couple of days to enjoy in Bombay first.
Bises
What an absolute giggle in Goa!
When I eventually touched down at the airport in Dabolim, it was extremely early and I was in Palolem (in the very south of Goa) in time for breakfast. I'd chosen Palolem based on its idyllic description in the Lonely Planet: perfect white-sand beaches lined with huts; palms swaying gently in the sea breeze; and a good traveller scene.
And I am sure that is how it is. In the summer season. When it is not raining. And when not everything is boarded up and covered in tarpaulin. The place was utterly deserted.
I made a quick SOS call to Jackie who said she would come to Goa later that day, but to the north. Dilemma, dilemma: stay on my own in the rain in the south; or have company in the rain in the north. I hopped in cab and headed back the way I came, to Baga. Jackie had asked me to find a hotel for four people. The responsibility was immense: I haven't been paying more than 150 to 200 rupees per night, whereas these people were not backpackers, but grown ups who live and work in India... They probably wanted a room with a view. I'd been lucky for the most part if my rooms had a window. But fortuitously, I stumbled on a delightful hotel, its balconied rooms overlooking a serene pool. And it was very quiet. Perfect.
And the mob started trickling in. It is always very special when a group of people -- who don't really know each other -- converge and gel, the conversation sparkles and laughter flows. First, I was joined that day by Jackie and two of her English mates from Bombay, one of whom is a freelance journalist and the other works for the English High Commission. In light of the lack of decent weather, it can come as no surprise that more imaginative pastimes had to be devised, mostly involving the local rum and late night swims (first in the sea and then in the pool). Judging from the scowls directed our way the next morning, my poolside caterwauling on Richard's harmonica at 2am was not readily appreciated. I thought I did a fine job for someone with no musical flair.
The whole affair brought back sweet, sweet memories of the San Pedro mafia (although sans Ring of Fire). One slight mystery was the disappearance of my clothes. We were astonished to recover them the next day on the beach; but it did beg the question how I managed to get from there to our hotel -- along the streets of Baga -- without them.
Otherwise, we engaged in the usual beach stuff. I had a massage (which was photographed frenetically by passing Indian men) and the others built a spitting-image replica of the Taj Mahal. I guess the major difference between our time on the beach and your habitual sun,-sea-and-sand escape was the fact there was no sun whatsoever. Periodically the skies would open and drench us. Unfortunately the humidity was around 98 per cent. This meant nothing dried. Within a couple of hours I'd worked my way through all the clean clothes left in my wardrobe (bearing in mind I only have two pairs of trousers it did not take long). And then started on the gifts I'd bought. (Mum, I promise I will wash the fishermen trousers before I give them to you.)
We were also joined by the hardcore French radio journalist (mentioned a few blogs back). And a delightful French law student -- randomly met by the French radio journalist on the plane -- living in London, but who has just spent two months on a placement with an Indian law firm. The French radio journalist was slightly more friendly this time insofar that he did not completely ignore me; occasionally removed his sunglasses; and quite shockingly stopped frowning and let his face rip in two when he cracked a smile. Also he was not quite as short as I recall. But still grey.
We continued to play very hard in the rain, including a trip to Panaji to wander around the picturesque lanes of the old Portuguese colony. Of course we were caught by a heavy shower,. Three of us tried to escape the downfall, squeezing into/under one cagoule. Certainly it wasn't ideal in my case: I was wearing a rather flimsy cotton dress and since my bottom-half was exposed, after the first five minutes it looked as if I was ready to enter a wet-sari competition. Monsoon rain and cotton dresses leave little to the imagination. Not wholly appropriate for Catholic mass.
As the weekend drew to a close, it was hard to say goodbyes as people made their way to their respective cities to return to work. A hardcore contingent was left. But we too eventually had to disband. I had a fantastic few days which is making my increasingly imminent return to London even more difficult to swallow.
On the plus side, my carpets and other packages have arrived safe and sound. I shall shortly follow suit. Just a couple of days to enjoy in Bombay first.
Bises
Varanasi and onwards
Dearies
Boy oh boy: it has been nearly a week since I last blogged and so much has happened.
I liked Varanasi. (Apart from the unrelenting attempts by auto drivers to rip you off.) It was a spiritual and moving place; so I was seriously in two minds about missing Goa and staying in Uttar Pradesh to discover its secrets... In particular, I liked its narrow streets, its shops overhanging pathways, dripping with trinkets, colours, and scents; the cows roaming the streets, making it impossible for traffic to circulate. However, the heat was unrelenting; nearly to the point of being unbearable. Movement had to be kept to a minimum. And there was a serious power problem; the electricity was turned off each day from 11am to 2pm.
