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.
Thursday, 30 August 2007
PS re temper
Just to clarify, it was the portly slothlike chap -- who had been rather tardy in collecting me -- that received my sharp tongue. Not the unsuspecting rickshaw cyclist.
Wednesday, 29 August 2007
And then I lost my temper...
I think I have been remarkably patient this trip.. to date. Except that time when the water was cut off in Udaipur just as I was rinsing suds from my golden locks (and I went downstairs covered in foam muttering murderously about the poor quality of Indian hotels). But that didn't really count because for the most part my bitter comments were made under my breath, or at least to an empty corridor. Since then I haven't had a altercation where I lost my temper.
Until today that is.
Yesterday I was very tired. So when I arrived at 11pm at Mahoba to catch my midnight train I was flagging fast. Mahoba is in the north of Madhya Pradesh. I don't think it gets many tourists; for within about 10 minutes of my arrival I was surrounded by a crowd of about 5 deep men and boys. Judging by their attire, it was more predominantly Muslim rather than Hindu. For the most part (and this happens all the time) people collect and just stare unwaveringly at you. Then someone will ask the usual questions and there is a routine conversation.
Last night, it was was Maneesh who approached me. He is a pharmaceutical student in Uttar Pradesh and was on his way Allahbad, waiting for the same train as I. Except, unlike me who had a reserved ticket, he had a cheapo one and so had to fight for a seat. I had not really appreciated that a reserved sleeper was a positive luxury (previously referring to it has cattle class) as one actually gets a berth.
Something I find about India (or maybe it is because I am travelling alone) is that people cannot be more helpful and accommodating when you need assistance. Maneesh was an absolute love. On discovering that the seal on my new bottle of water was broken, he scampered off within seconds to buy me a new one (and would not let me pay him back).
Goodness. There is an absolute ruckus outside: a funeral procession (I am staying at Harishchandra Ghat, a ghat known for its crematory pyres). Men are dancing (there are no women with them): a drum and tamborine are beating time, and the crowd is slowly trickling down towards the Ganges. The body is on a wooden stretcher, covered in a marvellously vibrant cloth of pinks and golds, enveloped by orange marigolds. And string ties the whole package together. Ready to be posted and delivered.
But back to my story. Clearly the police were a little concerned by the ever increasing number of men jostling to have a stare at me, as intermittantly they would wander over with their sticks and beat people away. Each time the men would slowly seep back. I don't think they are used to lone female travellers. After this happened a number of times, the train eventually arrived. I clambered on, escorted by a posse of men to make sure I found my seat (although no one offered to carry my ruck sack, unfortunately). Usually I lock my bag under the seats, but this time... no... they didn't think it would be safe and recommended I had it on the top berth with me (ie -- once my bag was on the bunk -- there wasn't much room for me). All in all this meant for a fairly poor night's sleep.
At 6.30am I was rudely awakened by a guard who told me to get off the train. But "I am going to Varanasi", I explained. He shrugged and pointed to another train. This made no sense whatsoever. Maneesh had told me that this train went all the way to Varanasi; I knew from the timetable that the train was due to go to Varanasi; so what was he going on about? I asked someone else who reassured me that I was on the right train. But, seeking a second opinion, I asked a third person who shook their head and said, "Not Varanasi". I was thoroughly confused. It was not a good start to the morning. On asking another person (who was wearing glasses and so for some reason I assumed spoke English: how random is my thinking when I am not properly awake?) who told me, yes, it was the Varanasi train and not to worry.
On arrival, I was supposed to be met by someone from my hotel. Who wasn't there. I queued to use the phone and called the number I had been given. And was told to phone a second number. Whereupon a voice told me to call a third number. On the third call, after having been being told to call someone else, I suggested to the lost-echo on the other end of the receiver that maybe it was easier if I found another hotel. "No, no, someone is coming. Just wait." After an hour and a half I was seriously grumpy: it couldn't be difficult to find a hotel in Varanasi, could it?
I stomped to the prepaid taxi rank to take an auto rickshaw. I gave the first name in the guidebook. There was a smile as they reassured me I could be delivered to any destination, but, "No, no. Not that one as you have to walk too far as we cannot get the auto down the narrow road". Okay. How about another one. "No, no. Not that one too dangerous because of flooding." I began to get frustrated. Then came the hard sell:
- "Hotel Yogi. I will take you to Hotel Yogi."
- "I don't want to go to Hotel Yogi. I have a reservation at Hotel Son Mony." [Pathetically I had resorted to the hotel whose driver had not turned up.]
- "No. Too dangerous."
So, even a prepaid rickshaw was refusing to take me to any hotel. This was ridiculous. I tried another auto. Exactly the same problem. It would only go to the hotel where he knew he could get commission. In despair, I wandered back to the tourist information office, praying that maybe the representative from the hotel had turned up. So you can imagine my relief when I rather portly chap, with a t-shirt emblazoned with Hotel Son Mony, bearing a placard with my name, came over and grasped my hand.
But he had no auto. No one wanted to take him either. For twenty minutes he scoured the streets asking for someone to take us to the hotel. It was at this point my patience seriously began to waiver. My bag was heavy, and I was extremely frustrated by the situation. Eventually we found a cycle rickshaw (which is not the speediest means of transp0rt by any stretch of the imagination and I knew would involve another 30 minutes journey). And this is when I lost my temper.
It was only when I pictured the absurdity of the situation: me -- looking sour and sulky --, my rucksack and this largish man -- trying hard to appease me, squeezed on the back of the cycle rickshaw while the poor driver pedalled with all his might to get us going.
How silly we must have looked.
A
Until today that is.
Yesterday I was very tired. So when I arrived at 11pm at Mahoba to catch my midnight train I was flagging fast. Mahoba is in the north of Madhya Pradesh. I don't think it gets many tourists; for within about 10 minutes of my arrival I was surrounded by a crowd of about 5 deep men and boys. Judging by their attire, it was more predominantly Muslim rather than Hindu. For the most part (and this happens all the time) people collect and just stare unwaveringly at you. Then someone will ask the usual questions and there is a routine conversation.
Last night, it was was Maneesh who approached me. He is a pharmaceutical student in Uttar Pradesh and was on his way Allahbad, waiting for the same train as I. Except, unlike me who had a reserved ticket, he had a cheapo one and so had to fight for a seat. I had not really appreciated that a reserved sleeper was a positive luxury (previously referring to it has cattle class) as one actually gets a berth.
Something I find about India (or maybe it is because I am travelling alone) is that people cannot be more helpful and accommodating when you need assistance. Maneesh was an absolute love. On discovering that the seal on my new bottle of water was broken, he scampered off within seconds to buy me a new one (and would not let me pay him back).
Goodness. There is an absolute ruckus outside: a funeral procession (I am staying at Harishchandra Ghat, a ghat known for its crematory pyres). Men are dancing (there are no women with them): a drum and tamborine are beating time, and the crowd is slowly trickling down towards the Ganges. The body is on a wooden stretcher, covered in a marvellously vibrant cloth of pinks and golds, enveloped by orange marigolds. And string ties the whole package together. Ready to be posted and delivered.
But back to my story. Clearly the police were a little concerned by the ever increasing number of men jostling to have a stare at me, as intermittantly they would wander over with their sticks and beat people away. Each time the men would slowly seep back. I don't think they are used to lone female travellers. After this happened a number of times, the train eventually arrived. I clambered on, escorted by a posse of men to make sure I found my seat (although no one offered to carry my ruck sack, unfortunately). Usually I lock my bag under the seats, but this time... no... they didn't think it would be safe and recommended I had it on the top berth with me (ie -- once my bag was on the bunk -- there wasn't much room for me). All in all this meant for a fairly poor night's sleep.
At 6.30am I was rudely awakened by a guard who told me to get off the train. But "I am going to Varanasi", I explained. He shrugged and pointed to another train. This made no sense whatsoever. Maneesh had told me that this train went all the way to Varanasi; I knew from the timetable that the train was due to go to Varanasi; so what was he going on about? I asked someone else who reassured me that I was on the right train. But, seeking a second opinion, I asked a third person who shook their head and said, "Not Varanasi". I was thoroughly confused. It was not a good start to the morning. On asking another person (who was wearing glasses and so for some reason I assumed spoke English: how random is my thinking when I am not properly awake?) who told me, yes, it was the Varanasi train and not to worry.
On arrival, I was supposed to be met by someone from my hotel. Who wasn't there. I queued to use the phone and called the number I had been given. And was told to phone a second number. Whereupon a voice told me to call a third number. On the third call, after having been being told to call someone else, I suggested to the lost-echo on the other end of the receiver that maybe it was easier if I found another hotel. "No, no, someone is coming. Just wait." After an hour and a half I was seriously grumpy: it couldn't be difficult to find a hotel in Varanasi, could it?
I stomped to the prepaid taxi rank to take an auto rickshaw. I gave the first name in the guidebook. There was a smile as they reassured me I could be delivered to any destination, but, "No, no. Not that one as you have to walk too far as we cannot get the auto down the narrow road". Okay. How about another one. "No, no. Not that one too dangerous because of flooding." I began to get frustrated. Then came the hard sell:
- "Hotel Yogi. I will take you to Hotel Yogi."
- "I don't want to go to Hotel Yogi. I have a reservation at Hotel Son Mony." [Pathetically I had resorted to the hotel whose driver had not turned up.]
- "No. Too dangerous."
So, even a prepaid rickshaw was refusing to take me to any hotel. This was ridiculous. I tried another auto. Exactly the same problem. It would only go to the hotel where he knew he could get commission. In despair, I wandered back to the tourist information office, praying that maybe the representative from the hotel had turned up. So you can imagine my relief when I rather portly chap, with a t-shirt emblazoned with Hotel Son Mony, bearing a placard with my name, came over and grasped my hand.
But he had no auto. No one wanted to take him either. For twenty minutes he scoured the streets asking for someone to take us to the hotel. It was at this point my patience seriously began to waiver. My bag was heavy, and I was extremely frustrated by the situation. Eventually we found a cycle rickshaw (which is not the speediest means of transp0rt by any stretch of the imagination and I knew would involve another 30 minutes journey). And this is when I lost my temper.
It was only when I pictured the absurdity of the situation: me -- looking sour and sulky --, my rucksack and this largish man -- trying hard to appease me, squeezed on the back of the cycle rickshaw while the poor driver pedalled with all his might to get us going.
How silly we must have looked.
A
Tuesday, 28 August 2007
Khajuraho
I have just visited Khajuraho, which was lovely. There are not very many tourists here, except the occasional large group of Spanish or Italians. Plus I went early in the morning. So for the most part I was all alone. But, goodness, the sculptures were indeed a little risque...
I felt like a little girl: each time I caught sight of an erotic one I started giggling. It also meant that I spent most of my visit trying to find the really naughty pieces of stonework, a sort of "Where's Wa[i]lly" and taking lots of photos as evidence. All very immature, I am sorry to say.
But I am a bit pooped today. I ended up, mid-way through my stroll around the Temples, stopping for a quiet sit-down and ended up napping for over an hour.
I felt like a little girl: each time I caught sight of an erotic one I started giggling. It also meant that I spent most of my visit trying to find the really naughty pieces of stonework, a sort of "Where's Wa[i]lly" and taking lots of photos as evidence. All very immature, I am sorry to say.
But I am a bit pooped today. I ended up, mid-way through my stroll around the Temples, stopping for a quiet sit-down and ended up napping for over an hour.
