What follows is my diary from my recent three week trip to the north of India. Being an “in short bursts” kind of typist, I’m going to publish it in two day blocks, a serialisation if you like. I hope that, in spite of you reading of an occasional hiccup, you will still want to visit this amazingly sensual and colourful nation. India never fails to impress.  

Day 1, 29^th July- Manchester,Paris and London, a circuitous way to get to India

I should probably be midway through a flight from Paris, France not Texas, to Delhi, India, 35,000 feet above the surface of this beautifully endangered planet we inhabit. You know, however, what is coming next. You’ve been on journeys with this jinxed traveller before. Remember that old motto from those road trips across Eastern Europe: flexibility is the key word. That basically means that things might, and probably will, go wrong, and that plans should not be held on to too tightly. When airport workers go on strike and your flight is “annulé” (“wiped out” “destroyed” “decimated” might work better) you have to sigh, remain calm, not lie on the floor having a hissy tantrum, trust that all will be right in the end, and think that you might learn the odd lesson along the way. I did dream briefly that I might get to spend a night in Paris courtesy of Air France, and get to frequent some old haunts but fate had other plans for me. Just remember the word “rucksack.”  It will be important later on.

After flying from Manchester to Paris at 7 a.m. and spending nearly four hours in a queue of other “vol annulé” unfortunates, I found myself packed off back across that ocean called the English Chanel (I’m sure it has the delightful scent of fish and chips) on the 16.40 flight to Heathrow, with my rucksack (brownie points if that rang a bell in your brain!) stuck in gay Paris and the arrondissement known as narky-baggage-handler-ville. I do count myself fortunate not to have been like the teacher who had in his charge 39 teenage hockey players from Chile. He had seen his flight annulé too and had needed to split the group over four flights, with one staff member to each group, except for one staffless group that had to be packed off on the plane on their own. I hope they planned for this in their risk assessment! At least I only had one person to look after.

I guess this would be a good time to explain why I’m going to India. I put it on my bucket list and resolutions for 2016 and can now tick it off. The honest answer is that I haven’t got the foggiest, except possibly that I like to go to places that are a little bit less ordinary. Plus I remember flicking through an ancient stamp album when I was a child and looking at maps to see where the colourful stamps had originated: Swaziland, Chile, Burma, India, Rwanda amongst many others. At this point the world seemed distant yet accessible. Adventure, nature and travel merged and made the world a challenge, a venture, a risk, a love, a passion.

Day 2, 30^th July- Delhi, capital of India

I am ensconced here in room 103 of the Surya International Hotel in Saraswati Bagh, Delhi, India. How on earth did I end up here? (a frequently used catchphrase on this trip, by the way) To be honest (tbh to younger readers) I haven’t actually the foggiest how I actually made it here in the end. The flight to London was fine, albeit a bit bumpy, and I got the 19.35 flight to Delhi. There was a slight issue taking off because they couldn’t detach the staircase from the plane and we were delayed half an hour while we waited for an engineer to work out how to unfix it. An eight hour night flight passed with very little sleep, apart from about an hour, during which time my contact lenses got superglued to my eye.  We finally arrived about half an hour late after circling above the monsoon rains, before braving the petulant turbulence and landing at Indira Ghandi International Airport in Delhi, capital city of India since the British moved it in 1911 from Calcutta, which was becoming dangerously nationalistic.

When you arrive at Delhi airport you have to go through E-Visa control, where they make hand and thumb prints for their records. After that you go and stand at the baggage carousel for half an hour, waiting…and waiting…and waiting.  A young guy approaches you with a list of luggage they have lost tracking for. I think it’s a bit like when a plane goes missing from radar. Well my rucksack (brownie point) had disappeared from the tracking radar. You fill in a form and are told that hopefully (a worrying choice of word) your bag will be with you in the next few days. You try desperately not to think about what is in your rucksack: toilet paper, travel adaptors, clean underwear and clothes. You start to form visions of taking your place in the gutter with the beggars, naked, without food and water, with only your hand to wipe away the residue, and no way of recharging your phone ( twenty-first century problems eh!) You proceed through customs without a bag for inspection, and emerge into a sea of expectant faces brandishing name cards. Now then, where is your name? Eventually you locate your driver and are whisked off at breakneck speed to your waiting chariot, in this case a real car (in other cases on this adventure definitely anything but a real car)  It might otherwise be known as a loonymobile though, and you are treated to a top notch, white knuckle ride through the centre of Delhi. The city is a sea of beeping horns, a cacophony of aural craziness. Your demon-possessed driver speeds up to zigzag and pass between equally zigzaggy motorbikes and demented green and yellow autorickshaws (big yellow taxis they ain’t) A religious procession, all smells, bells and incense, meanders in the opposite direction. It’s not really a “day out” kind of weather. In fact the road has become a certified free flowing murky river in many places.

After a couple of hours bed recuperation, this intrepid (or tepid maybe) wannabe adventurer headed out of the hotel into the manic streets and bazaars to experience first-hand the bustling metropolis. It rapidly became a lesson in setting boundaries with people, being firm, occasionally to the point of rudeness by our self-regulated standards.  What do you do when the tenth man with stumps instead of arms asks you for money? What do you do when you buy a polo shirt for 200 rupees and you are given 100 change from 500, only to discover that the cheeky, grinning boy on the stall has sneaked a second shirt in your bag?  You could just say, “Oh, it’s ok!” but you only wanted one, because your rucksack with all your clothes will arrive tomorrow, won’t it? You have to demand your 500 back and threaten to take your custom to one of the plethora of other teeshirt merchants. What do you do when the smartly dressed, well-spoken and polite gentleman insists that he is not like the others, trying to sell you something? He then goes on to rip to pieces your itinerary, telling you what you should and shouldn’t do, and insists he can put you in a rickshaw to somewhere where all your travel woes will be over forever. That place, if it exists, could only be nirvana. On the other hand you could rightfully argue that travel without a pinch of woe would make for fairly dull travel stories. Are the best anecdotes not the ones where you have had mishaps and disasters but come through victorious on the other side?

Anyway, back to the bazaars of Karol Bagh: you have to walk through the wet, muddy, monsoon ravaged streets, running the gauntlet of every type of transport imaginable, planes, boats and helicopters excepted of course. You have to give the impression, even on your first foray, that you are accustomed to all of this. A small white lie here and there will probably prevent an inescapable big black hole opening up later. For example, I wasn’t really on my way to meet a friend later in Connaught Place, but gave the impression that I knew what I was talking about. Similarly it’s advisable not to get guide books out in busy streets or you will metamorphose into a field of corn beneath a swarm of locusts. Those with a photographic memory have a distinct advantage when it comes to remembering maps. Us lesser mortals can commit certain sequences to memory or, as I discovered to great effect, take photos of maps in guidebooks.  Looking at your phone is a much more innocent enterprise than poring over the Rough Guide to India. Anyway, on my little foray I picked up three pairs of socks for 50 rupees (82 rupees =£1), a polo shirt for 200 (£2.50- a bit like Primark perchance?) some XXL underwear,  and two big bottles, one coke and one water, for the equivalent of 90 pence.

I returned to the hotel, peeled my sweaty teeshirt off my back, showered, killed a mosquito, had a curry- now there’s a surprise- watched a Hindi film and retired to my pit to dream of a man arriving at the hotel in the morning with my beautiful new, green rucksack and my soft English toilet paper and tea bags.

 

 

Day 3, 31^st July- Delhi

Wow! It’s quarter to six in the evening and I’m sitting on the bed chilling after an incredibly busy day, a tiring but mesmerising and sense-titillating day. After an American (??) breakfast of cornflakes, toast, omelette and coffee, I went with my driver, Rajiv, on an exploration of some of what Delhi has to offer, and what felt like all that the city’s many religions have to offer. I didn’t go in, but Christians were represented by the Sacred Heart Cathedral and various schools and nurseries dotted around. I passed the Sikh Gurdwara and Buddhist temples too. Rajiv has red cloth attached to the mirror of his scarf because it represents Hanuman, “My god.”   We did drive past the monkey god’s temple, a 108 feet tall effigy of him/it. The bustle and virtual gridlock around there as we went past on the way back to the hotel was gridlock ad infinitum, an every-man-for-himself scramble for any inch of space that opened up in the road ahead. The signs warn of accident hotspots but how people are not killed second by second I do not know. I saw four teenage boys on one motorbike. On another a three year old girl was sandwiched between her mum and dad, all helmetless, all hanging on for dear life. This is Sunday so families are out in force, and if you gotta get about you gotta get about.

The tuktuks were innumerable, horses and cows grazed amongst the traffic and scrawny stray dogs scavenged for a never-beginning supply of food. I saw mattresses attached to pushbikes, as well as fruit and veg, and most dangerous of all: one man had six calor gas canisters attached to his bike, a weaponry which, in any collision, would have obliterated half of Delhi. I’ve already described this before but it needs saying again: the sound of Delhi is an ear shattering symphony played by an angry orchestra of many parts. A horn section of thousands of motorbikes and cars and tuk tuks toots in disharmony and becomes the soundtrack to your vacation. There are beep free areas such as hospitals, schools and homes, where you can be fined the equivalent of about a pound if caught in mid beep, but they are not amply enforced by police. The newspapers carry stories daily about the noise pollution and the need to get it under control. The Times of India had a “No honking drive” calling for an end to “a menace the city needs to take by the horns.” There are daily examinations of the root cause of honking and tooting but decibel levels continue to rise, making Delhi the worst city in India for this problem. You know I can actually hear horns now as I write this and I am well away from the main road. The “toot” or “hoot” or “blast” or whatever you want to call it, means, so I am reliably informed, “Get the fuck out of my way, I’m pushier than you” or “Make way for the queen.” It is not a warning hoot as it is in England but has a more demanding tone, a superiority of road passage.

