bird with a backpack

Anthony advice

2010-03-15T02:43:00.000-07:00

- Take your trekking shoes and socks off whenever you stop and dry them in the sun. This will help keep your feet dry and prevent blisters

- Ignore the label and use just a single iodine tablet per litre of water (unless it’s particularly dirty) but leave it longer before you drink it. After 5 minutes loosen the top of your bottle and squeeze some water out to sterilize the area where you put your mouth

- Always collect water in a transparent bottle so that you can see exactly what’s in it and can check that the iodine tablet has gone in

- When packing your back, keep any heavy items as close to your back as possible so that the bag doesn’t pull on your shoulders

- At high altitude (over 3000m) dehydration is a big problem due to the dry air and is a big trigger of Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS). Drink a litre of water with breakfast so you are fully hydrated before your day’s trek

- At high altitude eat protein for lunch and stick to carbs for dinner. Protein takes a lot of energy to break down which requires lots of oxygen. With less oxygen in the air this can cause respiratory problems during sleep

- Do not try to diet. Eat frequently and eat plenty of carbohydrates especially at high altitude where AMS can cause a loss of appetite

- Whenever you cross a bridge or body of water, undo the chest straps of your bag. If for any reason you fall in, you’ll need to be able to free yourself easily from your bag to stop yourself drowning

- Use walking sticks. Not only do they enable you to use less energy when walking but they help you to stand up straight against the weight of your bag, opening your chest up and making it easier to breathe (a big issue at high altitude when even a little exertion can leave you panting for breath). Sticks also act as extra limbs for balance when you’re making your way down steep descents

- When it gets cold, warm your clothes up in your sleeping bag in the morning before putting them on

- At high altitude, chop chocolate bars into bite-sized pieces to prevent them from freezing which renders them inedible

- Always walk to the end of the village in which you are planning to stay to find the room with the best view for your breakfast the following morning

- Start late and finish late. Why get up at 6am only to reach your destination by lunchtime then spend all afternoon sitting around getting cold? What’s more, if you let all the over-zealous trekkers head off at 6am, then you have the trail to yourself a few hours later. Anthony rarely set off before 10am

- When you find good apple pie along the trek order 5 slices…just because it’s apple pie and it’s good!

Day 1 continued: Besi Shahar to Bhulbhule

2010-03-15T02:33:00.000-07:00

Anthony is British, ex-navy and in his forties (we think!). He takes me up on my invite and joins us for tea and some quick respite after two long bus rides. Our timing is perfect. Just as we sit down, the first fat drops of a thunderstorm begin to fall. The sky grows dark, and the rain is soon pouring in steady streams as thunder rattles above us and flashes of lightening mark their way through the skies. It’s an undeniably bad start to our two-week trek!

Our luck only changes when we find out that Anthony has done the Annapurna Circuit before and is a veritable encyclopaedia on all things trekking. We sit sharing tips and life histories over cups of tea, waiting for the end of the storm. Finally, the rain begins to subside, and leaving Nicky to look after the bags, Anthony and I head to the ACAP checkpoint where we have to show our trekking permits and register.

Toying between catching the bus to Bhulbhule or walking, we head to the bus station to enquire about the price. The Russians’ guide is there and quotes us an extortionate price for the 6km journey. We soon realize that the reason the Russian’s are paying so much is because their guide is pocketing a nice little wad of commission each time. Anthony attempts to explain what’s happening to them but they respond to his English with blank looks. The four Russians are destined to be ripped off the entire way round the circuit.

We decide to walk having had enough of bus rides and dodgy bus antics. Whilst this first 6km is on the road with buses and bikes passing us, it isn’t altogether unpleasant. Along the way Anthony shows us how to collect suitable drinking water from streams and keeps us entertained with stories from his navy years, whilst Nicky and I get used to walking with 35litre backpacks and sticks.