Monday, 27 August 2007
Nice one
I have a few minutes to spare before dining. I have just arrived in Khajuraho. On my arrival at the hotel, I was somewhat dismayed when a large rat shot across my toes (followed by a large man in hot pursuit, who fortunately missed my toes). The rat made a beeline into a guest's bedroom. For some reason, the fat man didn't enter but hovered at the room's doorway. Strange.
I have found that men's behaviour has become slightly more lascivious over the past few days. It started in Agra when Ravi, the chap at the hotel, found out I was coming to Khajuraho. Khajuraho is know for its temple with erotic carvings showing graphic scenes from the Karma Sutra. Ravi - probably stretching his charm and his imagination to their height in order, one can only guess, to court a young lady - suggested I allow him to demonstrate images from Khajuraho. Then the following day, Sona, my auto driver, gave me a long description of how he feels after he has been on a camel. I think he was trying to tell me that he finds the experience (I presume, rather than the camels) rather arousing. Most peculiar. But the poor boys have quickly realised that I do not smoke, or imbibe alcohol, and therefore I am a lost cause. (Although when Sona started his camel story, I couldn't help sniggering: my 14-year old schoolboy sense of humour reared its head. His story was just so inappropriate.)
I have found that men's behaviour has become slightly more lascivious over the past few days. It started in Agra when Ravi, the chap at the hotel, found out I was coming to Khajuraho. Khajuraho is know for its temple with erotic carvings showing graphic scenes from the Karma Sutra. Ravi - probably stretching his charm and his imagination to their height in order, one can only guess, to court a young lady - suggested I allow him to demonstrate images from Khajuraho. Then the following day, Sona, my auto driver, gave me a long description of how he feels after he has been on a camel. I think he was trying to tell me that he finds the experience (I presume, rather than the camels) rather arousing. Most peculiar. But the poor boys have quickly realised that I do not smoke, or imbibe alcohol, and therefore I am a lost cause. (Although when Sona started his camel story, I couldn't help sniggering: my 14-year old schoolboy sense of humour reared its head. His story was just so inappropriate.)
More news
Hello peeps
It has been a busy couple of days. I have been travelling on my own since I left Delhi, but have been enjoying my own company. And a major advantage is one gets to chat more with the locals.
Delhi was a relief after the hardcore Leh-Delhi-Amritsar-Delhi run. I spent the day basking in the luxury of Jackie's company. She is working hard and has recently had her first front-page spread in the Wall Street Journal: so many congratulations to her. I also met one of her mates, a French radio journalist, who lived up to all my stereotypical expectations. He was short and lithe, his dark hair peppered with grey. And permanently fixed sunglasses, from which I was sure he was taking every movement in. He rarely smiled and barked his opinions staccato-style. I floundered as they discussed Asian politics, ignorant of the names and developments. It sounded very exciting though: intrigue and chicanery, like dialogue from "All the President's Men" or something. It made corporate law seem very dull. Mind you, I suppose most professions make corporate law seem very dull. Except maybe, chartered accountancy (and even that is a close run).
I have touched on my visit to the Taj Mahal in my early blog. But I also visited the Agra Fort (which was kind of like the Red Fort in Delhi, except bigger); the little Taj (which was exceptionally pretty); the fort at Gwalior; and now Orchha (which is aflush with palaces and temples). In each place, Indians asked for my photo. This struck me as particularly odd: why on earth would anyone want a photo with me? In response, I used an old tactic that generally put them off, ie when receiving their request, to stick out my hand and demand 10 rupees. Only one chap reached into his wallet to give me the change, which made me laugh, so I allowed him to take my picture (for free, indeed).
At the beginning of my trip, I read the novel Shantaram (which I understand is set to be filmed in Bombay shortly, starring Johnny Depp, http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0429087/). In the book, (sorry Will and Jackie, but promise this is not a plot spoiler) there is the description of a road accident and the subsequent mob attack on the driver who caused the collision. On reading it, I had thought Roberts' was possibly exercising hyperbole. However, on my way to Orchha there was the burnt out skeleton of a lorry, slap-bang in the middle of the road, around which all the cars were cagily navigating. It struck me as odd that no one had moved it, and it appeared to be a very recent wreckage. But it was in the midde of the road. No other vehicle seemed to be involved... I asked the driver of my taxi what had happened. He explained that a couple of days ago there had been a tragic accident, in which a lorry had run down a local child. In response, the people had set on the driver and his truck. And those were the remnants.
Orchha is very pleasant. The place is abound with historic palaces, temples and cenotaphs, and the Betwa River lazily winds its way through the town. This morning I went for a long, hot walk around the sites, enjoying the tranquility of the place. For instance, when I visited the chhatris, I had to wake up the attendant so he could unlock the cast iron gates, and I was ushered into a lush elaborate graveyard to ramble through the verdant undergrowth. I could smell the sweet, rich scent of decaying vegetation. On my way back into town, I stopped to browse in a small shop. The owner looked straight into my eyes and asked me to join him for some chai, to which I agreed. He was in his mid sixties, with white hair and white beard. A filthy white vest stretched over his stomach. But he had nice brown eyes. We started chatting. The usual: where are you from, what do you do, are you married. He was clearly a prosperous man (he'd worked for gold mine companies, being stationed around India, before retiring to open his shop in Orchha). He talked a little about his children. And then he started talking about his wife. He had lost her only eight months previously; she'd died at 48 after an illness. And he missed her. Every day he missed her. But there was nothing he could do to stop thinking about her and the fact she wasn't there. He wrung his hands and asked me to stay for a second tea. Then he showed me a picture of his wife. He was suffering terribly. He explained that he did not have the will to shave or change clothes. I think he saw a little bit of her in me. I stayed as long as I could (three cups of tea). He gave me a present of beads when I left. But I felt terrible that I couldn't really do anything to relieve his pain. What can you do when someone is that lost?
On that note, I shall shoot.
Ciao
It has been a busy couple of days. I have been travelling on my own since I left Delhi, but have been enjoying my own company. And a major advantage is one gets to chat more with the locals.
Delhi was a relief after the hardcore Leh-Delhi-Amritsar-Delhi run. I spent the day basking in the luxury of Jackie's company. She is working hard and has recently had her first front-page spread in the Wall Street Journal: so many congratulations to her. I also met one of her mates, a French radio journalist, who lived up to all my stereotypical expectations. He was short and lithe, his dark hair peppered with grey. And permanently fixed sunglasses, from which I was sure he was taking every movement in. He rarely smiled and barked his opinions staccato-style. I floundered as they discussed Asian politics, ignorant of the names and developments. It sounded very exciting though: intrigue and chicanery, like dialogue from "All the President's Men" or something. It made corporate law seem very dull. Mind you, I suppose most professions make corporate law seem very dull. Except maybe, chartered accountancy (and even that is a close run).
I have touched on my visit to the Taj Mahal in my early blog. But I also visited the Agra Fort (which was kind of like the Red Fort in Delhi, except bigger); the little Taj (which was exceptionally pretty); the fort at Gwalior; and now Orchha (which is aflush with palaces and temples). In each place, Indians asked for my photo. This struck me as particularly odd: why on earth would anyone want a photo with me? In response, I used an old tactic that generally put them off, ie when receiving their request, to stick out my hand and demand 10 rupees. Only one chap reached into his wallet to give me the change, which made me laugh, so I allowed him to take my picture (for free, indeed).
At the beginning of my trip, I read the novel Shantaram (which I understand is set to be filmed in Bombay shortly, starring Johnny Depp, http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0429087/). In the book, (sorry Will and Jackie, but promise this is not a plot spoiler) there is the description of a road accident and the subsequent mob attack on the driver who caused the collision. On reading it, I had thought Roberts' was possibly exercising hyperbole. However, on my way to Orchha there was the burnt out skeleton of a lorry, slap-bang in the middle of the road, around which all the cars were cagily navigating. It struck me as odd that no one had moved it, and it appeared to be a very recent wreckage. But it was in the midde of the road. No other vehicle seemed to be involved... I asked the driver of my taxi what had happened. He explained that a couple of days ago there had been a tragic accident, in which a lorry had run down a local child. In response, the people had set on the driver and his truck. And those were the remnants.
Orchha is very pleasant. The place is abound with historic palaces, temples and cenotaphs, and the Betwa River lazily winds its way through the town. This morning I went for a long, hot walk around the sites, enjoying the tranquility of the place. For instance, when I visited the chhatris, I had to wake up the attendant so he could unlock the cast iron gates, and I was ushered into a lush elaborate graveyard to ramble through the verdant undergrowth. I could smell the sweet, rich scent of decaying vegetation. On my way back into town, I stopped to browse in a small shop. The owner looked straight into my eyes and asked me to join him for some chai, to which I agreed. He was in his mid sixties, with white hair and white beard. A filthy white vest stretched over his stomach. But he had nice brown eyes. We started chatting. The usual: where are you from, what do you do, are you married. He was clearly a prosperous man (he'd worked for gold mine companies, being stationed around India, before retiring to open his shop in Orchha). He talked a little about his children. And then he started talking about his wife. He had lost her only eight months previously; she'd died at 48 after an illness. And he missed her. Every day he missed her. But there was nothing he could do to stop thinking about her and the fact she wasn't there. He wrung his hands and asked me to stay for a second tea. Then he showed me a picture of his wife. He was suffering terribly. He explained that he did not have the will to shave or change clothes. I think he saw a little bit of her in me. I stayed as long as I could (three cups of tea). He gave me a present of beads when I left. But I felt terrible that I couldn't really do anything to relieve his pain. What can you do when someone is that lost?
On that note, I shall shoot.
Ciao
Sunday, 26 August 2007
Taj Majal
I just visited the Taj Mahal as the sun came up. It was beautiful: a truly magnificent monument. I feel extremely spoilt to have seen such amazing pieces of architecture in a matter of days.
Something you don't really appreciate from the pictures is how tranquil it is. You enter the area through a red sandstone building, and are met with a glimpse of the white Taj through an archway. But preceding it, is a length of water and greenery: neatly trimmed lawns and symmetrical lines of trees.
Super.
I have changed my mind: I am going to go to Gwalior and Orchha now. And then Khajuraho, by which point, I shall be monumented out. I think.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gwalior_Fort
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Orchha
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Khajuraho
Something you don't really appreciate from the pictures is how tranquil it is. You enter the area through a red sandstone building, and are met with a glimpse of the white Taj through an archway. But preceding it, is a length of water and greenery: neatly trimmed lawns and symmetrical lines of trees.
Super.
I have changed my mind: I am going to go to Gwalior and Orchha now. And then Khajuraho, by which point, I shall be monumented out. I think.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gwalior_Fort
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Orchha
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Khajuraho
Saturday, 25 August 2007
Amritsar and other stories
Dear all
Goodness, it was a fleeting visit to Amritsar, for sure. But I managed to pack a lot in.
I arrived very early, around 6.30am, and the town was quiet. I found my way to the Golden Temple, an amazing Sikh monument crafted from white marble, crowned by a golden dome in the shape of a lotus leaf, floating on a tranquil lake. Of course, I was lugging my rucksack, and wasn't sure what the formalities were (where to leave my shoes, where to wash my feet, when to adorn my scarf (ie my beach sarong)).
Euch. There is cockroach roaming the keyboard while I am typing.