Anyway, I got distracted by honking and need to return to sightseeing, although, as an aside, I count travel and watching people go about life as much sightseeing as going round major buildings and monuments. Talking of buildings, we stopped at a really impressive temple that demanded photographs.  Unfortunately it was only at this point that I realised that my camera battery and charger are in that missing piece of green cloth known as “missing rucksack.” This is a major annoyance but still a first world problem when you consider those eking out an existence on the streets and rubbish dumps, and especially as I still have an iphone and a fully charged battery pack.

So where did I end up? There was the Lotus temple, belonging to a Bahai faith that encourages people of all religions to meditate together. It was designed by Canadian/Iranian architect, Fariburz Sahba, built in 1986, and has 27 petals.  The temple’s trustees recently rejected a bid to have it named as a world heritage site as it might interfere with work they want to do there. You walk down a long avenue to the temple, which is, obviously, in the shape of a lotus flower and not too far removed in design from the Sydney Opera House. You have to remove your socks and shoes and put them in a tote bag for the duration of your time inside the temple. You are then lined up, single-file, given a pep talk in Hindi and in English, before walking into the temple itself to meditate for ten minutes. There is something liberating about being barefoot and in silence with just yourself and your own thoughts for company. Your mind wanders to people with whom you wish you could share this vibrant country. Interestingly you are unable to hear a single car horn here.

I forgot to mention that we went to India Gate first. This is the Indian equivalent of the Arc de Triomphe, situated at one end of Raj Path, the majestic parade stretching back to the Presidential Palace and other government buildings, such as the Departments of Agriculture and Transport. It took 17 years to finish the parade, from 1914 onwards, and was intended to show the might of the British Empire, which ironically went into rapid decline not too long afterwards. Maybe a warning about making grandiose  statements?  The 42 metre high India Gate was designed by Lutyens and pays tribute to soldiers who died in the First World War and other campaigns such as the Anglo-Afghan War. As another aside, I only realised how close Afghanistan is to India when we flew over Kandahar about one and a half hours from Delhi. India Gate has names of soldiers who died carved on it. It’s interesting how different religions served together for a common cause. There are lots of victims named Singh (a Sikh name) and Khan (Muslim)

Next I was taken to Qutb Minar, a Muslim archeological dream, a series of ruins and pillars. The minar itself is a huge minaret erected in 1193 by Sultan Qutb-ub-din to proclaim victory over Hindu rulers. It is huge at 75m high and has stood the test of time better than that wobbly attempt at making a tower in Pisa. Apparently you could climb it in the past but unsafety means that a webcam is the only way to see the views on offer from the top.  Elf n’ safety does exist here too then, except on the roads of course. The carving of Quran verses on the pillar is so intricate and incredibly impressive, as are the cute striped squirrels which dart around the whole complex. The pillars remind me of a visit to Karnak temple on the Nile, where you play Indiana Jones in and out of the pillars. I believe the revered sultan did not see the completion of his work here, being impaled while playing polo. Dangerous sport the old polo. I also believe he resembled a polo mint after his impalement.

Right, what next? How about Arkshardhan Temple, the most awe-inspiring of all the religious sites I visited today, although Raj Ghat was more poignant. I’ll come back to that later. Akshardhan is immense in scale and impact and in vision. You get a sense of just how much when you pull up in the car park, which is vast. You make your way to the entrance and join long queues at the cloakroom where you are greeted with a long list of allowed/not allowed. I was really surprised to see a picture of a pistol on there. I thought I’d be able to bring mine in. Anyway, I had to leave my pistol and my mobile and was given a numbered oval metal token while others left bags and umbrellas etc. You then proceed through airport style security checks and frisking and an internal body search. Only joking about the last bit!  It was pretty tight security from the search of the car on the way into the car park (bonnet/boot/inside/bags) to the search as you walked into the complex. I suppose when you’ve already had one major terrorist attack in a place dedicated to peace and harmony you will do anything to prevent it happening again. A full account of the attack in 2002, which left 33 dead and 70 injured can be found at:

http://www.akshardham.com/gujarat/news/2002/akshardham/report.htm

Like the Lotus temple you are required to take off your shoes and walk in silence into the main hindu temple, which is only one part of a 23 acre site.  It is dedicated to Swaminaraya, who was a sadhu and had thousands of followers and became a deity. There is supposed to be a man alive today, the latest in a line of succession to Swaminaraya’s teachings. The marble carvings are beautiful and there are colourful pictures telling the story of his life as well as artefacts from his simple existence and locks of his hair. The front of the temple is adorned with hundreds of different sized carved elephants with wild dogs looking on. The water features and gardens add to the sense of tranquillity which manages to pervade in spite of the huge crowds and the fast food outlet selling coke and popcorn.

So let me tell you about Raj Ghat. Firstly it’s another get-yer-shoes-off place. I was asked for a donation even though I had no choice about taking them off and my donation was significantly heftier than the nothing paid by locals. Oh well! Situated on the banks of the Yamuna River, Raj Ghat marks the spot where Mahatma Gandhi was cremated in 1948 following his assassination. Surrounded by verdant greenery, the black marble plinth houses an eternal flame and is inscribed with the words Hai Ram (Oh God), Gandhi’s final words. He was a legend in terms of passive resistance but couldn’t unite the different, more militant religious factions after Independence.

Before I finish with the Red Fort let me tell you about lunch. All the world over drivers take you to certain places, either because they get commission, or because their family members run them or work there. So when we stopped at one place to peruse fabrics I knew the score, although the silk scarves were well priced. Lunch was upstairs in the emporium and I had a chicken biryani that was deliciously, tastebud-tinglingly spicy.

Ok, Red Fort. So when you’re dropped off you have a half mile walk round the outside of the fort walls, past men lopping branches off trees around you. No thought for health and safety in this operation as huge branches landed next to you in the road. I discovered later that they are getting ready for Independence Day, making it harder for terrorists to put devices in the trees as the president will pass this way on his way to hoist the flag and make his yearly speech. The entrance fee for foreigners is 500 rupees, as it was at the Qutb Minar by the way. This is at least ten times as much as it costs an Indian to get in.  You go through yet more frisking on the security post. I swear that Indian soldiers just like feeling you up. You enter the fort through Lahore Gate, where Nehru first raised the flag of independent India in 1947. You then go through a covered bazaar called Chatta Chowk which sells all kinds of souvenirs and tatt and the odd practical thing. Inside the grounds there are various buildings, houses, museums and plenty of opportunity for a fair haired (ok-formerly fair-haired) white boy to get burned in the sun. As if I would do that!

Returning to Rajiv, who had to be woken from his slumber, we took the scenic route via Connaught Place and back to Surya International Hotel. What a day, and about 2000 words later down goes my pen. Goodnight! To dreams of a missing green bag containing sun cream, after sun cream, soft English toilet paper and Yorkshire tea bags.

 

Day 4, 1^st August- Delhi

So it is now the final day here in Delhi before taking the overnight sleeper up to Varanasi. I’m sitting in the Hotel Surya reception listening to dire elevator muzak mingling with a whirring fan and the pouring rain outside, watching the various comings and goings of the hotel. I’m waiting for the hotel manager to arrive, as he promised last night, to investigate with the airport the mysterious disappearance of the green rucksack.  I’ve already had breakfast in the sparsely populated restaurant. It’s amazing how empty it always is. They must be glad of my £3 custom each day. I think the plan is to see whether the bag is going to arrive, and if not, to go up to Connaught Place to buy supplies.  I need contact lenses if that’s possible, plus underwear and more tee shirts.  Probably need to buy hair clippers, a bag to put everything in, and will definitely need a camera battery/charger.  Oh well. Such is life. It’s not that important. First world problems again.

1:45 p.m. Back from another venture onto the streets surrounding the hotel. Seeing as the nice man from British Airways still can’t find my bag, I’ve just been to get a small back pack (like a school bag!) some socks and undies and another tee shirt. Somehow I managed to get a battery operated beard trimmer for £2 on the street, which I wasn’t expecting, and which I don’t expect to last for long. I had lunch in an Indian equivalent Subway which I found down a backstreet while trying to escape from an over-persistent bootblack boy. He didn’t believe me when I said that I like to always have a bit of dust on my shoes! The hotel manager is currently ringing round camera shops trying to get me a battery and charger.  They are so helpful here it’s untrue. Three men have just been in to my room to change the mosquito repellent dispenser. It’s a tricky job requiring many hands and allows a nosey round a visitor’s room!

So, it’s all drama again. The hotel manager arrives back at 7.15 with supplies from the camera shop. Then he tells me the taxi is here to take me to the station. He checks the status of my train online and informs me, laughing ( thanks, mate!):” Your train is delayed seven half hours.” That means it leaves at 4 a.m. instead of 8.35 p.m. I would actually be sitting on the train now but I won’t get there until late afternoon.  It does mean I’ve got hardly any time in Varanasi, which is a real pain. This holiday is putting my patience to the test but I am standing firm and not giving in to it. So, back to the room, coffee ordered and a relaxing Hindi film with exaggerated movements, music and expressions, that is colourful and keeps me entertained.