After an hour or so we come across a small village replete with small children asking for pens and sweets. Nicky’s can of orange juice is visible and causes havoc as they point and ask for it. She attempts to distract them by taking photos of them and sharing them with little success. The sun is beginning to set but through the thinning rain clouds a stunning glacier-laden mountain emerges, tinged with pink. We find a small tea house with views overlooking the mountain and there we stop for another cup of tea.

As the sun drops behind the mountains it soon becomes dark and we find ourselves donning head torches for the last leg of the walk. We pass through the first town of Khundi and then it’s all-too-suddenly time to face my fear of suspension bridges. The only saving grace is darkness, but the metallic monstrosity still looms there in the blackness, the thundering sound of the glacial river below all too audible.

I make it quite clear that if I’m going to make it across, I have to do it alone: no shaking, jumping or people overtaking. Nicky kindly stands back to let me go ahead and, with brut determination, a fixed stare and a knotted stomach I make it across trying desperately to ignore The Fear which I can feel rising as the bridge sways beneath my feet.

At the other side my legs are jelly and my hands take on an alcoholic’s tremble but the relief of having made it over without making an idiot of myself is palpable. Only 35 more to go!

That evening I tuck into my first dal bhat (a dish of dal, curry, rice and papad) and celebrate my bridge crossing with a plate of momos (bite-sized balls of veg encased in thin dough made from flour and water and steamed).

Day 1: An interesting bus journey

2010-03-15T02:16:00.000-07:00

The bus limps slowly past open-air butchers, school children and hodge-podge housing, up and over a pass, and into the valley beyond. Thanks to the strike, there are two days’ worth of traffic to contend with and we move impossibly slowly, through the dust and fumes of the traffic ahead.

As we wind our way down the other side of the pass, the traffic begins to flow more freely and we’re soon flying round vertiginous corners, with inches to spare between us at the trucks coming the other way. Occasionally we pass the burnt out carcass of a bus that has seen better days after missing a corner and plummeting into the gorge below – a vivid reminder of our mortality if ever we needed one.

Whilst Nicky sleeps, I eye the large suspension bridges, drooping perilously between the cliffs, with great suspicion: I’d heard the rumours and knew I was going to have to face my fear whilst on the trek.

After a bladder-bursting two hours, we finally come to a stop where I can alleviate myself of my ‘coffee wee’ – the wee you need precisely one hour after a morning coffee. Nicky and I also grab a couple of samosas then head back to the bus. Just as we get on, the bus driver starts her up frantically and swings her out into the road, leaving a handful of passengers behind. Cries go out for the missing passengers but the driver insists he has to move the bus. There’d been an accident.

Later on, we found out that a child had been hit by a bus. The child’s body had been flung into the road. The locals had rushed to him and, in their ignorance of first aid, had scooped him up and shaken him to revive him. If he hadn’t been dead before, he most certainly was after. In such a situation, the road is often closed: not for investigation - as this will rarely happen - but out of mourning. Our driver was desperately moving the bus so that we didn’t get caught up in the road closure.

We accumulate the remaining passengers and are soon on our way. Just half an hour on we come across another accident. A group of people stand looking down over the cliff edge towards the river below: a motorcyclist had missed the corner and plummeted off the side and they were looking to see if he was still alive.

Finally, we make it to Dumre – a miserable little town filled with insalubrious touts. As soon as we step off the bus, we are surrounded by unsavoury characters trying to direct us to buses for our onward journey to Besi Shahar. We do our best to ditch them and make an escape to an area up the street where we can assess the situation. We ask a bus driver nearby which bus we need to take. He’s desperate to ignore us but we’re persistent and he finally points to a rickety rust heap with wheels. We make our way there, followed again by various touts. I see a fellow gringo, blond(ish) haired, blue-eyed and standing like a beacon at 6ft 4. I ask him if it’s the right bus and he quips that it’s the bus for Everest. It takes me a while to figure out he's joking.