Anyway, I eventually found the Sri Guru Ram Das Niwas. This is a large complex for the pilgrims, which provides rooms, toilets, communal showers and a 24-hour restaurant to feed the masses, all for free. They have special dorms for the foreigners, which is where ... euch the cockroach is back again ... you can find a bed for the night. These are pretty basic. The one I was allocated was windowless, stuffy and grimy. And I don't think they change the sheets. But it was fine for me. Because I had taken the sleeper train the night before, I had slept in the clothes I was standing in. And evidently hadn't been able to wash either; therefore the state of the room made little difference to me. But it was great to put down my bag and sit down for a second.
There seemed to be a mound in the corner of the dark room from which the broadest Scouse accent I have ever heard emanated. It took me a second to tune in; as it did for him to tune into my nearly-received-pronunciation accent. And that is how I met Dave, a really nice chap from Liverpool. Dave spent the day educating me in -- what I would call -- conspiracy theories (I am sure he will put me right if that is a misdescription) and we had a couple of good chats; although everything I'd read in the Illuminatus trilogy escaped me. So I was probably a bit useless.
We decided to go off exploring. So -- still not having tried out the shower facilities -- we went off round the Temple. This included making a donation: I handed cash over; in return I was given a brown concoction in a cardboard bowl and a couple of dried leaves. I was unsure what I was supposed to be doing with the goo. But as ever in India, someone was on hand to point me in the right direction. So I took my brown stuff and queued, hoping I would be able to give it away. But they only seemed to want a half of it; leaving me with the rest. I hid it in my bag for a bit, until I could quietly deposit it from prying eyes. But it was to no avail: before leaving the Temple, some more was thrust upon me. And then I found out it was for eating. It was with some trepidation I put it in my mouth, more because my hands were slovenly filthy. But it was quite nice and I am still alive.
From there, it was a quick visit to the Sikh museum which is a gory collection of pictures. If anyone fancies some inspiration on martyrdom, this is the place to come: graphic depictions of decapitations, people being sawn in two, being tortured on a spiked wheel, and a rather unpleasant painting of slaughtered babes-in-arms being hung around the necks of their sobbing mothers. And a host of photos of those who had died: kind of before-and-after collages. All rather disturbing.
Our other stops included the Mata Temple. This was fun. It involved crawling through small tunnels and walking through ankle deep [far-from-fresh] water, bare foot, of course. I understand that women come here if they wish to become pregnant (but I advise you don't get your hopes up, mum).
We also visited the Jallianwala Bagh. This is a garden built to commemorate the massacre which took place there in 1919, when General Dyer ordered 150 troops to open fire on a peaceful demonstration. The gathering was taking place in an open space surrounded by high walls. There was carnage: within six minutes 337 men, 41 boys and one baby were killed, and 1,500 wounded. (The event is captured effectively in Attenborough's Gandhi.) What I found most disturbing was the well in the garden. A number of the protestors had sought refuge in it, throwing themselves in for cover. It is a wide well: a couple of metres in diameter. And it is a deep well: you can't see the bottom; it is a just black abyss. Meaning, it is large well: over 180 bodies were pulled from it after the shootings.
The final stop of the day was in Attari/Wagah to watch the bizarre border display in which the Indian and Pakistani border guards carry out a ceremony each evening, trying to outdo each other in pomp and circumstance. It was most peculiar. The spectators are all seated high above the roads leading to the gates, on purpose built grandstands. The crowds are expected to egg the guards on and we were encouraged to do lots of shouting, singing, and -- strangely -- to support individuals selected to sprint the length of the track in pairs to while waving Indian flags. The sight of plump ladies in saris, struggling to keep up a decent pace in their pink pumps, keeping a (rather worse for wear) Indian flag aloft, was decidedly surreal.
However, I was seated in the ladies' section and for the most part was preoccupied with taking photo after photo of the audience who -- judging from their excitement -- had never seen a digital camera before. It took a lot of persuasion to explain that I wouldn't be coming back to Amritsar in a hurry, and could I watch what was going on below, please. It means I have lots of pictures of the audience; if not the border display.
I returned to Delhi overnight on another sleeper (cattle class again, as there were no other classes available) and caught up with Jackie. I arrived on her doorstep absolutely filthy, not having showered for several days and my clothes black with grime. I think she was slightly shocked.
But more of this all later. I am very tired, not having slept in a bed for two nights, and covered goodness knows how many kilometres in the last three/four days.
I am now in Agra. I have caught sight of the Taj - a grey outline - from the roof terrace of my guest house. I intend getting up at 5am to see sunrise; I shall of course let you know how it goes.
Bises, mes puces.
Goodness, it was a fleeting visit to Amritsar, for sure. But I managed to pack a lot in.
I arrived very early, around 6.30am, and the town was quiet. I found my way to the Golden Temple, an amazing Sikh monument crafted from white marble, crowned by a golden dome in the shape of a lotus leaf, floating on a tranquil lake. Of course, I was lugging my rucksack, and wasn't sure what the formalities were (where to leave my shoes, where to wash my feet, when to adorn my scarf (ie my beach sarong)).
Euch. There is cockroach roaming the keyboard while I am typing.
Anyway, I eventually found the Sri Guru Ram Das Niwas. This is a large complex for the pilgrims, which provides rooms, toilets, communal showers and a 24-hour restaurant to feed the masses, all for free. They have special dorms for the foreigners, which is where ... euch the cockroach is back again ... you can find a bed for the night. These are pretty basic. The one I was allocated was windowless, stuffy and grimy. And I don't think they change the sheets. But it was fine for me. Because I had taken the sleeper train the night before, I had slept in the clothes I was standing in. And evidently hadn't been able to wash either; therefore the state of the room made little difference to me. But it was great to put down my bag and sit down for a second.
There seemed to be a mound in the corner of the dark room from which the broadest Scouse accent I have ever heard emanated. It took me a second to tune in; as it did for him to tune into my nearly-received-pronunciation accent. And that is how I met Dave, a really nice chap from Liverpool. Dave spent the day educating me in -- what I would call -- conspiracy theories (I am sure he will put me right if that is a misdescription) and we had a couple of good chats; although everything I'd read in the Illuminatus trilogy escaped me. So I was probably a bit useless.
We decided to go off exploring. So -- still not having tried out the shower facilities -- we went off round the Temple. This included making a donation: I handed cash over; in return I was given a brown concoction in a cardboard bowl and a couple of dried leaves. I was unsure what I was supposed to be doing with the goo. But as ever in India, someone was on hand to point me in the right direction. So I took my brown stuff and queued, hoping I would be able to give it away. But they only seemed to want a half of it; leaving me with the rest. I hid it in my bag for a bit, until I could quietly deposit it from prying eyes. But it was to no avail: before leaving the Temple, some more was thrust upon me. And then I found out it was for eating. It was with some trepidation I put it in my mouth, more because my hands were slovenly filthy. But it was quite nice and I am still alive.
From there, it was a quick visit to the Sikh museum which is a gory collection of pictures. If anyone fancies some inspiration on martyrdom, this is the place to come: graphic depictions of decapitations, people being sawn in two, being tortured on a spiked wheel, and a rather unpleasant painting of slaughtered babes-in-arms being hung around the necks of their sobbing mothers. And a host of photos of those who had died: kind of before-and-after collages. All rather disturbing.
Our other stops included the Mata Temple. This was fun. It involved crawling through small tunnels and walking through ankle deep [far-from-fresh] water, bare foot, of course. I understand that women come here if they wish to become pregnant (but I advise you don't get your hopes up, mum).
We also visited the Jallianwala Bagh. This is a garden built to commemorate the massacre which took place there in 1919, when General Dyer ordered 150 troops to open fire on a peaceful demonstration. The gathering was taking place in an open space surrounded by high walls. There was carnage: within six minutes 337 men, 41 boys and one baby were killed, and 1,500 wounded. (The event is captured effectively in Attenborough's Gandhi.) What I found most disturbing was the well in the garden. A number of the protestors had sought refuge in it, throwing themselves in for cover. It is a wide well: a couple of metres in diameter. And it is a deep well: you can't see the bottom; it is a just black abyss. Meaning, it is large well: over 180 bodies were pulled from it after the shootings.
The final stop of the day was in Attari/Wagah to watch the bizarre border display in which the Indian and Pakistani border guards carry out a ceremony each evening, trying to outdo each other in pomp and circumstance. It was most peculiar. The spectators are all seated high above the roads leading to the gates, on purpose built grandstands. The crowds are expected to egg the guards on and we were encouraged to do lots of shouting, singing, and -- strangely -- to support individuals selected to sprint the length of the track in pairs to while waving Indian flags. The sight of plump ladies in saris, struggling to keep up a decent pace in their pink pumps, keeping a (rather worse for wear) Indian flag aloft, was decidedly surreal.
However, I was seated in the ladies' section and for the most part was preoccupied with taking photo after photo of the audience who -- judging from their excitement -- had never seen a digital camera before. It took a lot of persuasion to explain that I wouldn't be coming back to Amritsar in a hurry, and could I watch what was going on below, please. It means I have lots of pictures of the audience; if not the border display.
I returned to Delhi overnight on another sleeper (cattle class again, as there were no other classes available) and caught up with Jackie. I arrived on her doorstep absolutely filthy, not having showered for several days and my clothes black with grime. I think she was slightly shocked.
But more of this all later. I am very tired, not having slept in a bed for two nights, and covered goodness knows how many kilometres in the last three/four days.
I am now in Agra. I have caught sight of the Taj - a grey outline - from the roof terrace of my guest house. I intend getting up at 5am to see sunrise; I shall of course let you know how it goes.
Bises, mes puces.
Friday, 24 August 2007
Post office and sleeper adventures
Sweethearts
I have had such an exciting time since I last wrote that I can barely contain myself...
After I finished my last blog I decided that I had to lose some of my accumulated gear and send it back to England. I debated how this ought to be done. I considered DHL, but at 3000 rupees per kilo (over 30 pounds per kilo) it was a little extravagent. The post office appeared a much better option.
In the UK, I suppose what I would do would be to appropriate a banker's box from a generous employer and pack my stuff up. Here in India, I wasn't sure what the deal was and I had no idea where to find a box (or three).
But seriously, how difficult can it be to send stuff home? People do it the whole time, right?
Possibly. But obviously not from Delhi post office.
The post office is situated on a large roundabout in New Delhi with nothing near it for miles. I lurched into the building, laden like a pack horse: wearing my rucksack, a daypack, and carrying three carrier bags and a second rucksack. It was with some disdain that the woman at the help desk eyed me up and down and flagged for me to sit down. I did so. And then patiently waited 45 minutes. At this point (bearing in mind I had a train to catch) I aproached the desk again and asked about the container packaging advertised in a poster on a wall. Promptly I was told they didn't have any boxes. Oh. Where could I get one, I asked. The man helpfully explained that I should go to Paharganj (about 4 km away) where I would find someone to sort it. But the post office could not help me. I smiled gratefully and wobbled off under my heavy load and outside I tried and tried to hail an auto rickshaw on my roundabout in the middle of no where in urban Delhi.
An autorickshaw pulled over and a very well heeled chap and his attractive lady companion hopped out. As is so often the case in India, people stop to enquire about your business. In this instance the couple -- on hearing that I was on my way to Paharganj to send things back to England -- looked at me in absolute horror. They could not believe that the post office was sending me on such a wild goose chase. On hearing my plight, the chap frog-marched me back into the building (giving the attractive young lady my bags to carry) and had it out with the chap at the post office counter.