Day 5, 2^nd August- Delhi to Varanasi

The clock has just struck 8.32 in the morning and I am sitting in the air conditioned executive lounge in New Delhi railway station. State of me, eh!  You’re probably thinking, “What? I thought you were leaving at 4.”  Well so did I!  So did I. The 8.30 p.m. train will now leave, 14 hours late, at 10.30 a.m. It takes 11 hours to get there so that’s pretty much a day wasted when I should have been in Varanasi.  It defeats the object of having a sleeper bunk and sleeping through most of the journey, although after the night I’ve just had I think I will be out for the full eleven hours.  Anyway, I will be on that platform, waiting well ahead of schedule. I am not missing that one under any circumstances. 

I can’t even begin to describe the scene that I witnessed last night. Firstly, driving from the hotel to the station was an eerie experience. There were packs of wild dogs everywhere, lying, standing in the middle of the road, staring ahead so you could see the whites of their eyes. There were dead rats and homeless people curled up in the humid night in dusty nooks and crannies. I was deposited at the front of the station and made my way to the entrance hall, which turned out to be a sea of sleeping, snoring, farting humanity.  There were hundreds of bodies all over the place, crammed like sardines. I crossed into the platform area and it was the same story-hundreds and hundreds of people and the wild dogs had made it in here too, demonstrating their skills of defecation. It was a pretty hairy experience. I figured that the best way was: shoulders back, chest out, look confident. I made it to the sleeper class waiting area which proved to be so uncomfortable that the hours dragged by like a stay of execution. From 1.45 till 7.45 I failed to grab a minute’s sleep through fear of my sparse belongings going the same way as my prized departed rucksack, into the dark, lonely black luggage hole. Well at least for about £5 I get breakfast and two hours of relative luxury before the next stage of this delayed adventure. All’s well that ends well, and hopefully that soft English toilet paper and those exquisite Yorkshire tea bags will reach me in Varanasi tomorrow.   

Day 6, 3^rd August- Varanasi

Well it is finally over: my trials and tribulations have come to a temporary halt.  I am sitting in the idyllic courtyard restaurant of the Hotel Alka in Meer Ghat, overlooking the mystical Ganges, with a delightful, gentle, cooling breeze blowing over me from the river.  My belly is sated: an egg-free lemon pancake, a bowl of honey pulse porridge, all washed down with gallons of milky coffee- it sounds very much like a Famous Five picnic.)  My room is to die for, well at least it was for the mosquito that landed on my shoulder.  It has stunning views over the ghats. I really couldn’t have asked for better, however, I’ve just booked the Marriott Courtyard in Agra for the next stop because it’s reduced from £200 a night to £30 as a last minute booking.  Too good to pass up for some real bona fide luxury.  So why was I all negative about my trials and tribulations?  Well I was recently discussing with my closest friend our idea of what perfect hell would be like.  We had a few ideas but I now have a new one: your train is delayed and finally leaves 14 hours late after you have spent the night wide awake in anticipation of robbery, mugging and murder.  You are so tired and numb and barely able to move but at least you can see the end of it all. An 11 hour train journey will bring you to your hotel, and a shower, and peace.  Well what if that 11 hour journey actually takes 18 hours and lands you into the demented bustle of Varanasi, so you have basically lost that first night in the hotel? And what if you are sharing your compartment on the train with two burping, farting, sleep-talking, coughing old dudes, who turn your sleeper carriage into a waker carriage?  And what if, when you are finally dozing off, you realise that you have no idea which stop is which station and you are unable to see the station signs from your top bunk?  You simply have to dive out of bed every time it stops to see if Varanasi has arrived.  Luckily I didn’t sleep through my stop, otherwise this 32 hour escapade from when the train should have set off would have been even longer.

Now if Delhi was an assault on the senses, arriving in Varanasi at 5 a.m.was a full blown nuclear attack.  I have honestly never seen so much activity concentrated into such a small area.  Cows everywhere, more wild dogs, cheeky monkeys, crouching beggars, worshippers dressed in orange robes, men in groups moving girders and blocking the street. No doubt I will be describing all of this in much more detail later but that’s me for now. Going to check for a rucksack update, then into town to buy mosquito repellent. I sense a type O blood feeding frenzy lurking just round the corner if I am not prepared for battle.

2.20 p.m.  I’m sitting in the hotel restaurant facing a beautiful blue sky and the vast Ganges, reflecting on what has happened since I last sat down to write.  I’d read about the Brown Bread Bakery in the guide book and it’s just round the corner from the hotel so I popped in to see if they could book me in for a boat ride this evening and at dawn.  Apparently there have been no boat rides for the past month because the monsoons have caused the Ganges to rise so much.  I’m a very lucky boy: boats are back in operation today!  So while I was there the owner mentioned about getting a guide to show me round on a walking tour.  Well that’s what I did.  I can honestly say that it is probably the best guided tour I’ve been on because it took me not only to tourist sites but well away from the beaten track and into the heart of life in Varanasi.  We meandered up and down what felt like every back street of the town, exploring centuries old houses and temples dedicated to Vishnu, Shiva, Kali, Ganesh, Hanuman, Lakshmi etc etc etc.  There’s one which Beyonce would like: every Friday “all the single ladies” go to worship there and leave bracelets as offerings and to pray that they will find a good husband.  Good luck, ladies.

 

I went to so many places that I wouldn’t be able to name them all in order so here’s some shuffled up unchronological snapshots.  It was interesting to have the mosque opened up for us to go inside and see the typical symmetrical designs on the domed ceiling and the arches and to see photos of Mecca, Medina etc.  It did actually look more impressive from the boat, later on in the evening, than from the front door where some 900 worshippers enter every Friday.  Even more noteworthy is the fact that the Hindu temple adjoins the mosque.  There are apparently good relations here at the moment, but there have been tensions such as 8 years ago when bombs went off at the station, the Hanuman temple and the Golden temple.  There was a very heavy police presence in the souk where I went between sessions with Dipak. I just needed to pick up some mosquito repellent and another tee shirt.  It’s funny I ended up with one with an elephant and one with magic mushrooms.  Weird. Never have and never will do!  Got my flip-flops too (thongs for any Australian readers!)But there is so much more hassle from people here than in Delhi.  In Delhi a polite “no thanks” was sufficient but here you actually have to be quite unpleasant before they go away.  The minute you engage too much you are being whisked away down some side street to who knows where and who knows what with who knows whom! 

So what other highlights were there today?  The standout experience has to be the cremation.  I was introduced to the man who runs the hospice. He, along with 35 others scour the streets for old people who are on the verge of death and brings them to the hospice to die with dignity. It’s very Mother Theresa-like.  People have whip rounds to pay for the wood which costs 500 rupees per kilo. They use sandalwood and other kinds of resin wood which burns and there is never a smell of burning bodies which is comforting to know, because it’s a twenty-four hour conveyor belt.  There is an eternal flame there dedicated to Shiva and the individual cremations are all lit from that.  The bodies are carried through the streets, dipped in the Ganges to purify them in the filthy water (!) and then left for a few hours to dry before being lit.  The family don’t cry at this stage because it’s viewed as bad for the soul during its passage.  They shed tears at home but never here.  The head has to face upwards and the feet out towards the Ganges.  I was taken onto the stand/plinth where the bodies were being cremated and walked in the searing heat literally a metre away from a body where the feet were intact but the legs were charred black.  It was a weird, unnerving, surreal experience but made me realise yet again the certainty of death and the hope there is if you do believe in an afterlife (whatever form that might take)  If you give a donation it goes to the work of the hospice (you hope!)  The bodies are being cremated on the raised platform for now, rather than out on the Ganges due to the monsoons.

 

I took photos of four sadhus with long beards sitting on a bench dressed in orange.

I passed a small, Catholic-run charity school where a group of four and five year olds were just coming out onto the street. We saw a completely deserted, crumbled down building, formerly someone’s home, which the monsoon rains had completely destroyed the previous week.  There was Shreesamrajyeshwar temple with the most incredibly detailed carvings of scenes from the Kama Sutra. It’s amazing to think that sex toys were around thousands of years before Ann Summers graced the planet with her presence.  Some of the artwork was…breathless and breath-taking.

 

We meandered through the streets but occasionally chanced upon one of the ghats (meaning “steps”) leading down to the holy river. They all have names and meanings behind them. 

Evening: I went out on the boat trip at 6pm to see the ghats from a different angle and watch the people doing their rituals in the river, washing themselves physically and spiritually. They were still burning bodies at Manikarnika ghat, where I had stood earlier in the day and also further up the river at Harishchandra ghat, a cremation site of lesser importance with an electric burner too (perish the thought!) The boat stopped for an hour from 7 O’clock onwards so we could listen to the mantras being chanted at Dashashwamedh ghat (where Brahma supposedly sacrificed 10 horses!)  It’s a ganga aarti ceremony with worship (puja) and fire and dance.  We were moored up with a dozen other boats, as boys hopped along them trying to sell things. I did the quintessential “light-a-candle-in-a-lotus-leaf-and-make-a-wish” before we returned to the hotel about half eight.  I grabbed a hot chocolate, intent on writing up this journal, only to be thwarted by power cuts every five minutes. Even back in the room it was no better. In the end I crashed out early after two nights with virtually no sleep, to the soothing whirr of the ceiling fan and the air-con unit and the sound of an angel’s voice promising soft English toilet paper and  refreshing Yorkshire tea.  