Having declined all offers to be parted with our bags, we finally manage to make it onto the bus, keeping our bags up front and within view. Behind us are sit an American couple, behind them is their guide and on the back row are four Russians, complete with typical Russian headwear.

I ask the American couple what the cost of the bus is, expecting it to be minimal given that we were travelling a mere 42km. Their guide informs me that the cost is 150R. I’m instantly suspicious as we’d only paid 400R for the 4.5 hour journey form Kathmandu. I explain to the couple that that is a ridiculous price and that the journey should cost little more than 50R.

The ticket collecter – a young boy about 19 with a smirky, smackable face – slithers up to us and asks us for 100R each. I argue with him that we should only be paying 50R each but he doesn’t budge so we cough up 100 each. On hearing that we’d only paid 100R, the American couple’s guide suddenly erupts in fury at the ticket collector. A row of dramatic Bollywood proportion ensues and gradually various other people on the bus join it. Everyone is shouting in colourful Nepalese, hands are waved, the ticket collector smirks, and even the bus driver stops the bus to join in.

It transpires that my young, smackable friend the ticket collector had been charging a range of prices for the short bus ride. The Russians, who stood out like sore thumbs and spoke little English, fared worst and were charged and extortionate 300R each, the Americans were charged 150R, we were charged 100R and the locals a mere 70R.

The argument continues to wax and wane for the length of the journey, sudden bouts of fury punctuated by gentler, pleading tones combined with arm touching. As we progress from village to village, the bus gradually fills beyond capacity, even collecting a couple of goats along the way.

By the time we arrive at Besi Shahar a couple of hours later, it is with welcome relief that we step off the bus and into a café, inviting the beacon blond to join us for a cup of tea.

The bag

2010-03-15T02:08:00.000-07:00

For anyone interested in trekking, this is what I took with me for a 15-day trek:

35l rucksack with chest and waist straps and aeration grid

Extendible walking poles

3-season sleeping bag and cotton liner

Gortex fully waterproof trekking boots (well worn in!)

2l Platypus water bladder and clear plastic water bottle

2 t-shirts for walking

1 long-sleeve top for walking

1 short-sleeve and 1 long-sleeve top for the evenings

1 thin fleece

1 thick fleece

1 pair of trekking trousers

1 pair of trousers for the evening

2 pairs of thermal trousers (one for walking, one for the evening/sleeping)

2 pairs of thick walking socks

2 pairs of liner socks

1 pair of warm socks for the evening

Underwear (enough to last a few days)

Flip flops

Thick pair of gloves

Thin pair of liner gloves to wear inside of the thick gloves

Wool scarf

Wool hat

Sun hat/cap

Sunglasses

Sunscreen

Detailed map

Spare pair of shoe laces

Straps and clips to attach things to my bag

Iodine and neutralizer

Headtorch and spare batteries

Camera and spare batteries

A book to read (light!)

Small bottle of shampoo (this can also be used as shower gel and to wash your clothes)

Small tube of toothpaste and brush

Small antibiotic soap

Wet wipes

Loo roll

A couple of bin liners (good for keeping things dry)

Small moisteriser and lip balm (dry air will have you peeling in no time!)

Hair brush and hair tie

Enough money for the entire trip (and a bit extra in case you get stopped by Maoists)

Any trekking permits you may need

A photocopy of your passport (leave your passport behind if you can)

Passport photos (you need them for everything in Nepal)

Mobile phone with local sim (doubles as an alarm clock)

Phone charger (or just keep your phone switched off)

Pocketknife

Inhaler (only if you’re asthmatic!)