Miraculously, within seconds, a packer had arrived. Quickly followed by some cardboard boxes. Soon everythings was neatly tidied away; the man then fitted white muslin around the box and sewed it all together. Unfortunately, my new-found friends were 20 minutes late for a business meeting and had to dash off. But by the time the package was ready, most of the post office had been involved in the debacle in one shape of form, so when I bid the room farewell, everyone turned and waved.
I now have 11kg winging its way to England.
It was then a quick stop in Sundar Nagar market to try out the teas at Mittal's teashop (I now have some extremely expensive Darjeeling in my backpack) before arriving at New Delhi train station.
The trip down to Amritsar was not ideal. I was quite pooped by the time I hopped on the train. As mentioned in my last blog, I was in cattle class. My berth was number 2. This meant I was at the end of the carriage, next to the doors (which were kept wide open for the duration of the trip). So in some ways at least you could say that there was a bit of fresh air. But it also meant I was next to the lavatories, from which crept an overpowering stink of excrement. In Delhi, a man with a power hose had washed down the loos, the water seeping down the carriage, which improved the smell slightly, but did not strike me as overtly hygienic. But by about 3am, the smell had intensified and was making me gag.
The other thing which was slightly odd was the fact that everyone stared at me the entire trip. Or they wanted to talk to me, which was downright exhausting. One chap, an executive in Parliament, got jolly excited having a chat. It culminated in the following missive: "I have to get down at next station, my heart is not wanting to leave you but in end good by. You are too sweet to express before God." Which was very touching; but I was slightly relieved when he went.
I also got to eat the train food, which is an improvement on English railway cuisine. Mind you, it is damned difficult to eat chapati with the right hand alone, especially when all you can think about is where your hand has been that day (the train loos for instance). But I ate the food and pegged something else down to experience.
Anyway, I have to shoot off. I have visited a lot of Amritsar - but more of that another day.
Much love.
A
I have had such an exciting time since I last wrote that I can barely contain myself...
After I finished my last blog I decided that I had to lose some of my accumulated gear and send it back to England. I debated how this ought to be done. I considered DHL, but at 3000 rupees per kilo (over 30 pounds per kilo) it was a little extravagent. The post office appeared a much better option.
In the UK, I suppose what I would do would be to appropriate a banker's box from a generous employer and pack my stuff up. Here in India, I wasn't sure what the deal was and I had no idea where to find a box (or three).
But seriously, how difficult can it be to send stuff home? People do it the whole time, right?
Possibly. But obviously not from Delhi post office.
The post office is situated on a large roundabout in New Delhi with nothing near it for miles. I lurched into the building, laden like a pack horse: wearing my rucksack, a daypack, and carrying three carrier bags and a second rucksack. It was with some disdain that the woman at the help desk eyed me up and down and flagged for me to sit down. I did so. And then patiently waited 45 minutes. At this point (bearing in mind I had a train to catch) I aproached the desk again and asked about the container packaging advertised in a poster on a wall. Promptly I was told they didn't have any boxes. Oh. Where could I get one, I asked. The man helpfully explained that I should go to Paharganj (about 4 km away) where I would find someone to sort it. But the post office could not help me. I smiled gratefully and wobbled off under my heavy load and outside I tried and tried to hail an auto rickshaw on my roundabout in the middle of no where in urban Delhi.
An autorickshaw pulled over and a very well heeled chap and his attractive lady companion hopped out. As is so often the case in India, people stop to enquire about your business. In this instance the couple -- on hearing that I was on my way to Paharganj to send things back to England -- looked at me in absolute horror. They could not believe that the post office was sending me on such a wild goose chase. On hearing my plight, the chap frog-marched me back into the building (giving the attractive young lady my bags to carry) and had it out with the chap at the post office counter.
Miraculously, within seconds, a packer had arrived. Quickly followed by some cardboard boxes. Soon everythings was neatly tidied away; the man then fitted white muslin around the box and sewed it all together. Unfortunately, my new-found friends were 20 minutes late for a business meeting and had to dash off. But by the time the package was ready, most of the post office had been involved in the debacle in one shape of form, so when I bid the room farewell, everyone turned and waved.
I now have 11kg winging its way to England.
It was then a quick stop in Sundar Nagar market to try out the teas at Mittal's teashop (I now have some extremely expensive Darjeeling in my backpack) before arriving at New Delhi train station.
The trip down to Amritsar was not ideal. I was quite pooped by the time I hopped on the train. As mentioned in my last blog, I was in cattle class. My berth was number 2. This meant I was at the end of the carriage, next to the doors (which were kept wide open for the duration of the trip). So in some ways at least you could say that there was a bit of fresh air. But it also meant I was next to the lavatories, from which crept an overpowering stink of excrement. In Delhi, a man with a power hose had washed down the loos, the water seeping down the carriage, which improved the smell slightly, but did not strike me as overtly hygienic. But by about 3am, the smell had intensified and was making me gag.
The other thing which was slightly odd was the fact that everyone stared at me the entire trip. Or they wanted to talk to me, which was downright exhausting. One chap, an executive in Parliament, got jolly excited having a chat. It culminated in the following missive: "I have to get down at next station, my heart is not wanting to leave you but in end good by. You are too sweet to express before God." Which was very touching; but I was slightly relieved when he went.
I also got to eat the train food, which is an improvement on English railway cuisine. Mind you, it is damned difficult to eat chapati with the right hand alone, especially when all you can think about is where your hand has been that day (the train loos for instance). But I ate the food and pegged something else down to experience.
Anyway, I have to shoot off. I have visited a lot of Amritsar - but more of that another day.
Much love.
A
Thursday, 23 August 2007
Leh
Hello all
I have just returned from a trip to Pangong Tso, a very beautiful lake near the Tibet border. The trip involved driving over the world's third highest pass, Chang La. However, its ranking might be, slightly, incorrect, for -- according to my dad -- I was wrong in my earlier blog when I said that Taglang La at 5,328m was the world's second highest pass, as he has measured the Xuegu or Suge La pass in Tibet (N 29 52 55.5, E 90 07 58.3) by GPS to be 5,431m. If my dad is right (and whose parents are ever wrong?) this would make Chang La the fourth highest... I think. But I don't intend writing to the Indian government to put it right on this one.
Apart from seeing beautiful scenery and exploring the lake, I also had the delight of travelling with -- whom I can only describe as -- India's equivalent of Mr Bean. He was a terribly sweet chap from Bengal who had come to Ladakh without telling his wife and child, who were waiting at home thinking he was on business in Delhi, while he was having a super jolly touring the area and visiting the local attractions! My Mr Bean had a tendency to get extraordinarily excited; literally running around manically, smiling inanely. For instance, when we finally arrived at Pangong Lake, he suddenly flung open the door of the jeep and jumped out, running zigzags, helter skelter towards the shore, his arms flailing in the air, giggling loudly. At the water edge, he turned to face us and punched the air in delight, his blue rayon trousers catching the sun's rays.
During the drive he also tended to murmur to himself, laughing aloud and pointing. Or make helpful comments, such as "See... rain" when the sky started spitting. To which all the passengers smiled and nodded politely in silent agreement. At the start he had seemed particularly thrilled to learn that I was English as he had a rather ample selection of Elton John songs on tape. (Although he was also rather partial to pan pipe music.) And it was with enormous pleasure and satisfaction that he decided to share his music tastes throughout the duration of the journey, insisting that the driver play his cassettes . I was a little naughty. By this point, I had made friends with my two co-passengers in the back -- in particular Snehal -- and I was pretty sure that their music tastes were not in tune with our Reg Dwight fan. So when Elton hit the speakers I started singing along, which encouraged Mr Bean even more. I can only describe Snehal's expresssion as being pained. And Ken was actually physically sick (although he claims it was altitude sickness).
I also did a number of other things in Leh: visited some Gompas, climbed up to the Palace and castle, watched the sunset from the Stupa. And bought two Kashmir rugs. I learned too late that the Dalai Lama was in town and so didn't get to see him. I also failed to go on a trek (there is long, boring story here) and instead came back to Delhi this morning.
Flying out of Leh is a nightmare. You arrive at the airport and have to queue to get through security actually to enter the terminal. Then you have to queue to check in. Once checked in, it is more queueing to get through the departure gate. First the men's one (from which I was sent away) and then the ladies.
In the meantime, it was extremely unclear whether you could take hand luggage on or not. Some signs said no hand luggage at all was allowed. Some said no hand luggage allowed before 22 August (today is 23 August). Other signs said ladies' purses/bags were allowed. Meanwhile, some people were re-queueing to check in hand luggage that had not been allowed through the departure gate.
Once through the departure gate, hand luggage and bodies were searched a second time. (On each occasion the ladies are searched behind a small wooden screen to protect our modesty.)
Then -- once all these security formalities had been completed -- we had to identify the luggage which we had only just checked in.
But mine wasn't there.
I looked and looked and looked. The flight was due to leave in the next 10 minutes.
Eventually, I hailed an attendant and explained to her that my rucksack was missing. There was a strained expression on her face, as she summoned all the porters and attendants and commanded them to go on a mad expedition for my bag. (While I prayed that I wasn't being a dappy cow and had simply failed to recognise it.) They looked high and low, pulling bag after bag out, calling for me to identify it or not. They went through the group luggage; the luggage for later flights; the luggage for different airlines. Etc. Everyone watched this from the departure lounge, wondering what on earth was going on.
The short and long of it was that the whole flight was delayed because no one could find it. It eventually turned up -- of course in the last place we looked -- in the bottom of one of those luggage trucks: it had been loaded on without being checked.
And here I am back in Delhi. I have a train tonight to Amritsar. There weren't any first, second or third class berths available. So for the first time, I am really roughing it and going sleeper, ie cattle class.
Hasta luego.
Bises
I have just returned from a trip to Pangong Tso, a very beautiful lake near the Tibet border. The trip involved driving over the world's third highest pass, Chang La. However, its ranking might be, slightly, incorrect, for -- according to my dad -- I was wrong in my earlier blog when I said that Taglang La at 5,328m was the world's second highest pass, as he has measured the Xuegu or Suge La pass in Tibet (N 29 52 55.5, E 90 07 58.3) by GPS to be 5,431m. If my dad is right (and whose parents are ever wrong?) this would make Chang La the fourth highest... I think. But I don't intend writing to the Indian government to put it right on this one.
Apart from seeing beautiful scenery and exploring the lake, I also had the delight of travelling with -- whom I can only describe as -- India's equivalent of Mr Bean. He was a terribly sweet chap from Bengal who had come to Ladakh without telling his wife and child, who were waiting at home thinking he was on business in Delhi, while he was having a super jolly touring the area and visiting the local attractions! My Mr Bean had a tendency to get extraordinarily excited; literally running around manically, smiling inanely. For instance, when we finally arrived at Pangong Lake, he suddenly flung open the door of the jeep and jumped out, running zigzags, helter skelter towards the shore, his arms flailing in the air, giggling loudly. At the water edge, he turned to face us and punched the air in delight, his blue rayon trousers catching the sun's rays.