 

 

Day 7, 4^th August- Varanasi

Well I slept so well that even when I woke up a couple of times during the night I just drifted right on back where I’d been slumbering.  I was meeting Dipak at 10, so when I awoke at 9 I jumped up, got ready and headed for my daily Indian style porridge and coffee.  He came into the hotel at 10 to see where I was. I paid up and checked out, wishing I could have been here at least one more night.  There are far more westerners here than at the hotel in Delhi, lots of Spanish and French couples.

My first stop today was the Golden Temple, the Shiva dedicated Vishwanath temple, the most famous one in the city, built in 1776 and with 800 kg of gold adorning the dome and the tower. As has happened before on this trip it was another case of being swept along into something with no inkling of what it would entail.  It’s a fine line between trusting your guide and thinking, “Oh shit, I’m a-heading for a mugging, a beating or a worse!” I had to leave my bag and phone (aaargh!) with Dipak and leave my shoes inside a spice shop.  I got a basket of flowers and other things to offer to Shiva and had to walk barefoot along the street, doing a cow pat slalom the fifty yards to the temple entrance. Here I was frisked (I know-again!) had to show my passport, got frisked again for bombs, was ushered into a side room full of soldiers. As an aside, the last time this happened I had my passport taken and was hauled off a bus in Peru and roughed up by police demanding bribes. Luckily no roughing up here, just plenty of unwarranted, unwanted overzealous frisking.  I had my passport details recorded in a book, got frisked again and finally entered the Shiva part of the temple.  I ended up in a queue of pushing, jostling worshippers trying to get to the front.  When this only westerner in the temple stumbled to the front I put the flowers down and had a garland put round my neck and a priest bent down and smeared on my forehead some brown mud that smelled suspiciously like cow excrement. This proceeded to mingle with the sweat of another hot humid day and dribbled down my face and into my eyes.  I didn’t have a clue what was going on but just went along with the flow.  Then I was ushered into the Hanuman temple and some real life human monkeys plied me with compliments and tried to get me to part with some of my hard-earned money, a request I refused. The problem here is that you could be bankrupt within a short time of arriving in India because everybody wants your money. The temple is really impressive but you are not allowed to take photos and the bustle, along with having to be on the defensive, makes it hard to take it all in.

Back at the spice shop I refused to buy “best spices in India, sir.” Next I went to see Guru Ji who told me my innermost thoughts, desires, motivations and future plans.  He looked at my palms, which are very good palms (in his opinion), read my face (not a very good face in my opinion!) and read my stars.  He’s a funny character: he told me not to tell anybody about his predictions and readings; he told me that any money given for his work goes to his charitable foundation; his chain-smoking bordered on frantic at times. His room had pictures of gods adorning the walls, oils and spices, and fish tanks everywhere containing fish with what looked like a tennis ball sized tumour protruding from their heads. He also had CCTV screens showing all sides of the building which was a bit worrying, especially as he kept looking at them.  Was this, or is this, a guru in fear of assassination? Well if he was I certainly didn’t want to be around while it happened.  So finally, and another refusal to pay money for an in depth reading about my supposed past lives, I went back to the hotel for lunch and a lazy afternoon of drinks and “fresh river air” (ok, “river air”) before the inevitable sense onslaught at the station later on in the day.

7.15 p.m. A miracle has indeed happened.  My train was waiting at the station at 5.45 so I could get on half an hour before leaving.  No 14 hour delays this time. My faith in the impeccable Indian railways has been restored.  I’m writing this lying on the top bunk as the train rolls along at a fair old rate of knots (that’s ships, isn’t it!) but realised that my handwriting isn’t really much different. It’s still scruffy.  I’ve got an Indian family in my compartment: an old lady is lying on the other top bunk and below is a man with his daughter who is already presenting as a livewire. It could be a long night!  The carriage looks a bit like this:

bunk

bunk

bunk

 

Corridor

Top bunk (me)

bunk

bunk

bunk

bunk

bunk

 

There are toilets at the end, one a western style one and the other a squat toilet with foot markers and a hole for your target practice. There are some squat toilet practices which require more concentration than others and the occasional mosquito buzzing round you adds another level of difficulty to this particular game.  I didn’t look for Pokemons in here. They wouldn’t be so silly as to enter here. I’m sure you can imagine that it is better to go to the toilet at the start of the journey than at the end of the twelve hours when the rest of the train has played the target game!

It is actually quite relaxing on the train once it’s moving and you know you’ve got 12 hours to chill out, although you will probably slumber at your own peril if you believe all the stories.  A policeman just brought me a sheet to read and sign.  It outlines all the potential trouble you might encounter on the Indian railways: don’t accept from strangers drugged food that could result in you having less luggage than you already have.  I have read these kind of stories before but they are just as likely to happen between Paris and Nice.

The ten minutes before we left I was speaking to an Indian man who had lived and worked in Nigeria. He was really friendly and inquisitive and wanted to know why I wasn’t travelling with my wife.  Now there’s a tale to tell!

One thing I have not mentioned yet is the journey from the hotel to the station.  Wow! Such fun. You can’t get a taxi to or from the Hotel Alka because it’s at the end of such narrow streets so I walked the five or ten minutes to the main road.  I was fully intending to get a car, or at the least an autorickshaw, but I decided last minute to get a manual rickshaw.  It’s basically a pushbike attached to a small carriage that you sit in while some scrawny old Indian man sweats his bollocks off and pedals his arse off to get you to your destination on time.  My rickshaw dude cycled the 5km to the station in the hot sun and earned all of £2 for his effort (and that’s me being very generous) They tried to get me to pay loads but I knew the going rate from the hotel.  They went high, I parried low. They countered with a slight reduction but I held my ground as they came at me. “I don’t normally pay that much,” I said, “I’m going to someone who wants my custom.” At this point my offer was accepted.  What followed was a great white knuckle ride through the busy streets, jostling for position with bigger boys (motorbikes, tuk tuks, cars) In fact rickshaws are pretty much at the bottom of the food chain, although my driver thought he could ride with the bigger boys, often refusing to give way and causing much beeping and much ager and aggression.  King of the road! A legend in his own lunchtime.  We only hit two things (a human and a tuktuk) on the half hour journey, which I thought was pretty good considering all the near misses.  I forgot to mention: cows are the biggest boys of all. They rule the road completely.

Oh well, it’s time to allow the rocking train to rock me to sleep, and to a recurring dream that I just can’t shake off: a special delivery of clean clothes, tasty tea and toilet rolls to make the next visit to the squat toilet a little more bearable.

 

Day 8, 5^th August- Agra

1.10 p.m. sitting in room 424 of “The Courtyard by Marriott” hotel in Agra, a few kilometres from the Taj Mahal.  Today is pamper day. I’ve had contact lenses delivered: enough to see me through the next two weeks. I’ve been taken in a rickshaw to a place where I could have a haircut and luxury shave. It’s the first time I’ve seen smooth skin on my face for about ten years and realised again what aliens look like. I had a brief moment of panic when my head was pushed back, my throat laid bare and a man I didn’t know came at me with a decidedly sharp razor blade. If he had shouted, “Allah is great” there would have been a plentiful supply of faeces in my XXL hipster underwear. I tried to think what would go through my mind at the point of execution. I think I would be thinking of a secret agent I once knew and a mission that was not completed. 

Not only was the train on time last night, which is a miracle, but it only arrived an hour late, at about 7.15 a.m.  I took a tuktuk straight to the Marriott and was allowed to check in straightaway, which was such a bonus.  I then had an all-you-can-eat buffet, which included….fruit!  I’ve been desperate for some safe fruit for days now and it was pure nectar to my body. 

All I’ve done today is watch TV and be a vegetable and rest and recharge batteries.  I read the guide book and planned ahead by booking hotels in Jaipur and Jaisalmer. I’ll organise the camel safari properly and maybe hotels for Delhi and Shimla although it seems best to wait until the last minute.  Everything is going well, apart from a bit of homesickness. I have to saturate every part of my being with the essence of India so that I never forget it.  It has had the same effect on me as Uganda, on an emotional level as well as a sensual one.  It’s like it gets stuck to your soul and stains it with something that can never be washed out. A positive, indelible stain.    

The luxury of the Marriott may give me a rucksack-dream-free night, although their tea bags simply don’t cut it and the toilet paper just ain’t no Andrex.  Goodnight.

 

Day 9, 6^th August- Agra

Rising at 4.50, I grabbed a cup of tea, a few dry biscuits, washed, dressed and went to meet Sanjay, my rickshaw driver, who took me to that place that is described as the most beautiful in the world and is one of the seven wonders of the modern world.  I think you could just have a blank page and say nothing because words can’t really do it justice. What about: awe-inspiring, no greater love, perfect symmetry, out of this universe, f***, bloody incredible. Certainly better than Karl Pilkingotn’s “It’s alright innit. Not bad.”