First aid kit

Things for your first aid kit:

Blister plasters and Moleskin (if you can get it)

Medical tape

Wound pads/gauze in various sizes (I find these attached with medical tape much better than plasters for blisters when trekking)

Scissors

Stretch bandage

Wound dressing (in case of a deep laceration)

Trianglar bandage and safety pins (not an obvious choice but you can use a t-bandage in lots of different ways)

Rehydration sachets

Dry antiseptic (you get it in a spray can. It’s much better to spray onto blisters than using a cream as it will keep the skin dry)

Pain relief cream (for pulled or aching muscles)

Paracetamol (for AMS headaches)

Ibuprofen tablets (anti-inflammatory…don’t use at the same time as the pain relief cream)

Loperamide Hydrochloride (anti-diarrhoea pills)

Ciprofloxacin (general antibiotic for gastrointestinal problems)

Tinidazole (treatment for giardia…a big problem on some treks in Nepal)

Diamox (treatment for AMS. It is a diuretic (it makes you pee!) so you must drink plenty of water when you take it)

Some top tips!

- Always tell the person you are trekking with where your first aid kit can be found in case they need to use it on you. Also, swap blood groups. It sounds stupid but if you are taken to hospital and you need a transfusion, it’s a useful piece of information for the person you are with to know

- Put a list of emergency contact details including your blood group and insurance policy details inside your first aid kit and wallet and keep a copy with your passport too. In case of a medical emergency, these are places people are most likely to look for information on you

- Don’t pop Diamox willy nilly. Some doctors will tell you to start taking it as soon as you reach high altitude (3000m) but as it is a diuretic it can cause dehydration, which, when added to the problems of dehydration you will have at altitude anyway, may just worsen your situation. From experience, and from talking to other trekkers, it’s better to use Diamox only as a last resort if you start experiencing AMS

Monday morning and the Maoists

2010-03-15T02:04:00.000-07:00

5am and I roll my corpse out of bed, into the shower and into a couple of layers of clothes. I load my pack on my back, gingerly make my way out of my room feeling for the light switches as I go, head down the five flights of stairs, mutter an unenthusiastic ‘namaste’ to one of the young sons of the couple who own the place, then step out into the dark.

I knock on Nicky’s door and we vaguely acknowledge each other. It’s getting lighter so I put away my torch as we make our way through the deserted streets of Thamal to a patch of pavement designated as a bus station. There’s virtually no one there. The street is empty and there’s no sign of a bus; only police in dark blue uniforms huddle in groups with machine guns to hand. The word is out that there is a strike or 'bandh' on today and we’re told to come back the following morning. The Maoists have called it and no one is keen to mess with them. Heads down and defeated, we make our way back to our respective hotels to check-in and unpack, with the knowledge that the whole process will need to be repeated the following following day.

Right time, right date, wrong place

2010-03-15T02:02:00.000-07:00

It’s Saturday 7.00pm and I’m sat in front of the legendary Rum Doodle bar in Kathmandu waiting to meet up with Nicky – my potential trekking partner who’d contacted me through Trekinfo.com. The bar is closed. I wait, clock watching, before finally giving up 40 minutes later.

Finding an internet café, I drop Nicky a line explaining that I’ll pop into her hotel later that evening. I head off to find something to eat, slightly nervous that my plan to trek with someone other than a guide or porter is about to fall through.

Fortunately, when I arrive at Nicky’s hotel, they hand me a message saying that she at Sam’s bar. Arriving at Sam’s Bar, all becomes clear: Rum Doodle had moved premises and she’d headed to the new place whilst I’d followed the Book ‘o’ Lies to the previous address.

A few beers and a little planning later and we decide to arrange bus tickets to Besi Shahar (the starting point for the Annapurna Circuit trek) for Monday morning.

Thank you India!