During the drive he also tended to murmur to himself, laughing aloud and pointing. Or make helpful comments, such as "See... rain" when the sky started spitting. To which all the passengers smiled and nodded politely in silent agreement. At the start he had seemed particularly thrilled to learn that I was English as he had a rather ample selection of Elton John songs on tape. (Although he was also rather partial to pan pipe music.) And it was with enormous pleasure and satisfaction that he decided to share his music tastes throughout the duration of the journey, insisting that the driver play his cassettes . I was a little naughty. By this point, I had made friends with my two co-passengers in the back -- in particular Snehal -- and I was pretty sure that their music tastes were not in tune with our Reg Dwight fan. So when Elton hit the speakers I started singing along, which encouraged Mr Bean even more. I can only describe Snehal's expresssion as being pained. And Ken was actually physically sick (although he claims it was altitude sickness).
I also did a number of other things in Leh: visited some Gompas, climbed up to the Palace and castle, watched the sunset from the Stupa. And bought two Kashmir rugs. I learned too late that the Dalai Lama was in town and so didn't get to see him. I also failed to go on a trek (there is long, boring story here) and instead came back to Delhi this morning.
Flying out of Leh is a nightmare. You arrive at the airport and have to queue to get through security actually to enter the terminal. Then you have to queue to check in. Once checked in, it is more queueing to get through the departure gate. First the men's one (from which I was sent away) and then the ladies.
In the meantime, it was extremely unclear whether you could take hand luggage on or not. Some signs said no hand luggage at all was allowed. Some said no hand luggage allowed before 22 August (today is 23 August). Other signs said ladies' purses/bags were allowed. Meanwhile, some people were re-queueing to check in hand luggage that had not been allowed through the departure gate.
Once through the departure gate, hand luggage and bodies were searched a second time. (On each occasion the ladies are searched behind a small wooden screen to protect our modesty.)
Then -- once all these security formalities had been completed -- we had to identify the luggage which we had only just checked in.
But mine wasn't there.
I looked and looked and looked. The flight was due to leave in the next 10 minutes.
Eventually, I hailed an attendant and explained to her that my rucksack was missing. There was a strained expression on her face, as she summoned all the porters and attendants and commanded them to go on a mad expedition for my bag. (While I prayed that I wasn't being a dappy cow and had simply failed to recognise it.) They looked high and low, pulling bag after bag out, calling for me to identify it or not. They went through the group luggage; the luggage for later flights; the luggage for different airlines. Etc. Everyone watched this from the departure lounge, wondering what on earth was going on.
The short and long of it was that the whole flight was delayed because no one could find it. It eventually turned up -- of course in the last place we looked -- in the bottom of one of those luggage trucks: it had been loaded on without being checked.
And here I am back in Delhi. I have a train tonight to Amritsar. There weren't any first, second or third class berths available. So for the first time, I am really roughing it and going sleeper, ie cattle class.
Hasta luego.
Bises
Monday, 20 August 2007
The best and the worst day
Dear all
Yesterday was an incredible day. I drove over the world's second highest navigable pass at Taglang La: a staggering 5328m. I have only been at that altitude a couple of times previously in my life, but never have I attempted to journey from 2050m (Manali) to a comparable height in such a short space of time.
It started at 2am when I went to catch the jeep. Except, for some reason, I was given the wrong meeting place. And so for an hour, I waited on my own in the dark. The village was deserted. I began to get quite scared, hearing noises scratching in the night around me. Also I was peeved not knowing why the hell my jeep wasn't there. After 45 minutes, sick of waiting, I decided to return to bed. On the way back to the guest house, I bumped into a fairly irate driver who'd been looking for me. Once in the vehicle, an hour late, it was a quick stop in Manali to pick up the rest of the passengers. They hauled themselves in, putting the luggage on the top. Everyone breathed in hard to allow the doors to shut: it did not bode well for what was expected to be an 18 hour jeep ride.
I sat on the backseat with three Indian chaps. I was wedged in so hard that, after about nine hours, my left thigh was aching from being jammed against another human body. Every time I or my neighbour moved in the slightest, the other was levered away from the seat, like a pea popping from its pod. It was hardcore. But off we went. As soon as we left Manali the road worsened. It was narrow and often the pitted asphalt disappeared completely to leave churned mud which we, the buses and the multitude of trucks, had to negotiate. At one point we had to crawl through a quasi-ford, listening to the rocks ripping against the underbelly of the jeep. And on several occasions we were drowned by flocks of sheep. But at the same time it was incredible: after a couple of hours the outline of the sun began to make itself known behind the mountains in the distance. And I witnessed a glorious sunrise, as slowly the mountains appeared as black silhouettes and then little by little gained in colour and texture. The sun rose higher revealing a cloudless sky, aquamarine at the high altitude, against the Himalayas which towered around us.
At the start, the rich scenery was littered with green grass and scrub; it reminded me a little of the Black Mountains in Wales (except the Himalayas are a bit bigger). But as we travelled further north and climbed higher, the landscape changed into stark desert (more like Bolivia's altiplano), an array of ambers, golds and greys in the sunshine. Have you ever seen a view so beautiful it brings a lump to your throat and tears to your eyes? That was what it was like. Wisps of clouds cast elaborate shadows the mountain slopes, creating unique displays of colours and textures. It was a special experience to witness.
We climbed on; higher and higher; passing wrecked lorries on the road as our jeep sauntered on. We stopped a couple of times at -- what I thought were encampments since they were just tarpaulins stretched on sticks to create shelter but were in fact -- villages, for chai and latterly lovely dhal and chapati (which went down a treat, as I sunned myself in the moonscape). Each time we stopped the girls asked where the loos were; and each time the response was the same - a vague sweep of the hand, coupled with the word "open". By this point we were surrounded by gravel and shale, which dribbled down the mountainside. This meant there was little cover for girls to attend to toilet-stops with any modesty. Plus there is no where in India that is without people: they are absolutely everywhere. So, even on what would appear to be a deserted hillside, you'd soon manage to see six of seven Indians carefully positioned so all 360 degrees around you were covered.
As we reached higher, I began to feel increasingly ropey. Despite travelling to high altitudes in the past I hadn't suffered from altitude sickness before. My throat began to hurt, my head to pound and I felt nauseous. (It was this illness that explains the negative part of the title of the blog: I felt terrible.) I discovered later that one of the group was actually sick, which made me feel a bit better - a good does of schadenfreude. I tried to sleep. It was difficult - the road was too bumpy. Each time the chap to my left tried to drop off, invariably his head would wobble and fall against me and I could feel his chin ratattating against my shoulder as we bounced along the highway.
I was impressed by our driver and his stamina, as he carefully navigated the 450km over such difficult, potholed roads, overtaking the variety of vehicles we met, carefully avoiding the sheer drops on either side of us as we scaled the hairpins. I later discovered from our Indain co-passengers -- and this scared me more than anything else -- that this was his return trip in two days (ie he was doing nearly 40 hours driving on the trot without any significant break). This is why they kept encouraging him to pull over, each time they saw his chin nodding up and down, quietly drifting off to sleep at the wheel. It was with great relief therefore when we finally pulled into Leh. I was knackered and gratefully let a tout take me to his hotel, barely negotiating the price; clambering on his scooter, eager for sleep. I passed out immediately, dehydrated and too tired to think.
The other memorable part of the trip, which I wanted to share with you, was the road signs. These are placed at regular intervals along the route to encourage safe driving. Here are a few for your delectation:
"Drinking and driving make a lethal cocktail."
"Don't be a gama in the land of the lama." [The Dalai Lama lives in nearby McLeod Ganj.]
"If you respect the mountains, the mountains will respect you."
"After drinking whiskey, driving is risky."
"It is always better being later than being late Mr." [I thought that was quite a clever play on 'the late Mr ...' ie deceased.]
And my favourite:
"Curves are blind and sharp, drive your vehicle like playing a harp."
Rightio. I am going to explore Leh now - it is proving impossible to get flights out (it is high season) so I am not spending as long as I had hoped here.
Besos
PS I will try and upload some photos of the incredible views later.
Yesterday was an incredible day. I drove over the world's second highest navigable pass at Taglang La: a staggering 5328m. I have only been at that altitude a couple of times previously in my life, but never have I attempted to journey from 2050m (Manali) to a comparable height in such a short space of time.
It started at 2am when I went to catch the jeep. Except, for some reason, I was given the wrong meeting place. And so for an hour, I waited on my own in the dark. The village was deserted. I began to get quite scared, hearing noises scratching in the night around me. Also I was peeved not knowing why the hell my jeep wasn't there. After 45 minutes, sick of waiting, I decided to return to bed. On the way back to the guest house, I bumped into a fairly irate driver who'd been looking for me. Once in the vehicle, an hour late, it was a quick stop in Manali to pick up the rest of the passengers. They hauled themselves in, putting the luggage on the top. Everyone breathed in hard to allow the doors to shut: it did not bode well for what was expected to be an 18 hour jeep ride.
I sat on the backseat with three Indian chaps. I was wedged in so hard that, after about nine hours, my left thigh was aching from being jammed against another human body. Every time I or my neighbour moved in the slightest, the other was levered away from the seat, like a pea popping from its pod. It was hardcore. But off we went. As soon as we left Manali the road worsened. It was narrow and often the pitted asphalt disappeared completely to leave churned mud which we, the buses and the multitude of trucks, had to negotiate. At one point we had to crawl through a quasi-ford, listening to the rocks ripping against the underbelly of the jeep. And on several occasions we were drowned by flocks of sheep. But at the same time it was incredible: after a couple of hours the outline of the sun began to make itself known behind the mountains in the distance. And I witnessed a glorious sunrise, as slowly the mountains appeared as black silhouettes and then little by little gained in colour and texture. The sun rose higher revealing a cloudless sky, aquamarine at the high altitude, against the Himalayas which towered around us.
At the start, the rich scenery was littered with green grass and scrub; it reminded me a little of the Black Mountains in Wales (except the Himalayas are a bit bigger). But as we travelled further north and climbed higher, the landscape changed into stark desert (more like Bolivia's altiplano), an array of ambers, golds and greys in the sunshine. Have you ever seen a view so beautiful it brings a lump to your throat and tears to your eyes? That was what it was like. Wisps of clouds cast elaborate shadows the mountain slopes, creating unique displays of colours and textures. It was a special experience to witness.
We climbed on; higher and higher; passing wrecked lorries on the road as our jeep sauntered on. We stopped a couple of times at -- what I thought were encampments since they were just tarpaulins stretched on sticks to create shelter but were in fact -- villages, for chai and latterly lovely dhal and chapati (which went down a treat, as I sunned myself in the moonscape). Each time we stopped the girls asked where the loos were; and each time the response was the same - a vague sweep of the hand, coupled with the word "open". By this point we were surrounded by gravel and shale, which dribbled down the mountainside. This meant there was little cover for girls to attend to toilet-stops with any modesty. Plus there is no where in India that is without people: they are absolutely everywhere. So, even on what would appear to be a deserted hillside, you'd soon manage to see six of seven Indians carefully positioned so all 360 degrees around you were covered.
As we reached higher, I began to feel increasingly ropey. Despite travelling to high altitudes in the past I hadn't suffered from altitude sickness before. My throat began to hurt, my head to pound and I felt nauseous. (It was this illness that explains the negative part of the title of the blog: I felt terrible.) I discovered later that one of the group was actually sick, which made me feel a bit better - a good does of schadenfreude. I tried to sleep. It was difficult - the road was too bumpy. Each time the chap to my left tried to drop off, invariably his head would wobble and fall against me and I could feel his chin ratattating against my shoulder as we bounced along the highway.