Anyway, what follows is a mixture of my own feelings and emotions and facts taken from the guide book, because it is rooted in reality, it is a real, physical building. It is, at the same time, something inexplicable, being derived from raw emotion, from the feelings of loss of the person you love more than any other in the world.  That is the overriding feeling that you have at the Taj: you see the carvings, the marble etc, but the sense of love and grief is almost tangible. It is strongest when you walk, barefoot, and in silence, and stand before the cenotaphs of Emperor Shah Jaha and his beloved, Mumtaz Mahal. It is dark in there, but the filigree screen, carved from a single piece of marble, allows patterned light to fall onto the fake coffins. (The real ones are in an underground vault, to which there is no public access)  Everything about the location is perfect. It is not until you go round the back that you realise that the Taj is sited on the wide, free-flowing Yamuna River, or that its raised position mean its only backdrop is the sky.  The arched recesses (pishtaqs) allow light to enter at just the right angles. It really is a perfect design, if such a thing can exist.  There is an incredible symmetry, not just in the design of the mausoleum with its four (phallic?) minaret towers and four outer domes surrounding the central area but also in the whole complex.  The red sandstone mosque to the west, which is important for Agra’s muslims, has the jawab to provide symmetry in the east.  You also get that perfect symmetry when you photograph the Taj and it is reflected in the water. What can you say? When you are with someone who is the counterpoint of your very soul, you meet in the middle and are irrevocably joined together.  I think the idea of symmetry is a very muslim one (used over and over in patterns and design) but its presence here emphasises the idea of symmetry in love.  I think this story ranks with Romeo and Juliet (and Jason and Kylie!!) as one of the great love stories. Apparently Mumtaz Mahal died giving birth to their 14^th child (not surprised she died!) He was on a military campaign and carried her remains in a golden casket to the site he had chosen in Agra. It took 8 years to complete the mausoleum and 21 to do the whole complex. 5 years later he was imprisoned in Agra Fort after being overtaken by his son and spent the last 8 years of his life looking out at the mausoleum in which his wife was interred.  I get a real sense of grief and loneliness, accentuated during those eight years, even more so than in the previous 27 years following her death.  Was there a happy ending you ask?  Perhaps! (I know somebody who loves that word- it is a great word to make you think and leaves more than one possible outcome)  When he died he was buried alongside her in the hidden vault, together again for all eternity.  I love the whole story behind it. It becomes so much more than a magnificent building but is a living testimony to the power of the longevity of true love.  They must have been together for at least 14 years if she was giving birth to her 14^th child. The irrepressible Karl Pilkington believes that the emperor built the Taj because he was guilty of something, the same way people sometimes buy flowers as a guilt offering. He did have three other wives after all. 

 

So what do you get when you arrive at the Taj?  There are three gates/ticket offices, I was dropped by tuktuk at 5.30 a.m. at the East Gate. You go to a “foreigners” counter and pay 1000 rupees. (about £12, and really expensive for India)  They must make a killing with over 3 million visitors every year.  For that you get a free bottle of water and cloth shoe coverings for when you enter the mausoleum. I decided to go in barefoot in the end as it seemed the most natural thing to do.   You then need to walk a kilometre or take a cycle rickshaw to the entry gate proper.  I took one because I wanted to spend as much time at the Taj at dawn and not just walking up the hill.  It was already getting pretty busy and the frisk/bag checks (again!) held things up a bit but I was able to get photos at all the main vantage points and through arches.  I got an Indian man to take pictures of me with the Taj behind but resisted the temptation to sit on the Lady Diana seat.    I had just done a quick time lapse video when the first flash of lightning lit up the sky, followed by the rumbling belly of Ganesh.  I got absolutely soaked getting back to the entrance but it gave some good photos.  The mausoleum looks amazing even when it’s raining cows and wild dogs and monkeys.  Back to the hotel by rickshaw, all you can eat breakfast and time for some deep reflection and writing. No more sightseeing for today as it would pale into insignificance compared to what I’ve just experienced.  I think I might even have a tea bag and toilet roll free night’s sleep tonight.

 

Day 10, 7^th August- Agra to Jaipur

So today is a travel day, a pretty short 6 hour journey between Agra and Jaipur, two points of the golden triangle, Delhi being the third. Well…I say short! You know what’s coming next of course.  Delays!  I’d set my alarm for 4.30 a.m. and when I woke up I checked the train status and found out it was running an hour and a half late.  That meant I could stay in bed for that same amount of time. Bargain!  Of course before long it had increased to two and a half hours late on its long journey across India.  This did have one plus side: it meant that I could stuff my face with the buffet breakfast before checking out. I met Sanjay in his tuktuk and he had been waiting since 4.30, even though I had texted him to say the train was late.  It was 7.15 by then so he wasn’t best pleased!  In the station it soon became clear that the delay was getting worse.  In the end, when it set off at 10.30 it was four hours late, although compared to the 14 hours delay of that first Delhi train it was pretty tame. 

I was joined on the waiting bench by Savrinder, a soldier/commando in charge of a troop, who was on his way home to Jodphur to see his wife and kids, who he hasn’t seen in three months.  He has 25 days holiday.  He was concerned that they would be waiting at the station for hours.  He clearly wanted to practise his English and while away the hours chatting rather than just stare into thin air.  I didn’t mind talking to him because he had no ulterior motive for financial gain.  I told him that I like people -atching and take in all the things that are different about Indian stations. There were the obligatory dogs roaming freely. What I wasn’t expecting to see were so many monkeys sitting on the edge of the platform playing, and then seeing a group of ten make its way along an archway and onto the footbridge linking the platforms.  I also watched the staff cleaning the platforms and families coming and going.  When I told Savrinder that I had split up from my wife he looked really shocked and explained what that would mean for an Indian man.  Basically he would not see his kids again, his parents and family would disown him and he would be socially ostracised.  It would be a really huge step and the bottom line is that if you don’t like your wife you have to get on with it and like her anyway.  He also told me that his job as soldier was chosen by his dad and that he would have liked to be a teacher. I suggested that he should maybe teach/train recruits in the future and he liked the idea.  His current work is dangerous and challenging as he leads ops against nationalists in the east of the country and he does worry about his family. He was a nice guy and went to hug me as we went to our separate carriages. 

The journey itself passed fairly quickly and I got an autorickshaw with Baba, who I’ve asked to guide tomorrow in Jaipur,  It will only cot £10 for him to drive me all day round all the main sights, which sounds like a bargain to me.  Got to the hotel which is another find. Cheap luxury!  I checked wireless but no messages, tweets, instagrams, texts or anything. Disappointed. I will definitely dream of home comforts tonight. I don’t need to spell it out any more now, do I?  English T..  b…  and t….. r…. !!!

  

Day 11, 8^th August- Jaipur

So, to Jaipur, home to the Last Marigold Hotel film and the BBC 2 series where Jan Leeming, Wayne Sleep and others spent time deliberating about whether they could actually live here or not.  I have to say that of the places I have been so far this is the one I would choose to live if I had to move to India- at least from the ones I’ve seen so far.  It just has a nice feel to it.

The day started with a complimentary buffet breakfast before I met up with Baba at 9.30 and he drove me round the sights, sounds and pungent smells of the city.  I saw the tourist sights but also the real city, the non-sanitised, warts and all areas where the real people live.  In some ways this is more interesting to see than the touristy bits, although there are some incredibly dramatic views of, and from, the sights themselves.

We started off at the city museum just outside the old city walls but unfortunately it was closed.  Baba had dropped me off and disappeared into the dust so I wandered round a bit taking paparazzi shots of people feeding pigeons in front of the museum, before ringing him to meet me.

From there we drove to the enigmatic old city, named the pink city but probably more orange than pink, unless I was not seeing tings correctly.  It is the colour of hospitality and every building was painted this colour for a visit by the Prince of Wales, the future Edward VII, in 1876.  It has so much character to it. I was dropped at the City Palace which has a series of courtyards, arches and rooms, one of them a huge Disneyesque ballroom with two large, ornate red and gold chairs and smaller ones surrounding them. There are paintings of all the Maharajahs up until the present day. This whole place nods to the colonial era, with photographs of Lord and Lady Mountbatten. There is a weaponry with some blooming scary looking swords and daggers that I would not have liked to be on the other end of.  I picture Afghan horsemen with blades raised charging the British army. Scary.  Even in here there is hawking and an attempt to get something out of you.  A Sikh guard wanted me to change some English coins he had for Indian rupees and he was really friendly until I declined his offer.  It was here for the first time that I experienced something that became really commonplace throughout the day and made me feel like some kind of popstar.  People kept smiling and laughing and then asked to have their photo taken with me.  It was a group of school kids first, then some young adults. I found out later that it’s supposed to bring good luck to have your picture taken with a foreigner. At the time I thought they had just never seen an albino with very little hair!

From the City Palace I crossed the road to the Jantar Mantar, which is like nothing I’ve seen before.  It’s basically astronomy and astrology before it gets to books and magazines.  It’s a bizarre collection of what look like statues and monuments from Alice in Wonderland, such as staircases that lead into the sky. It’s like one of those long stairways they attach to planes, but without the plane.   They are used to measure the angles of the sun, moon, stars and planets.  There are individual ones for each sign of the zodiac. Very strange place indeed. There is one in Delhi too.