2010-03-15T01:56:00.000-07:00

Thank you India for showing me that vegetarian food is much more than tofu. For opening my eyes to a whole new world of fashion where sleeveless, hairy, sparkly, synthetic jumpers are deemed acceptable. For Delhi Belly. For putting me face to face with poverty. For banana lassis. For your public displays of gobbing and nose picking. For buses that are never full and trains that are never on time. For your tremendous history, your outstanding forts and your vibrant culture. For the dirty pillowcases. For the sacred rats, blue gods and stoned Sadhus. For the unspoken rules of the road. For mangy dogs, bloated cows and thieving monkeys. For all the smiles and the colour. For never saying no. For teaching me what to do with rubbish when there aren’t any bins. For always asking me where I’m from and for concerning yourself so ardently with my marital status. For some of the most disgusting toilets I’ve ever seen. For burning my mouth off every time I ate. For the effervescent saris, the brightly painted houses and the glorious temples. For teaching me that there really is no need to queue. For the ‘sweet’ and ‘pen’ brigade. For always showing me the way whether you know the way or not. For the head wobble. For the moustaches and the hair oil. For Bollywood and skin lightening adverts. For the black bogies and filthy feet. For opening my eyes to outstanding touches of kindness and outrageous displays of worship. For neon lights, loudspeakers and terrible brass bands. For staring. For letting me eat with my right hand. For some of the most beautiful girls in the world and some of the most ugly men. For the beaches with their resident cows. For tea with too much milk and sugar. For showing me the importance of faith, whatever you have faith in. For attracting the silly people in the silly trousers. For dodgy yogis and enthusiastic astropalmists. For the rickshaw drivers, wherever they may take you. For teaching me the art of bargaining and the sinking feeling of being ripped off. For the luscious countryside, the chaotic streets and the barren desert. For showing me that there is a world beyond that which I already know.

Wet bodies, dead bodies, speeding bodies

2010-03-15T01:39:00.000-07:00

I’d been on the train from Agra for nearly 15 hours and it was finally daylight so I was able to watch snippets of India as they passed by my window. We were travelling through lush green countryside, a welcome sight after the barren desert of Rajashthan. Fields of oil seed rape glowed in the morning sun as villagers went about their daily chores. Young children, in uniform, skipped along the dirt path to school, men on bikes cycled to work and the women attended to the usual pile of dirty laundry. This was India as it should be, free from the shackles and chaos of urbanization.

All too soon I arrived in Varanasi: holy city and veritable centre of chaos. My pick up hadn’t arrived so I had to call the hotel and wait. Sat on my rucksack in the station, I drifted between people watching and swatting away at touts offering me rickshaws and accommodation. Here I saw one of the saddest examples of Indian poverty: a man, his legs contorted grotesquely, crawling on his hands and knees with plastic bags tied about his limbs to help prevent sores. Juxtaposed against the smartly dressed travelers tugging away at their heavy bags, this man was a truly sorry sight.

My pick up finally arrived and I eased my way onto the plastic covered seats of the car. We drove haphazardly through the usual tangle of streets before I was dropped off and my luggage thrust onto the back of a hotel ‘boy’ (the hotel ‘boy’ is usually a middle-aged man) who seemed to struggle beneath the weight as we meandered through ever narrower streets and alleyways to the Ganpati hotel.

My hotel was right on the bank of the Ganges between a burning ghat and the bathing ghats. People come to the banks of the Ganges to wash away their sins or to die. With a little luck, the bathing doesn’t cause their deaths, but with water samples suggesting that the feacal and bacterial content in the Ganges is 500 times higher than it ought to be, it’s a distinct possibility.

At 6am the following morning, as first light crept over the horizon, I was sat in a wooden boat with a French guy named Karim (who I’d actually met at my hotel in Agra two days before) and a boatman. We set off slowly down the river, watching as the pink globe inched its way into the sky. A little way off, in another boat, a group of Hindus in saffron robes sang songs of worship that resonated eerily through the quiet of the morning.