I was impressed by our driver and his stamina, as he carefully navigated the 450km over such difficult, potholed roads, overtaking the variety of vehicles we met, carefully avoiding the sheer drops on either side of us as we scaled the hairpins. I later discovered from our Indain co-passengers -- and this scared me more than anything else -- that this was his return trip in two days (ie he was doing nearly 40 hours driving on the trot without any significant break). This is why they kept encouraging him to pull over, each time they saw his chin nodding up and down, quietly drifting off to sleep at the wheel. It was with great relief therefore when we finally pulled into Leh. I was knackered and gratefully let a tout take me to his hotel, barely negotiating the price; clambering on his scooter, eager for sleep. I passed out immediately, dehydrated and too tired to think.
The other memorable part of the trip, which I wanted to share with you, was the road signs. These are placed at regular intervals along the route to encourage safe driving. Here are a few for your delectation:
"Drinking and driving make a lethal cocktail."
"Don't be a gama in the land of the lama." [The Dalai Lama lives in nearby McLeod Ganj.]
"If you respect the mountains, the mountains will respect you."
"After drinking whiskey, driving is risky."
"It is always better being later than being late Mr." [I thought that was quite a clever play on 'the late Mr ...' ie deceased.]
And my favourite:
"Curves are blind and sharp, drive your vehicle like playing a harp."
Rightio. I am going to explore Leh now - it is proving impossible to get flights out (it is high season) so I am not spending as long as I had hoped here.
Besos
PS I will try and upload some photos of the incredible views later.
Friday, 17 August 2007
Paragliding
What an exciting morning. I joined Ed -- a spur of the moment decision -- to go paragliding today. We took a taxi to a place called Naggar, which was very pretty: winding lanes through ripe apple orchards dripping with golden fruit. On our arrival we had to hike for 25 minutes up a narrow path, the breadth of my two feet, which fell on one side deep into the Kullu valley. It was beautiful: the sun was shining and the sky blue. But I embarrassed myself by being very unfit and having to huff and puff loudly all the way up.
At the top, Ed went first. I watched with some trepidation (having signed the waiver, which was under Indian law, and excluded all liabilities including those for injury and death arising from negligence; I also mulled over the fact that dangerous sports were excluded from my insurance policy... yikes).
Finally, about an hour later, after I'd been sunning myself alone on the top of this cliff, the chap returned up for my go. I was hooked into the gear and then told to run towards the edge (the man was strapped to my back and he would be handling the controls). On cue, I made a mad dash: the man was shouting , "Run, run!", but it was impossible as the wind had picked up the 'chute and I was treading air, not moving. By this point I was shaking and the adrenalin had started. And before I knew it, I was in the air, floating, the Kullu Valley stretching before me, a patchwork of glorious green, the river winding through it. We flew, nothing between me and the ground, which was very far below me. As we slowly feathered down towards the ground, he asked if I wanted to do some "stunts" and before I know it we were spiralling round and round (my nose was running hard) until I was dizzy by the centrifugal force. Then he manoeuvred the paraglider so it lifted up into the air and then dropped, my stomach jumping into my mouth. It felt as if I was on a rollercoaster, except that I was hundreds of metres in the air and nothing between me and the hard earth. As we lowered I was slightly concerned by the number of electricity pylons - we seemed to be descending in a whole nest of them (it turned out the wires haven't been connected yet, so my fears were unfounded).
Finally we touched down. And I fell over. Ed has some of this on film, which I shall hopefully share in future. We had to carry the 'chutes to the road, which was a bit heavy. There is marijuana growing everywhere here, it lines the roads. And people do seem to spend a lot of time skinning up. This is lost on me (my poison being alcohol), and I feel terribly uncool refusing joints. But hey ho. Such is life.
Then it was a local bus back to Manali. Like everything else here, it was colourful, a bright turquoise, with interesting signs welcoming us to the "Bharti Coach". It was rammed, people lining the aisle, smiling and joking. The people here in Himachal Pradesh are very attractive: lean and lithe, with well-formed features, high cheekbones, and feline in their languidity.
Anyway, Ed wants to go paragliding again tomorrow, so I am going to see if I can get some insurance so I can go again too.
Speak soon
At the top, Ed went first. I watched with some trepidation (having signed the waiver, which was under Indian law, and excluded all liabilities including those for injury and death arising from negligence; I also mulled over the fact that dangerous sports were excluded from my insurance policy... yikes).
Finally, about an hour later, after I'd been sunning myself alone on the top of this cliff, the chap returned up for my go. I was hooked into the gear and then told to run towards the edge (the man was strapped to my back and he would be handling the controls). On cue, I made a mad dash: the man was shouting , "Run, run!", but it was impossible as the wind had picked up the 'chute and I was treading air, not moving. By this point I was shaking and the adrenalin had started. And before I knew it, I was in the air, floating, the Kullu Valley stretching before me, a patchwork of glorious green, the river winding through it. We flew, nothing between me and the ground, which was very far below me. As we slowly feathered down towards the ground, he asked if I wanted to do some "stunts" and before I know it we were spiralling round and round (my nose was running hard) until I was dizzy by the centrifugal force. Then he manoeuvred the paraglider so it lifted up into the air and then dropped, my stomach jumping into my mouth. It felt as if I was on a rollercoaster, except that I was hundreds of metres in the air and nothing between me and the hard earth. As we lowered I was slightly concerned by the number of electricity pylons - we seemed to be descending in a whole nest of them (it turned out the wires haven't been connected yet, so my fears were unfounded).
Finally we touched down. And I fell over. Ed has some of this on film, which I shall hopefully share in future. We had to carry the 'chutes to the road, which was a bit heavy. There is marijuana growing everywhere here, it lines the roads. And people do seem to spend a lot of time skinning up. This is lost on me (my poison being alcohol), and I feel terribly uncool refusing joints. But hey ho. Such is life.
Then it was a local bus back to Manali. Like everything else here, it was colourful, a bright turquoise, with interesting signs welcoming us to the "Bharti Coach". It was rammed, people lining the aisle, smiling and joking. The people here in Himachal Pradesh are very attractive: lean and lithe, with well-formed features, high cheekbones, and feline in their languidity.
Anyway, Ed wants to go paragliding again tomorrow, so I am going to see if I can get some insurance so I can go again too.
Speak soon
Thursday, 16 August 2007
Manali
Lovelies
I have already left the middle class joys of Shimla and am now in Vashisht, which is a small village near Manali (further into the Himalayas). It was a spectacular -- albeit long -- drive to get here. The sun was shining brightly, the sky was clear blue, and the firs so vividly green that they shimmered. The road snaked through gorges and tailed the river till we finally arrived here.
It took several hours to get used to the driving. In particular for the chap to my left, who spent a significant part of the journey retching wretchedly out the window. And sadly, although we had a paid for a private bus, on arrival it suspiciously ressembled a public one, with particularly uncomfortable seats. But even such discomforts could not detract from the journey. I anticipate that the two day bus ride up to Leh will be even more marvelous.
I have been travelling for the last couple of days with Ed, an American (who prefers to describe himself as coming from San Francisco, although originally he is from Mississippi. I have been teasing him mercilessly by quizzing him about white trailer trash and living in the bible belt; he has been taking the p*ss out of my teeth: so an obvious quid pro quo, I say.)
On our arrival in Vashisht, I was struck by how the place is a major throw back to the 1970s. Everyone has facial hairs (even the women... no only kidding, all the girls look about 22 years old). Everyone dresses in very hippy clothes: long, flowing and sarongs. I feel positively out of place in my walking boots and fleece! Anyway, I shall see what there is to do.
Hasta luego
I have already left the middle class joys of Shimla and am now in Vashisht, which is a small village near Manali (further into the Himalayas). It was a spectacular -- albeit long -- drive to get here. The sun was shining brightly, the sky was clear blue, and the firs so vividly green that they shimmered. The road snaked through gorges and tailed the river till we finally arrived here.
It took several hours to get used to the driving. In particular for the chap to my left, who spent a significant part of the journey retching wretchedly out the window. And sadly, although we had a paid for a private bus, on arrival it suspiciously ressembled a public one, with particularly uncomfortable seats. But even such discomforts could not detract from the journey. I anticipate that the two day bus ride up to Leh will be even more marvelous.
I have been travelling for the last couple of days with Ed, an American (who prefers to describe himself as coming from San Francisco, although originally he is from Mississippi. I have been teasing him mercilessly by quizzing him about white trailer trash and living in the bible belt; he has been taking the p*ss out of my teeth: so an obvious quid pro quo, I say.)
On our arrival in Vashisht, I was struck by how the place is a major throw back to the 1970s. Everyone has facial hairs (even the women... no only kidding, all the girls look about 22 years old). Everyone dresses in very hippy clothes: long, flowing and sarongs. I feel positively out of place in my walking boots and fleece! Anyway, I shall see what there is to do.
Hasta luego
Wednesday, 15 August 2007
Shimla
Slowly I am making my way north: I am currently in a place called Shimla, in the Himalyan foothills. It used to be the summer capital of the Raj. And until 1939, the government of India migrated from Delhi and Calcutta to Shimla each summer, to enjoy its cooler climes. It is very pretty, being perched on a ridge overlooking valleys up which coloured chalets climb.
Indeed, it is exactly (well nearly) like a pretty little Swiss ski resort. Its principal thoroughfares are connected by footpaths which steeply twist around the slopes. And its main street is pedestrian only, lined with a variety shops: washing machine outlets, typewriter repair places and icecream parlours. It is very clean, no wandering cows; and is absolutely charming. Each day, middle class Indian families, holidaying away from the heat, stroll up and down the main promenade. This means it is extraordinarily busy and buzzing with gossip and life. But it feels very much that I am on hols. Last night, in true colonial style, I went to the local fancy hotel "Cecil" -- a rather attractive place, wood lined (both floor and wall panels) from door to door -- where I sipped a couple of well enjoyed gins and tonics.
But the trip here was -- as ever -- a bit of an issue. I collected the 05:25 from Nizmuddin in Delhi and arrived in Kalka mid morning. I was due to catch the train from Shimla. This is a rather special train, a "toy train" which winds its ascent into the hills. The railway passes through 103 tunnels as it snakes up its scenic route to Shimla. Of course, on our arrival in Kalka, we discovered there was no train. The monsoon had washed away the track (as well as several stations, we subsequently discovered).
Oh well. Let's take the bus... We were assured they arrived every 15 minutes. Yeah right.
It turned out no one had seen one all morning and thus the queue patiently stretched down the road. It was certain that if a bus arrived it would be a mad rush and struggle to get on, and there would be fears about luggage (could you get that on too?) and finally the knowledge that you would have to stand for five hours, rammed in. No air. What a joyous expectation. Following a quick discussion with an Italian couple and an American, we decided to get a taxi. After asking around, we found one which we could share with two Indian families (it was nice to know that the foreigners were screwed for the same extortionate amount as the Indians over the taxi).
And so 12 of us squeezed into the nine seater minibus. I felt particularly sorry for the three family members squeezed into the two-seats next to the driver: their daughter wasn't what I would describe as slight...
Off we teared around the roads, many of which were still having landslides being cleared away. By the time our driver had insisted on overtaking on blind corners too many times -- despite our sharp intakes of breath and cursing -- each passenger in the minibus (in particular the family of four from Delhi seated in front of me) where leaning forward in fearful anticipation, gripping the seat-tops in front, their knuckles whitening. It was this experience, and the sheer number of accidents that take place here, that has led me to decide to take day buses in the mountains in future.