Next we went to Hawa Mahal, a really stunning structure that was built by the Maharajah in 1799 to allow ladies in the royal household to watch processions in the street below.  There are some really outrageous views over the city and up to the fort and the hills surrounding the city. In addition there are some great photo opps through bright coloured glass surround windows and arches.  Next we drove up into the hills to a reserve where elephants are looked after.  They obviously want donations and are quite pushy about it. I would have loved to have a go riding an elephant down to one of the villages but decided it was too expensive. Instead I fed them banana leaves/stalks and held/hugged them while guides took pictures.  It was a nice place and they are well cared for but it felt like too much of a hard sell.

Onwards and upwards…and upwards…and upwards!  I was dropped at the start of the walk up to Amber Fort which took over half an hour in searing heat, so much so that I had to improvise a turban from the hotel hand towel I had brought to “mop my brow.” I have still burned a bit. You can see why there are not many overweight Indians. You sweat about a stone of bodyweight every time you go out in the sun, plus those curries don’t stick around long enough for you to put weight on.  I was offered a lift in a military vehicle but decided to treat it as a challenge and ploughed on to the top, drinking plenty of water and being laughed at for my poor turban wrapping skills.  There’s not really a lot to see in the fort itself but the views make it worthwhile. On the way down I saw a load of monkeys being mischevious and looking for scraps.  Menaces like our seagulls but at least our feathered enemies don’t potentially have rabies.

From here we drove back down to a lake and the Jalmahal Palace, where I got out, had a cornetto and watched the kids fishing, sitting in piles of refuse while rats looked on in bemusement.  The Maota Lake gives a bit of breeze in the heat, which is really welcoming.

The final stage of this epic sightseeing trip was a drive around the whole of the inner city wall, up and down the streets where the real people of Jaipur live. I think I was just mouth agape, wide eyed and nostril open as we drove around.  I was trying to think of how to describe it if you’ve not experienced it, so here goes.  This is my attempt: take a medium sized city. Get a big machine to go to the tip and collect a week’s rubbish  and then scatter the town’s waste along every street so that it lies in a metre and a half wide strip just outside the front door of every house.  Then get all the farms surrounding that city to release their animals to come and feed off the rubbish.  Pigs, horses, cows, hens, donkeys. Throw in the odd camel or two from the local zoo. Then get a huge pneumatic drill to make some epic  fridge-sized potholes ( width not depth!)  Once you do that you discover the real Jaipur, away from the touristy bits.  I have never seen so many pigs, rolling around and wallowing in the refuse and feeding from it. If you’d told me I would see a pig polishing off the leftovers of a chicken vindaloo I would have laughed in your face, but I have actually seen it.  I’ve also seen a cow finishing the scraps from a packet of crisps. The smell of crap and rotting food pervades the air but it’s not so overpowering that you wretch, and you rejoice that you are off the beaten track.

Returning to the hotel I had a buffet tea before going to bed early, wishing that someone was here to share this amazing experiencing and still dreaming about a call regarding a soon-to-arrive supply of de-luxe bog wipe and square tea bags.

Day 12, 9^th August- Jaipur

Final day in Jaipur. It’s last writer day. Just a list and no complete sentences!

• Up at 8.30
• Buffet breakfast
• Booked to stay in room for the day as train not till midnight
• Midday- walked to Crystal Mall
• Bought long-sleeved shirt, sunglasses, sun cream in prep for desert
• Lunch in mall. Think I’m almost a veggie
• Back to hotel to rest. Still no messages. Hope all is ok
• Later-a message!
• Meal in restaurant- stuffed chicken. Absolutely delicious
• Tuk tuk to station at 10.30
• Train departs at 12.20 a.m. (only half an hour late!)
• Andrex and tea from Harrogate and a nap. What rucksack?

Day 13, 10^th August- Jaisalmer

Well it’s 6 p.m. now and I’m sitting outside on the beautiful restaurant terrace to write this.  The hotel is a real find, thanks to Lonely Planet.  The views across to the fort and the old walled city are some of the most exquisite I’ve ever seen in any hotel in which I’ve stayed.  They have vivid red pots with flowering plants and there are outside alcove seats with bright red and yellow cushions.  These are a real contrast to the sandy hues of the town beyond and make for stunning photos. I got here about 1 p.m. took a tuktuk from the station, freshened up, had lunch up here (tikka masala, chapattis, rice and lime soda) Then I walked through town past hawkers and up to Trotters who are running the camel safari tomorrow.  I just needed to touch base with them, check equipment needed and pay the £25.  It seems pretty good value for a 4WD transfer, camel hire, all meals, unlimited water and for the experience of living in the desert, albeit for one day.  I went and bought some light and airy, Ali Baba trousers (aka pj bottoms) and a wide brimmed hat for the heat of the desert.  I can’t say that I’m not a little bit in trepidation of being on a camel but I think it’s a camel train so it should be ok and there are guides to lead.  I’m expecting mine to go trotting off into the desert and fling me onto the sand in disgust.  Not surprisingly the man who runs Trotters is called Del Boy, but it makes the whole operation sound like a pretty shady one.

I wandered up to the fort, negotiating stubborn cows and overzealous souk dealers. Thankfully it’s a lot closer than Amber Fort in Jaipur was and the streets around are so quaint and picturesque.  Even though there is some attempt to get you to buy, it’s much more low-key than Varanasi was, the holy city that is not so holy when they are after your money all the time.  I’ve noticed that people can be the friendliest in the world but when they get to the punchline and you see what it will cost your bank balance, they soon lose interest in being friendly when they hear you say no.  Even Baba, my driver in Jaipur, who I thought was really different, became moody and sulky when I didn’t go on the elephant ride or see the guru (yes, there’s one here too) or buy from the silver merchant.  I guess he gets commission for bringing me there.  He certainly wasn’t bothered about bringing me to the station the following day for 50 rupees.  We did have some good chats before it all turned sour. He told me about his Mexican girlfriend, whom he really misses and hopes to see again soon.  She doesn’t want gifts from him…she wants to give him presents and has already sent over two pairs of trainers.  Baba looks a bit like the guy in the Life of Pi , dark-eyed, dark-haired and broodingly handsome! I’ve just ordered a beer and it’s come in a huge 650 ml bottle. Kingfisher- the local brew.  I should sleep well and guess what… that bag of tea bags and toilet rolls has still not arrived. You’d put money on it arriving on the day I travel home now wouldn’t you?

Days 14-15, 11^th -12^th August- Jaisalmer-Thai Desert-Jaisalmer-train –Delhi

The day started bright and early, up at 5.30, ready to leave for camel duty.  When I went to check out of the hotel there was nobody there so I left a note to say I would settle up by card later, unbolted the front doors of the hotel and slipped out into the cow-infested morning.  I waited and waited for my 4WD to come racing round the corner, but all to no avail, and I started me pondering, “Mm, maybe I’ve misunderstood the rendezvous point!” But no, I was not mistaken, as a motorbike roared round the corner and a young India shouted, “Simon!”  What followed was yet another white-knuckle ride as I hung on for dear life as I hurtled in a slalom from hell, from side to side between cows and humans, moving and stationary. I made it in one piece: who needs leathers and a helmet?

Outside Trotters Camel Safari HQ I met Ciaran and Antonia, students from Sheffield Uni travelling round India and Indonesia.  It was good to meet a group after the majority of this trip being done solo.  It felt like a Meetup group, as Charlotte and Harley, another couple arrived, along with single guys, Kip from Sydney, whose parents are Vietnamese, Richard, a student and bartender from Old Amsterdam, who is half Guatemalan, and Daniel from Carlisle who has given up his job in  telecoms to start uni at 30.  We all bonded over the shared desert experience and had laughs amidst the trepidation, whilst crammed into 2 small 4WD’s as we set off from Jaisalmer and into the desert.  It’s not technically desert as we think of desert, not at first at least.  You pass by a big military base, which is crucial as this part of India is so close to the Pak (this is the name for Pakistan used in the newspapers here!) border.  There are so many wind turbines it’s untrue. I learned later that a lot of the power generated supplies the electric fence that serves as a border.  I guess if there was a place I’d most worried about visiting it was here.  Well there was less noise, less hassle, less traffic and a really nice feel to the place, so much so that I felt much less anxious here than in Delhi on Independence Day- but more of that later. It’s amazing how we sometimes journey to the end of our fears wondering what all the fuss was about and why we expended so much emotional energy.

We drove for about an hour to the place where we were having breakfast before “boarding our camels.”  They made us plentiful chai, boiled eggs, toast, bananas and papaya. It was quite filling. And then the moment of truth: the camel guides looked us up and down and then called us, one by one to our mounts.  I was introduced to Journey Walker (a whisky-inspired play on words), my cute flea infestation, who kept bending his head and neck back to scratch himself on my bag. The saddle was padded with bedding and had a knob thing to hold on to (hey you, with your filthy mind!) You lean back as the camel, which is basically a scrawny horse on stilts, rises up off the ground and into the sky.  At first it takes you aback how high up you are but you soon get used to it.  All eight of us were raised up and laughed nervously.  The camels were tied together in threes, with a guide leading each train as you lurched along, slipping from side to side occasionally but never feeling in any danger.  It’s a bit like the tuktuks or rickshaws really, where you feel like you are safe, even though logically there is a certain degree of risk.  It is actually quite peaceful and relaxing to move slowly, further into the desert, amongst the electricity pylons and wind turbines and the patches of scrubland, with the gentlest of breezes to soothe the sun’s rays.  This first section of the trek was most chilled because the sun was yet to reach its furious zenith and the saddles were perfectly aligned. We all commented later that it was slightly more uncomfortable as the saddles seemed to be lopsided after lunch break.