As the sun rose, so the Ganges came to life. Along the bathing ghats, men stripped down to their white underwear, entered the Ganges and zealously dunked themselves in the murky brown water. Women in brightly coloured saris lined up on the lowest steps, their reflections transforming the edge of the Ganges into a rainbow of colour. Soon they too were up to their waists in the filthy broth, dousing themselves with bacteria galore. On the top step of the ghat two holy men dressed in white and holding a candle performed a ceremony to the sound of a drum; in the river below worshippers (and tourists!) in boats lit candles tucked into lotus flowers and placed them reverently in the water so that the river was filled with little balls of light.

As we inched our way along the river, by other boats filled with tourists and the ubiquitous souvenir boats trying to flog junk, we passed by men dressed in white lungis and women in saris thrashing wet clothing against large stones sticking out of the murky water. I made a mental note to myself to delay handing my clothes in for laundry.

As we watched the laundry men and women at work, a cloud of smoke engulfed us and we were showered with small pieces of ash. We had arrived at the burning ghat. This ghat was the smaller of the two main ghats and at that time in the morning only two bodies were in the process of being cremated. Even from where we sat in the river, the blackened, shriveled and leathery features of a man’s head and feet were clearly visible.

We watched for a short while before returning back to the boat ramp. Having seen the burning ghat from a distance, I was keen to get a closer look at this fascinating spectacle. Karim and I headed to the larger burning ghat just a short distance from my hotel. It was reasonably quiet so we were able to stand and watch without being pestered by people wanting to charge us for an explanation of the process.

Having visited the ghat the day before, and having had the full explanation, Karim was well-able to explain the ceremony. As we watched, a body draped in a simple white shroud was carried down to the steps on the edge of the ghat. This was the body of a pauper. Those who were well off were brought down to the ghat on a bamboo stretcher and adorned with luxurious materials and flower garlands.

This poor gentleman was placed unceremoniously on the steps: a dog cocked its leg and peed against the wall next to his him, a cow wandered by and men carrying heavy loads of wood, stepped over him. A relative, overcome with grief, knelt by his head and cried; a male relative peeled back the white shroud and took a photo of the dead man’s face. The group of relatives sat about the body paying their last respects.

It was soon time for the female relatives to retreat to higher ground (women are not allowed down by the pyres) whilst one of the male relatives went to bathe in the Ganges and get his head shaved. The pyre was built with great care and the body was placed on top. Whilst the wealthy are taken down for a full dunk in the Ganges then cremated on higher ground, poorer people are cremated on lower ground near the river’s edge and receive a mere dribble of Ganges water poured over them from a silver bucket

At one point, the shroud was pulled back and we caught a glimpse of the man. He had a full head of grey hair, his face was a deathly grey and on his chest was a large patch of blood. Clear oil was rubbed into his forehead and his dignity covered once more with the shroud. His body was sprinkled with a powder that takes away the scent of cremation and then doused in Ganges water.

By now, the closest male relative to the deceased had had his head shaved – bar a small stub of hair on the back of his head – as a sign of respect. He descended down to the body with the other male relatives and held aloft a set of long twigs with glowing embers that had been lit at the fire of Shiva in the temple behind the ghat. The male relatives walked round the body five times, stopping at the head each time to make a blessing.

The relative with the shaven head then lit the fire and soon the pyre was engulfed in flames. Wood was placed on top of the body and there the man lay for three hours until all but a couple of his bones had burnt. Occasionally, a man with a big stick would rearrange any limbs that had escaped the flames. The ash that has accumulated – bar that which wafts through the air and onto your breakfast at the hotel rooftop restaurant – is finally gathered up and placed into the river before another pyre is built on the same spot.

We watched for a good hour or so and, far from being grotesque, the whole process felt remarkably peaceful. Wandering off, we decided to head for breakfast.