On arrival, we discovered that Shimla hadn't been accessible for several days (and this was the first time people had been able to get in): there had been no food, water or contact with the town for a while. But I am here now, and it is lovely.
Today is the sixtieth anniversary of India's independence. I decided not to be on the road today, but to try and take part in the celebrations tonight. I shall keep you posted.
Much love
Indeed, it is exactly (well nearly) like a pretty little Swiss ski resort. Its principal thoroughfares are connected by footpaths which steeply twist around the slopes. And its main street is pedestrian only, lined with a variety shops: washing machine outlets, typewriter repair places and icecream parlours. It is very clean, no wandering cows; and is absolutely charming. Each day, middle class Indian families, holidaying away from the heat, stroll up and down the main promenade. This means it is extraordinarily busy and buzzing with gossip and life. But it feels very much that I am on hols. Last night, in true colonial style, I went to the local fancy hotel "Cecil" -- a rather attractive place, wood lined (both floor and wall panels) from door to door -- where I sipped a couple of well enjoyed gins and tonics.
But the trip here was -- as ever -- a bit of an issue. I collected the 05:25 from Nizmuddin in Delhi and arrived in Kalka mid morning. I was due to catch the train from Shimla. This is a rather special train, a "toy train" which winds its ascent into the hills. The railway passes through 103 tunnels as it snakes up its scenic route to Shimla. Of course, on our arrival in Kalka, we discovered there was no train. The monsoon had washed away the track (as well as several stations, we subsequently discovered).
Oh well. Let's take the bus... We were assured they arrived every 15 minutes. Yeah right.
It turned out no one had seen one all morning and thus the queue patiently stretched down the road. It was certain that if a bus arrived it would be a mad rush and struggle to get on, and there would be fears about luggage (could you get that on too?) and finally the knowledge that you would have to stand for five hours, rammed in. No air. What a joyous expectation. Following a quick discussion with an Italian couple and an American, we decided to get a taxi. After asking around, we found one which we could share with two Indian families (it was nice to know that the foreigners were screwed for the same extortionate amount as the Indians over the taxi).
And so 12 of us squeezed into the nine seater minibus. I felt particularly sorry for the three family members squeezed into the two-seats next to the driver: their daughter wasn't what I would describe as slight...
Off we teared around the roads, many of which were still having landslides being cleared away. By the time our driver had insisted on overtaking on blind corners too many times -- despite our sharp intakes of breath and cursing -- each passenger in the minibus (in particular the family of four from Delhi seated in front of me) where leaning forward in fearful anticipation, gripping the seat-tops in front, their knuckles whitening. It was this experience, and the sheer number of accidents that take place here, that has led me to decide to take day buses in the mountains in future.
On arrival, we discovered that Shimla hadn't been accessible for several days (and this was the first time people had been able to get in): there had been no food, water or contact with the town for a while. But I am here now, and it is lovely.
Today is the sixtieth anniversary of India's independence. I decided not to be on the road today, but to try and take part in the celebrations tonight. I shall keep you posted.
Much love
Monday, 13 August 2007
Another interesting bus ride
Bliss. Sheer bliss. It feels like coming home to be in Jackie's flat in Delhi. There is aircon, and toilets, and everything!
I am stopping over in Delhi before heading north. I had planned to stay in Udaipur for a while, but frankly didn't fall in love with the town as anticipated. Maybe my expectations were too high. Don't get me wrong, it is magnificent: the enormous golden palace sits on the edge of Lake Pichola, overlooking the ghats and beautiful buildings on the water's edge, while a rolling backdrop of green lush hills stretches to the horizon. In the middle of the lake itself are a number of rather spectacular palaces, in particular the Lake Palace hotel, a marble white construction which no photo can do real justice.
From the City Palace, shop-lined streets trickle downwards, past temples and havelis. Each lane is cramped with life: hawkers, women wrapped in wondrous colours, while automated rickshaws, battered cars, motorbikes and pedestrians flow into every opening and empty space, jostling to get ahead, to move. It is exciting and vibrant. But I don't know. I loved the calm complacency of Pushkar, the thrilling fort overlooking the Thar desert in Jaisalmer, the friendliness of Jodpur. But I didn't really love Udaipur. So I decided to move and northwards.
Last night's journey wasn't quite as planned. I'd booked a single sleeper on a bus (I've described these before, these are overhead sleeping compartments running the length of the bus where the luggage rack would usually be). On arrival to catch the coach, I discovered that the bus wasn't running but there was another one I could jump on. And I could have a sleeper too. But it meant sharing with this Italian. It was a difficult choice, but I was tired, my bag was heavy and Alessandro looked harmless enough. As it turned out he was a sweet boy: a 33 year old who worked in a bank and stilled lived at home with his mama in Florence. Over dinner he wistfully sighed, reminiscing with misty eyes about her pizza and lasagne... But his English was fairly limited and my Italian is pants. Whoever said Italian is like Spanish is talking rubbish. Each time I spoke in Spanish with an Italian accent, he didn't have a clue what I was going on about.
We stopped for dinner at a roadside cafe. I was slightly concerned that the bus would go without us and throughout the meal kept wandering over to the door to make sure it was still there. At one point, I noted the seats were filling up and clearly it was getting ready to go. But Alessandro mocked my fears, stating categorically (in broken English) that it wouldn't go without us. Then suddenly there was a loud "toot toot". I called the waiter over, threw some rupees at him and ran out the door. My worst fears were realised: there was no bus. I scoured the road and noticed that several people were running after a bus which was slowly pulling away. I ran too, shouting "Delhi?!". There was nod and hands came out to pull me on. But where the hell was Alessandro? I shouted at them to stop because there was someone else coming, it slowed and I stood, one foot in the open, crowded door, and one on the ground. Waiting. And waiting, as people on the bus shouted abuse telling me to get in. Clearly the Mediterranean attitude wasn't going to be compromised, and Alessandro wasn't going to hurry. I couldn't go and find him, as I was pretty certain the bus would go (with my belongings and ruck sack but without me) if I went back to the restaurant.
But, as ever with these tales, it turned out alright in the end. Alessandro finally turned up, nonchalantly limbering over towards us, without a care in the world. I scolded him. He ignored me. And we went to bed. Only one sharp elbow was required during the night to make sure he kept his side of the sleeper. So all is well that ends well.
I ought to go and post some things home. But I am truly pooped today. So being lazy. Tut tut.
I am stopping over in Delhi before heading north. I had planned to stay in Udaipur for a while, but frankly didn't fall in love with the town as anticipated. Maybe my expectations were too high. Don't get me wrong, it is magnificent: the enormous golden palace sits on the edge of Lake Pichola, overlooking the ghats and beautiful buildings on the water's edge, while a rolling backdrop of green lush hills stretches to the horizon. In the middle of the lake itself are a number of rather spectacular palaces, in particular the Lake Palace hotel, a marble white construction which no photo can do real justice.
From the City Palace, shop-lined streets trickle downwards, past temples and havelis. Each lane is cramped with life: hawkers, women wrapped in wondrous colours, while automated rickshaws, battered cars, motorbikes and pedestrians flow into every opening and empty space, jostling to get ahead, to move. It is exciting and vibrant. But I don't know. I loved the calm complacency of Pushkar, the thrilling fort overlooking the Thar desert in Jaisalmer, the friendliness of Jodpur. But I didn't really love Udaipur. So I decided to move and northwards.
Last night's journey wasn't quite as planned. I'd booked a single sleeper on a bus (I've described these before, these are overhead sleeping compartments running the length of the bus where the luggage rack would usually be). On arrival to catch the coach, I discovered that the bus wasn't running but there was another one I could jump on. And I could have a sleeper too. But it meant sharing with this Italian. It was a difficult choice, but I was tired, my bag was heavy and Alessandro looked harmless enough. As it turned out he was a sweet boy: a 33 year old who worked in a bank and stilled lived at home with his mama in Florence. Over dinner he wistfully sighed, reminiscing with misty eyes about her pizza and lasagne... But his English was fairly limited and my Italian is pants. Whoever said Italian is like Spanish is talking rubbish. Each time I spoke in Spanish with an Italian accent, he didn't have a clue what I was going on about.
We stopped for dinner at a roadside cafe. I was slightly concerned that the bus would go without us and throughout the meal kept wandering over to the door to make sure it was still there. At one point, I noted the seats were filling up and clearly it was getting ready to go. But Alessandro mocked my fears, stating categorically (in broken English) that it wouldn't go without us. Then suddenly there was a loud "toot toot". I called the waiter over, threw some rupees at him and ran out the door. My worst fears were realised: there was no bus. I scoured the road and noticed that several people were running after a bus which was slowly pulling away. I ran too, shouting "Delhi?!". There was nod and hands came out to pull me on. But where the hell was Alessandro? I shouted at them to stop because there was someone else coming, it slowed and I stood, one foot in the open, crowded door, and one on the ground. Waiting. And waiting, as people on the bus shouted abuse telling me to get in. Clearly the Mediterranean attitude wasn't going to be compromised, and Alessandro wasn't going to hurry. I couldn't go and find him, as I was pretty certain the bus would go (with my belongings and ruck sack but without me) if I went back to the restaurant.
But, as ever with these tales, it turned out alright in the end. Alessandro finally turned up, nonchalantly limbering over towards us, without a care in the world. I scolded him. He ignored me. And we went to bed. Only one sharp elbow was required during the night to make sure he kept his side of the sleeper. So all is well that ends well.
I ought to go and post some things home. But I am truly pooped today. So being lazy. Tut tut.
Saturday, 11 August 2007
Nutters: how come they always find me?
Goodness, I don't half find them. I was just having a wander around Udaipur, minding my own business, when this boy of 19 tried to engage me in conversation. His speech was slurred, and one side of his face sloped down, paralysed. It turned out he'd had an accident and had been in a coma for three months. I was a lucky lassie, as he insisted that I tap the top of his head to feel the metal plate. He seemed to be well known to the locals. At one point, as he was bending over writing me a note, an observer slowly circled his fingers above his ear, and murmured in Spanish,"poco loco"; but added that his father was very rich and therefore the boy was tolerated. (Please note: I personally don't think he was 'loco', just a little bit too attentive, didn't get hints to get lost, and was quite rude (although not to me).)
Then, for the next 45 minutes, the boy tailed me back to the guest house. He gave me running commentary spouting some pseudo-philosophical clap trap, which commenced with the utterly disturbing "why are you so pure, and I am so bad?".
What was most fascinating was his reaction to his fellow Indians. For the most part, he commented on their ignorance and greed, pretty vitriolic stuff. At one point -- seconds after Mukesh had lauded how tolerant he is -- a group of pretty young girls came up, smiling shyly, to say "Hello". I gave them a broad smile and said "Hello" back, to which they said "Very well thank you", clearly not understanding the lack of "How are you?". The boy guffawed, pointed at them saying how stupid they were. The girls look crestfallen and walked off sheepishly. (It felt like an episode out of Adrian Mole.)
Anyway, I couldn't shake him. All the way home people stared and a couple of Indians approached and asked (in Spanish again - I don't know why I have been mistaken for Italian, French and Spanish lately, rarely English) whether he was my friend. It was uncomfortable.
I now have an invitation to his house to meet his family... I just hope he doesn't turn up again tomorrow. In the meantime, I now have a whole load of platitudes enscribed in my diary, including the particularly fine: "Roses are red, violets are bluc, people like you, are very few". Choice.