When I say lunch break what I actually mean is: “from late morning till late afternoon.”  They did say in their publicity that there would be an “extended lunch.” It’s all to do with sun of course. The only people crazy enough to be out in the midday sun are mad dogs, camels and Englishmen (the women are obviously too sensible, although I did spy two English women heading off from under the shade for a wee in the designated bush toilet.  We had reached a spot that afforded some shade and were dismounted.  As the camel kneels first, then lies down you lean back, hold on and land with a bit of a bollock jolt that denies you any chance of having children. The camels were unsaddled, beasts of burden with no burden for a few hours.  They had their front two legs tied together, which meant they could wander off to graze from the trees and scrub for a few hours, without doing a runner, never to be seen again.  That would be no good, would it?

When the lunch (10.45 to 16.00) came to a close the camels were nowhere to be seen.  The guides went off to look for them but came back empty handed and we presumed they couldn’t find them but we were assured that it was all in (empty) hand.  Hakuna Matata!  During the five hour break we took it in turns to venture to said designated wee bush and were fed a feast of chapattis, rice, dahl, vegetables, chili along with lashings of chai.  (This all sounds very Enid Blyton again although there was no ham and eggs and not a drop of ginger beer in sight)  We talked, got to know each other and played cards, the Dutch and Aussie guys being taught the intricacies of cheat. It was a relaxing time, enjoying the infrequent shade in the desert, realising as soon as you walked out from under the tree exactly why there was need of a five hour siesta.  So at 4.30 p.m. we were raised up again on our perches and headed off towards the dunes which were still some distance away.  After a while we stopped at a small oasis where the camels bent down to drink as we slipped forward and held on, not knowing what to expect.  As my camel was drinking the guide handed me the reins and just disappeared. I didn’t have a clue what was going on at this time. It was yet another “how did I end up here” moment, Basically I was now in charge of my camel, with David and his delinquent beast and a spare camel attached to me.  Much later he reappeared and was sat on a camel relaxing. Thanks mate.

At first the thought crossed my mind, “why me?” but that soon changed to “why not me?” and I decided to enjoy the experience of actually being in charge of the camel. On the second day Kip and Richard were untethered and got to ride solo too.  Nothing was explained of course. It was like going for a driving lesson without an instructor or being thrown in the water to sink or swim.  I suppose it is logical really but having never ridden a horse, donkey, pony or cow I didn’t know about pulling the reins left and right and towards me. It was pretty easy once it was moving but it was hard to get the lazy, stubborn slob to start in the first place.  I didn’t like the instruction from one of the other guides to “kick hard” so it took time to get Journey Walker moving but he did pick up pace when going downhill and when crossing ditches and other gaps in the way.  The feeling of picking up pace was fun and didn’t feel risky, but I don’t know how I’d feel about galloping.  The second day felt much more like a bucking bronco ride as the flies really irritated the camels.  They kept raising a leg to scratch themselves while we were jolted left and right. Again though, after a few times of this happening you didn’t feel as if you were going to fall off.

Back to the first day. We rode for a few more hours, fighting cramp and stiff thighs and aching nether regions to stop at what you’d imagine the desert should look like: pure windswept dunes with incredible curved and angled formations.  We had half an hour to wander up and down them.  Charlotte’s hat blew away and she went hurtling down the steep sand slope towards it while Harley looked on bemused.  They were a nice group to be with and we had a laugh.  We rode again, further into the dunes and to our camp for the night.  The relieved camels went off to graze again and roll around in the sand for a scratch while we sat around on a bamboo camp beds arranged in a square waiting for the sun to set, before meandering over to watch it. It was by no means the best I’ve ever seen and I can actually say that the Mersey gives some incredible sunsets. The stars and the sunrise did, however, make up for the mediocre sunset.

We spent several hours, alternating between wandering, sitting, chatting, eating “lady fingers” (a snack, freshly fried in oil, a bit like a Quaver in texture, a prawnless cracker in taste and resembling an elephant trunk rather than a lady’s finger) The food was freshly cooked from scratch again, and plentiful.  We sat eating it as dusk morphed into night, and the high half-moon replaced the sun, which had actually looked to be getting bigger and coming closer as it set.  The stars started to appear, first a triangle to the left of the moon and then more as the evening plodded on.  We’d been joined by another couple at this point, Victor and Punami ( I think that’s right) She was originally born in India but lived in Singapore, before settling in Holland with him. He had the most colourful story of anyone there:  a streetkid from Colombia, adopted at 5  by a Dutch family, he had been backpacking round the South American country in an attempt to connect with his place of birth. Sadly he had not found any closure regarding his parents or his identity.  He’s living a good life now but I really sense a tangible restlessness in him, not knowing his true identity.  He looks so typically Colombian, almost like a stereotypical drug lord.  We were treated to some desert music which consisted of a man using a plastic water bottle to sing a series of plaintive laments over the top.  It was a nice backdrop, however, this is probably the only place you’d listen to it.  There was some humour, though I’m not sure whether it was intentional.  He improvised a song about “the camel desert safari” (the hook line) bringing in references to what we’d done and eaten. I don’t think I’ve ever heard the word chapatti in a song before.  He also sang a desert cover version of Take Me Home Country Roads and made it his own.

From this point, at About 9 p.m. the beds were set up, all ten, in an L-shape and we were given blankets for the night.  I decided to sleep fully clothed so I didn’t have to cover my whole body in insect repellent or risk getting flea-bitten blanketitis.  In the end I relented for one half hour period in the middle of the night, when it was particularly cold. I woke up at one point when a wild black dog started nuzzling me and I flung my arms out towards it.  It growled in reaction and then ran off. I only saw it once more after that, running round the camels with another dog. The camels were just behind us and it was weird seeing their heads silhouetted against the night, all dinosaur like.  It wasn’t totally dark because of the stars. To be honest I didn’t sleep a lot because the sky had me totally mesmerised.  You could actually see the whole milky way majestically lighting up the whole sky.  The only other place I remember such a dramatic sky was in a village near Soroti in Uganda, away from the lights of the town. It was like a private display that had me hooked as I just gazed at it for hour upon hour.   I lost count of the number of shooting stars I saw.  They darted around all over the sky, to such an extent that I thought I had imagined it. Only on speaking to Victor and Punami the following morning did I realise that I’d not been hallucinating and that nothing had been put in the chai.  Watching the stars makes you think of those special people who are not with you.  I like to focus on one star and imagine that they are looking at the sky at the same time and that you are joined together at that moment.  The stars gradually receded into the dawn and it was the sun’s turn to come on stage for its performance.

Gradually rising from our slumbers one by one, we pointed our camera lenses towards the glowing orb that rose up slowly behind the outlined camels. It didn’t disappoint: it was a good show that provided our Instagram photos.  After breakfast we went our separate ways: us four single guys, plus Victor and Punami, went riding for the two hours to the 4WD rendezvous point.  The two couples who were spending another day and night headed off in a different direction. I don’t know whether they were glad to be staying or jealous of us having to endure less wear and tear on our thighs.  The ride was bumpier than the previous day but still good fun, especially when Richard’s camel kept insisting on taking him into trees and bushes to scratch, going in circles at one point. It was comedy gold.  A couple of hours later we reached the 4WD and the six of us crammed into the space designed for 4 Indians, stopping at various places of interest: a deserted town, an oasis and the driver’s sister’s mud hut, where we drank chai and chatted to his nephews and nieces as they munched on papaya, staring and grinning at the strange western faces.

On arrival back in Jaisalmer, we were taken to a guest house where we could freshen up before going our separate ways again.  Daniel was going to a bungalow in the desert for a couple of days rest, Kip and Richard to Jaipur.  It’s good travelling with people, something which I didn’t really get the full benefit of this time, due to staying in hotels rather than hostels.  It’s all swings and roundabouts, comfort versus economy. (As I’m writing this Charlemagne by Blossoms has just come on the Indian TV music channel.  Curiouser and curiouser.)  I went for something to eat before getting to Jaisalmer station in a tuktuk about an hour before departure and telling a stubborn man that I didn’t need my bag darning. When I got on the (punctual) train I got into my compartment and curtained myself off into the land of nod and dreamed about another bag that had still failed to bring me my supply of English chai and non-recycled paper.

  

Day 16 –Delhi

The 18 hour journey passed without hitch, in spite of the high Yamuna River being in imminent risk of flooding due to the persistent, heavy monsoon.  I got to the International Guest House by Connaught Place without hitch, although my oft promised rucksack was not there when I got there.  It transpired that there were problems with the Shimla train meaning I’d have to go up there a day late, so I decided to book into the Radisson until the flight home.  It meant I could celebrate Independence (from the UK!!) Day, not have to spend another two full days travelling and be in one base for a while.  Plus Connaught Place is more upmarket and has a Starbucks and a Costa. It’s all in the name of reacclimatisation of course.  I fell asleep about 9 p.m. after the previous two nights’ broken sleep, one in the desert and the other on a cramped, hard train bed. My dreams inclined towards that green bag of luxury items that was fast running out of time to reach me.

