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.
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