I should count myself lucky. Belen and Jacinta -- who turned up in Udaipur today (it was fab to see them, plus they brought me some shopping I'd left in Jodpur) -- have been followed from Jaisalmer by this one bloke. They have resorted to lying to try and get rid of him. Can you believe it? He turned up in Jodpur and insisted on coming on the bus with them to Udaipur. Freaky.
Enough gossip. Just wanted to share the weirdos with you all.
A
Then, for the next 45 minutes, the boy tailed me back to the guest house. He gave me running commentary spouting some pseudo-philosophical clap trap, which commenced with the utterly disturbing "why are you so pure, and I am so bad?".
What was most fascinating was his reaction to his fellow Indians. For the most part, he commented on their ignorance and greed, pretty vitriolic stuff. At one point -- seconds after Mukesh had lauded how tolerant he is -- a group of pretty young girls came up, smiling shyly, to say "Hello". I gave them a broad smile and said "Hello" back, to which they said "Very well thank you", clearly not understanding the lack of "How are you?". The boy guffawed, pointed at them saying how stupid they were. The girls look crestfallen and walked off sheepishly. (It felt like an episode out of Adrian Mole.)
Anyway, I couldn't shake him. All the way home people stared and a couple of Indians approached and asked (in Spanish again - I don't know why I have been mistaken for Italian, French and Spanish lately, rarely English) whether he was my friend. It was uncomfortable.
I now have an invitation to his house to meet his family... I just hope he doesn't turn up again tomorrow. In the meantime, I now have a whole load of platitudes enscribed in my diary, including the particularly fine: "Roses are red, violets are bluc, people like you, are very few". Choice.
I should count myself lucky. Belen and Jacinta -- who turned up in Udaipur today (it was fab to see them, plus they brought me some shopping I'd left in Jodpur) -- have been followed from Jaisalmer by this one bloke. They have resorted to lying to try and get rid of him. Can you believe it? He turned up in Jodpur and insisted on coming on the bus with them to Udaipur. Freaky.
Enough gossip. Just wanted to share the weirdos with you all.
A
Udaipur - hotel problems
Boy-o-boy
I haven't acually seen much of Udaipur yet. But I am currently waiting for a room in a guest house and so thought I would use the time to blog quickly.
This morning has been a bit of a muck up. I was jolly excited as I was supposed to be staying at the Lake Palace Hotel tonight. It was going to be my sole major splash out on the whole trip http://www.tajhotels.com/palace/Taj%20Lake%20Palace,Udaipur/. (This hotel features in Octopussy.)
Originally, I was going to book it myself - using a website that Richard had recommended. But then someone (who works in the travel industry in the UK and has contacts in India) said no, and offered to book it for me, saying they'd get a better deal. And of course, me being a greedy so-and-so, I jumped at the chance. Fool!
To get to the Lake Palace, you have to take a rickshaw (well, you do if you have lots of luggage as I) and then a boat across Lake Pichola. On arrival at the jetty, I'd been sternly adament - when quizzed about my reservation - that I had a legitimate booking. Clearly the staff were scrambling around to find it: and I was somewhat surprised to find the duty manager waiting for me when I arrived at the hotel . He was very apologetic, saying they had no booking in my name and asking politely if I had any sort of reference. Ironically, I'd emailed the person in England yesterday asking for this sort of thing, but had been told no, they didn't have one but assured me that it would be okay.
The short and long of it is that I am kind of special, as I managed to get to the hotel and see the reception area (which I don't think many non-guests get to see, as you don't seem to be able to get across unless you have a room), even if I had to depart pronto afterwards. Arriving back on shore, I toured around to another two hotels - both full. By this point (bearing in mind it is only 11am here) I was mildly concerned that I'd spend my day looking for a hotel, spending my very precious cash on rickshaws! So I bit the bullet and returned to last night's place. Which is a dreadful dive, to be honest (no window, a lock that doesn't work, and water which is pretty eratic: the supply stopped midway through my hair-washing this morning). But at least I can get out and tour the town, once the room has been cleaned!
Udaipur is supposed to be one of those 'romantic' cities, in the vein of Venice. I was going to make some quips about being here single, but after this morning shenanigans, it has all been a little bit de-romanticised. But enough moaning!
Yesterday was a pleasant day, although most of it was spent in a car: I had wanted to visit a couple of sites between Jodpur and Udaipur which are difficult to get to without private transport. The car had been arranged in Jodpur by a super woman who ran the guest house I stayed at (Hill View, just by the fort, sells super masala chai). It is testament to Zafran that I trusted her enough to get into a car (which seemed to lack a tourist permit) with two Indian boys. (The rule of thumb for a girl travelling alone is not to go with two men.) It was a bit of a rust-bucket. Each time there was a mild upward gradient, the gears slipped and I feared we'd roll backwards.
They were sweethearts and took care of me all the way, stopping to feed me chai. Everytime we saw a lake, the younger pointed, exclaiming "swimming pool". That, owing to my poor Hindi and their limited English, was pretty much the hight of our dialogues.
The first stop was Ranakpur. This is a spectacular Jain complex. Jain temples are particularly ornate, and this one was especially so. It is built in milky marble. The main building is supported by 1444 columns, each ornately carved. Also, there weren't many tourists, so it was a romantic and special experience, as I wandered around, exploring the buildings in the verdigris valley.
The second point of interest was Ranakpur. I arrived mid afternoon, after driving along some particularly poor and narrow roads, through villages where Rajastani women -- in gloriously colourful saris of reds, oranges and greens -- did their washing and chatted along the roadside, and through lush grassy countryside (an absolute contrast to the desert of Jaisalmer). The road winded upwards and around. Until eventually, before us, was a magnificent fort, perched on a hill top. It was incredible. There was practically no one there, and I was certainly the only white person. The climb through the castle was impressive. There were dark stairwells which seemed to descend into the bowels of the fort (I was too frightened to venture in on my own). As I was leaving, my arm was taken by a very elderly woman who led me through several of the fort's courtyards, away from the main thoroughfare. She kept muttering in Hindi; all I could make out was "Kali, Kali" (I thought of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom). (Kali is the terrible form of Devi commonly depicted with black skin, dripping with blood, and wearing a necklace of skulls.) As she pulled me onwards, deeper into the fort, I saw there was some sort of temple. It was pitch black inside. I was slightly nervous, as there was no one about. But she pushed me forward, pointing towards a shrine. But - in the darkness - I couldn't tell to whom it was devoted.
Next, she gabbled a lot in Hindi; put a bindi on my head; and then asked for cash. Once I'd paid up, she let me on my way.
Anyway, my room is ready now so I am off.
Much love.
I haven't acually seen much of Udaipur yet. But I am currently waiting for a room in a guest house and so thought I would use the time to blog quickly.
This morning has been a bit of a muck up. I was jolly excited as I was supposed to be staying at the Lake Palace Hotel tonight. It was going to be my sole major splash out on the whole trip http://www.tajhotels.com/palace/Taj%20Lake%20Palace,Udaipur/. (This hotel features in Octopussy.)
Originally, I was going to book it myself - using a website that Richard had recommended. But then someone (who works in the travel industry in the UK and has contacts in India) said no, and offered to book it for me, saying they'd get a better deal. And of course, me being a greedy so-and-so, I jumped at the chance. Fool!
To get to the Lake Palace, you have to take a rickshaw (well, you do if you have lots of luggage as I) and then a boat across Lake Pichola. On arrival at the jetty, I'd been sternly adament - when quizzed about my reservation - that I had a legitimate booking. Clearly the staff were scrambling around to find it: and I was somewhat surprised to find the duty manager waiting for me when I arrived at the hotel . He was very apologetic, saying they had no booking in my name and asking politely if I had any sort of reference. Ironically, I'd emailed the person in England yesterday asking for this sort of thing, but had been told no, they didn't have one but assured me that it would be okay.
The short and long of it is that I am kind of special, as I managed to get to the hotel and see the reception area (which I don't think many non-guests get to see, as you don't seem to be able to get across unless you have a room), even if I had to depart pronto afterwards. Arriving back on shore, I toured around to another two hotels - both full. By this point (bearing in mind it is only 11am here) I was mildly concerned that I'd spend my day looking for a hotel, spending my very precious cash on rickshaws! So I bit the bullet and returned to last night's place. Which is a dreadful dive, to be honest (no window, a lock that doesn't work, and water which is pretty eratic: the supply stopped midway through my hair-washing this morning). But at least I can get out and tour the town, once the room has been cleaned!
Udaipur is supposed to be one of those 'romantic' cities, in the vein of Venice. I was going to make some quips about being here single, but after this morning shenanigans, it has all been a little bit de-romanticised. But enough moaning!
Yesterday was a pleasant day, although most of it was spent in a car: I had wanted to visit a couple of sites between Jodpur and Udaipur which are difficult to get to without private transport. The car had been arranged in Jodpur by a super woman who ran the guest house I stayed at (Hill View, just by the fort, sells super masala chai). It is testament to Zafran that I trusted her enough to get into a car (which seemed to lack a tourist permit) with two Indian boys. (The rule of thumb for a girl travelling alone is not to go with two men.) It was a bit of a rust-bucket. Each time there was a mild upward gradient, the gears slipped and I feared we'd roll backwards.
They were sweethearts and took care of me all the way, stopping to feed me chai. Everytime we saw a lake, the younger pointed, exclaiming "swimming pool". That, owing to my poor Hindi and their limited English, was pretty much the hight of our dialogues.
The first stop was Ranakpur. This is a spectacular Jain complex. Jain temples are particularly ornate, and this one was especially so. It is built in milky marble. The main building is supported by 1444 columns, each ornately carved. Also, there weren't many tourists, so it was a romantic and special experience, as I wandered around, exploring the buildings in the verdigris valley.
The second point of interest was Ranakpur. I arrived mid afternoon, after driving along some particularly poor and narrow roads, through villages where Rajastani women -- in gloriously colourful saris of reds, oranges and greens -- did their washing and chatted along the roadside, and through lush grassy countryside (an absolute contrast to the desert of Jaisalmer). The road winded upwards and around. Until eventually, before us, was a magnificent fort, perched on a hill top. It was incredible. There was practically no one there, and I was certainly the only white person. The climb through the castle was impressive. There were dark stairwells which seemed to descend into the bowels of the fort (I was too frightened to venture in on my own). As I was leaving, my arm was taken by a very elderly woman who led me through several of the fort's courtyards, away from the main thoroughfare. She kept muttering in Hindi; all I could make out was "Kali, Kali" (I thought of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom). (Kali is the terrible form of Devi commonly depicted with black skin, dripping with blood, and wearing a necklace of skulls.) As she pulled me onwards, deeper into the fort, I saw there was some sort of temple. It was pitch black inside. I was slightly nervous, as there was no one about. But she pushed me forward, pointing towards a shrine. But - in the darkness - I couldn't tell to whom it was devoted.
Next, she gabbled a lot in Hindi; put a bindi on my head; and then asked for cash. Once I'd paid up, she let me on my way.
Anyway, my room is ready now so I am off.
Much love.
Thursday, 9 August 2007
ARGHHHH!
Bloody typical. Some b*stard has just nicked my card details. And has been using it in Turin. After the last hassle when they blocked my card for no reason, now I have had to cancel my card myself. Great. So here I am, with no means of getting cash.
Yippee.
Yippee.
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