On the one day, I roused myself at sunrise to take a boat along the Ganges to explore the different ghats. As mentioned, the ghat where I was based -- Harishchandra Ghat -- is one of the places people are traditionally cremated. This meant there was a permanent bonfire outside my hotel window where human flesh slowly charred. The banks of the river are lined with the most magnificent buildings, their crumbling and peeling facades towering over the water, reminiscing of a former glory. Each ghat is very different; some are large and imposing, stepping haughtily down to the water edge; others are more shy, timidly sneaking to the river. But all of them are crawling with people: hawkers selling everything; thousands of bathers offering puja; men busily working their trade, for instance pounding stones on white sheets and jeans. Spirits or laundry: all is cleansed by the mother Ganges.
But frankly, as far as I could tell, anyone setting foot in that river is taking their life into their hands. According to the Lonely Planet, the Ganges is so heavily polluted at Varanasi that the water is septic: no dissolved oxygen exists. Where people bathe, 30 sewers are continuously discharging into the river. Apparently, the water has 1.5 million faecal coliform bacteria per 100ml of water. In water that is safe for bathing, this figure should be less than 500. Nice. And according to my boat man, that same water is then cleaned to refeed Varanasi by huge water towers specked along the river.
What goes around certainly may come around, so to speak.
From Varanasi, it was a very brief stop in Mumbai. I flew from Varanasi via Delhi; and I arrived around 9pm at the airport. And my flight out was at 4am. There seemed little point to struggle with traffic and find a hotel room. Instead wasn't it eminently more sensible to find a quiet spot on the floor there? I have slept overnights at airports on a number of occasions: for instance crashing out on the concrete at Ben Gurion (and that was outside); or taking shelter behind a vending machine in Athens. But none of them was more uncomfortable than roughing it at Bombay. It was so damned cold. The air seemed to be pumping directly onto my face, while the chill of the floor tiles seeped into the depth of my bones. Even with my jumper, fleece, sarong and towel (yes, I must have looked a right sight), I was freezing.
It went a long way to fanning my loathing of aircon.
So I was mightily relieved to step on the plane to wing my way to Goa. Which was very very very wet.
Boy oh boy: it has been nearly a week since I last blogged and so much has happened.
I liked Varanasi. (Apart from the unrelenting attempts by auto drivers to rip you off.) It was a spiritual and moving place; so I was seriously in two minds about missing Goa and staying in Uttar Pradesh to discover its secrets... In particular, I liked its narrow streets, its shops overhanging pathways, dripping with trinkets, colours, and scents; the cows roaming the streets, making it impossible for traffic to circulate. However, the heat was unrelenting; nearly to the point of being unbearable. Movement had to be kept to a minimum. And there was a serious power problem; the electricity was turned off each day from 11am to 2pm.
On the one day, I roused myself at sunrise to take a boat along the Ganges to explore the different ghats. As mentioned, the ghat where I was based -- Harishchandra Ghat -- is one of the places people are traditionally cremated. This meant there was a permanent bonfire outside my hotel window where human flesh slowly charred. The banks of the river are lined with the most magnificent buildings, their crumbling and peeling facades towering over the water, reminiscing of a former glory. Each ghat is very different; some are large and imposing, stepping haughtily down to the water edge; others are more shy, timidly sneaking to the river. But all of them are crawling with people: hawkers selling everything; thousands of bathers offering puja; men busily working their trade, for instance pounding stones on white sheets and jeans. Spirits or laundry: all is cleansed by the mother Ganges.
But frankly, as far as I could tell, anyone setting foot in that river is taking their life into their hands. According to the Lonely Planet, the Ganges is so heavily polluted at Varanasi that the water is septic: no dissolved oxygen exists. Where people bathe, 30 sewers are continuously discharging into the river. Apparently, the water has 1.5 million faecal coliform bacteria per 100ml of water. In water that is safe for bathing, this figure should be less than 500. Nice. And according to my boat man, that same water is then cleaned to refeed Varanasi by huge water towers specked along the river.
What goes around certainly may come around, so to speak.
From Varanasi, it was a very brief stop in Mumbai. I flew from Varanasi via Delhi; and I arrived around 9pm at the airport. And my flight out was at 4am. There seemed little point to struggle with traffic and find a hotel room. Instead wasn't it eminently more sensible to find a quiet spot on the floor there? I have slept overnights at airports on a number of occasions: for instance crashing out on the concrete at Ben Gurion (and that was outside); or taking shelter behind a vending machine in Athens. But none of them was more uncomfortable than roughing it at Bombay. It was so damned cold. The air seemed to be pumping directly onto my face, while the chill of the floor tiles seeped into the depth of my bones. Even with my jumper, fleece, sarong and towel (yes, I must have looked a right sight), I was freezing.
It went a long way to fanning my loathing of aircon.
So I was mightily relieved to step on the plane to wing my way to Goa. Which was very very very wet.
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