Day 17 –Delhi

I moved ten minutes down the road to the Radisson and checked into my home for the next four days.  Bliss! Time to get in the gym here, I suppose. The only downside to Independence Day is the stringent security measures in place for the festivities.  All bars were closed early due to the threat of imminent terrorist attack and my hotel was guarded by a small posse of armed guards.  I got a bit of anxious a couple of times in the night and had a genuine escape plan in place in case I heard shots fired: when I went to bed I put everything away to make it look like nobody was staying in it.  In case of gunfire I would quickly make the bed, remove the key to cut the electricity so that the lights wouldn’t come on and stand behind the floor length curtain that was obscured by the desk.  This all seems very drastic but the newspapers and everyone you spoke to was convinced an attack was going to happen, and big Western-run hotels are an obvious target for terrorists. In the end I couldn’t sleep but stayed up late to watch Andy Murray and Usain Bolt win gold and was up early to watch Prime Minister Modi hoist the Indian tricolore at Red Fort and address the nation. The staying up late and getting up early were one continuous period of time! The PM’s life was apparently more in danger today than at any other time in his career: the trees around the fort had all been pruned so that nothing could be hidden up there, a job I’d seen being executed when I went there a few weeks ago.  There were thousands of soldiers and police, the metro suspended, anti-drone missiles in place, sharp-shooters with guns trained on every window which could give a free view of Modi.

I spent day 17 partly as a hotel vegetable and partly as a street wanderer, browsing and exploring and fending off the people trying me where to go and what to do. Here is a typical conversation, which I have heard, almost word for word or in some variation, time and time again.

X: Hello. How are you?

Me: No thanks.

X: Where you from?

Me No thanks

X: Where you from?

Me: England

X: Lovely jubbly. You don’t want to go that way. Expensive.

Me: I do.

X: I’ll take you to cheap shop.

Me: It’s ok. I’m just exploring.

X: You need map. Here is tourist office. (Not actually a tourist office but a travel agent who will pay him a commission if you buy anything)

Me: I have a map. Thanks. Bye

X: Why are you angry?

Me: I’m not angry. I’m just walking and you’re the tenth person who has stopped me since I left the hotel ten minutes ago.

X: You want tuktuk?

Me: No. I’m walking (I start to speed up, saying nothing more, ignoring all requests and questions until X eventually gets the message. Ten minutes further on Y appears)

Y: Hello. How are you? Where you from?

 

These conversations are so frequent and so repetitive that you almost feel like hiding in your hotel for the whole time and not coming out. They are quite wearing. They play on your mind and you wonder if you are becoming rude and bad mannered. They almost make you forget that it is day 17 and you are still waiting for your shipment of tea from Harrogate and your soft, double-ply, ample supply toilet roll. (Indian toilet rolls have about ten pieces of paper before you are down to the cardboard.)

 

Day 18- Delhi

Well I’ve already described some of today on day 17 because Murray and Bolt and Modi happened very early this morning.  I had breakfast buffet at 8 whilst reading the Indian Times and the Delhi Times, courtesy of the hotel.  I handed over my laundry and had the room cleaned while I was at breakfast.  Now I needed to go for an Independence Day stroll around the block. It contained more conversations like the one I outlined yesterday but with the addition of this little gem:

X: England?

Me: Yes. England

X: Oh my fucking god. I in Barnet. Fucking freezing.

Me: It is colder in England.

X: You come my brother shop?

Me: No.

The only place open in the whole of Connaught Place was Starbucks and the only customer was a certain me!

I went back to the hotel for a bit and then got a tuktuk down to India Gate for the celebrations. It was insane. There was total gridlock of tuktuks and taxi drivers, the two tribes having lots of baronies and set-to’s over blocking the road.  In the end it was easier to walk.  It’s funny how I wa sin the middle of people celebrating the independence of India from the UK and everybody needed my money. Well I decided that my wallet would celebrate its independence from Indian hustlers and hawkers in commemoration of the split between the two countries.  There was a mad party going on but in light of the still heightened security and massive presence of anxious police and army I decided to return to the hotel before dark.  Sometimes, every now and then, you have to put your sensible head on and it gives you more time to slip off into the land of nod where you can find that Harrods hamper arriving with tea, biscuits and soft, luxurious….zzzz

Day 19- Delhi

This morning started well with a cheery message from home. Sometimes those texts and emails are so important as you can feel isolated in a place like this. It really brought a smile to my face.   I went wandering around Connaught Place again. I just really wanted to go to Costa to say that I had been there in India and get pictures to show the staff in my local one.  I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised but it was pretty much the same, even the staff uniforms, although they did heat up my muffin and asked if I wanted ice-cream on it.  Not sure if Old Hall Street in Liverpool does that.

I went back to the hotel, had a quick session in the gym and chilled out, feeling really relaxed.  That should have been the signal to stay in the hotel and away from stress but I failed to heed my inner voice and went a-wandering again.

I suppose with a day to go I should start to take stock and reflect on three weeks spent here in India.  What have I learned about this country, about myself, about anything and everything!  Let’s start with India: the biggest culture shock for me is not the smell, even though it’s…different…or even the colours which are like visual spice in your eyes.  I have realised yet again that I love bright colours, which make me feel alive. To see a bright sari in front of a dull background, or even a street stall where everything is bright. It’s not the colours. It’s not the tastes. You can get curry in England now, although they are definitely fiery here and a lot different to the last takeaway one I had the week before coming here.  They are class curries. The biryanis are a barely finishable mound of rice, veg and spice that leaves you fully satisfied.  I suppose the busyness is a shock at first, the ten honks a second maelstrom of traffic, foregoing lanes to weave patterns on Delhi’s main streets or the equally frantic, but somehow more charming traffic melting pot of Varanasi. The biggest culture shock for me is still the interfering when you’re trying to walk in peace along some street or other.  I get it that some just want to practise their English or are just being friendly but I have to say that the vast majority are commission junkies whose aim is to steer as many people as possible into the places where they will pick up a quick rupee or two.

I like the spirituality of the place: the whole gamut of religions represented, but here again there is an innate commercially tainted spirituality, as there can be with western Christianity too of course.  What I mean is that even the holiest sadhus and gurus and priests can see dollar signs in front of their eyes when they see a pale skin walk by.  I didn’t meet a single “holy” person who didn’t try and get something out of me. I find that sad, while accepting that you have to live and pay for things in life. Is there any difference between the beggar on the street with no legs and the man with a shaved head and orange robes when they both demand the same share of your limited resources? I must admit that it was the religious men who demanded the most, and more frequently.

I find that it is possible to be incredibly peaceful and spiritual in the midst of the extreme craziness going on around you but the thing that irks the most is that you don’t feel that you can trust anyone. That is unsettling for your soul and spirit and hard to reconcile.  I remember reading stories about the Beatles getting into eastern religion and transcendental meditation and coming to India to be with the Maharishi Yogi. They ended up being fleeced and wrote the song Sexy Sadie about him, with the lyrics: “Oh sexy Sadie, what have you done? You’ve made a fool of everyone.” I really hate having to be suspicious of every person you meet.  I’m the opposite in England: trust everyone to start with.

I think I accept that I have a bit of an adventure junkie type of personality, not necessarily the kind that does bungee jumps off ravines but one that wants to rush off to new places, experience new cultures, to feel and have my senses stimulated. I learned that I can still get very lonely at times but that I am mostly happy with my own company and that the dark moods lift quite quickly.

So what about that green bag and those luxury supplies. Surely this is just a joke written in to this diary account for literary purposes and to provide an amusing thread running through the whole three weeks. Well sadly no. The good news is that I did get the bag back for 5 minutes. It was brought to me at Delhi airport just in time for me to load it on to the luggage-scales and conveyor belt of KLM as I checked in for the flight home. I didn’t open it, took nothing out. It remained exactly as it had the moment I finally closed it before being picked up for the airport that first day.  I had survived with nothing, buying only what I needed for the trip, and actually enjoying the feeling of travelling light.

So finally it may be time to compile a list of my highlights and by that I mean the things which most stand out in my mind. This is quickly thought out, a snapshot. Perhaps it will change, maybe there are things I’ve forgotten, maybe the order will change, but I’ll give it a go.

1. Riding a camel in the desert
2. Sleeping on a mattress, watching shooting stars, with the sound of camels chewing the cud behind me.
3. Standing feet away from burning bodies at Manikarnika Ghat in Varanasi, pondering on the certainty of death.
4. The sense of love felt in the dark mausoleum of the Taj Mahal, with the dawn light filtering through on to the sarcophagi.
5. Travelling through rush hour traffic in a rickshaw. The adrenaline rush of risk.
6. The contrasting luxury of the Marriott Hotel. Fruit and all you can eat breakfast.
7. The feeling of “knowing the ropes” on the second long train journey.
8. Being with a group in the desert. The value of shared experience.
9. Travelling light. The euphoric liberation of not carrying a heavy rucksack round.
10. Feeding and hugging an elephant. The sense that this creature could trample me to death but is being affectionate, and not biting the hand that feeds it.
11. Getting to the top of Amber Fort in 36 degree heat with an improvised turban.
12. Walking for a day around the back streets of ancient Varanasi, off the beaten track.
13. Seeing how the real people- and farmyard animals- live in downtown Jaipur.
14. Standing next to the place where Mahatma Gandhi was cremated. (note to self to watch again lots of Indian films: Gandhi, Passage to India, Darjeeling Limited, Outsourced etc)
15. Plus many more…