Later that morning, whilst meandering our way through the myriad of narrow alleyways, we came across a cinema and booked a couple of tickets to see ‘My Name is Khan’ – the latest Bollywood blockbuster, minus the song and dance, which we watched later that afternoon. (The film was in Hinglish – a bizarre cross between English and Hindi – so we were able to understand it bar the odd Indian joke)

In the meantime, we headed back to the burning ghats to see them in full flow. In contrast to early morning where the area was relatively quiet, there were now 10 bodies being cremated simultaneously so the whole area was awash with frenetic wood carriers, wailing relatives and gawping tourists. We made our way down to where we’d stood that morning and watched as bodies draped in marigolds were rushed about on their bamboo stretchers. Every now and then a cow would steal a chain of marigolds off the body and stand their munching happily. We were stood there peacefully when suddenly I was barged out of the way by a man holding the front end of a bamboo stretcher. I went to step back out of the way of the dead body only to find a cow stood right behind me. Only in India could you find yourself trapped between a dead body and a cow!

The following morning I was on my way to the airport in a rickety rickshaw to fly via Delhi to Kathmandu. It was my last few hours in India and I wasn’t disappointed. As we rattled and shook our way to the airport my driver kindly pointed out the sights. At one pointed he shouted out ‘body!’ and pointed. There, strapped to the roofrack of a 4x4, was a dead body wrapped in a shroud and bombing it at full pelt towards the holy city. That final glimpse of India confirmed what I’d spent six weeks learning: India is a world unto itself!

Deja dit

2010-02-22T03:42:00.000-08:00

I have this conversation around 20-30 times a day with practically every Indian (usually male!) that I meet from fellow train passengers and street kids, to rickshaw drivers and hotel managers. It is unbelievably repetitive and goes along these lines:

“Hello Madam! Where you from?”

“From England.”

“Ahh England (smiles)….cold!”

“yes very”

“you friends?”

“no I’m travelling on my own”

(looks utterly shocked)”you travel lonely? No friends? No husband?”

“yes travelling alone. No husband as yet!”

“you have how many years?”

“I’m 29.”

“Hmmm” (he mentally calculates 29 + not married = something must be very wrong with her) ”how much days in India?”

“six weeks.”

“no friends six weeks?”

“no just travelling on my own.”

“no trouble?”

“not as yet”

“where you go in India?”

“I spent a couple of weeks in Kerala. Now I travel round Rajasthan.”

“you like India?”

“yes it’s very beautiful”

“and (insert place name) you like?”

“yes very much. Are you from here?”

“yes” (pauses) “you like cricket?”

(Uh oh…here we go!) “err…sort of. We’re not very good though!” (I think!) “India beats us!”

(smiles) “Flintoff”

“yes Flintoff” (please don’t ask me anything else about cricket!)

“he good character?”

“yes…I guess”

“ahh…(smiles, realizes he’s run out of conversation and moves on)

The Taj

2010-02-22T03:39:00.000-08:00

You don’t go to Agra for the city; you go for the Taj. Dispel every photo or video you’ve ever seen because the Taj, when you’re stood before it at the first light of day, is more awe-inspiring, more breathtaking and more utterly beautiful than you can ever possibly imagine.

Built by Emporor Shah Jahan as a memorial for his second wife Mumtaz Mahal who died during childbirth, the Taj is often described as the most extravagant monument built for love. The emperor’s brief to his architect was to recreate heaven on earth; the architect succeeded! The perfect symmetry (it’s exactly as wide as it is high and the height of the dome is exactly the same height as from the ground to the base of the dome), exquisite Mughal architectural design and virtually transparent marble blocks inlaid with semi-precious and precious stones give the Taj magical qualities that deliver a real sense of other worldliness.

The magic starts as the sun begins to rise. The Taj gradually emerges from its hazy mirage to be warmed with a pale wash of yellow. As you watch, the suns golden glow slowly turns a rusty red, and the Taj transforms before your eyes reflecting the sun’s rays as a marvel in pink. The sun continues to rise until its colour bleaches. At this point the Taj once again regresses to become a ghostly mirage of white.

Standing there watching the transformation of the Taj is exceptionally moving and a wholly enchanting experience. The sheer amount of passion, love, vision, sweat and tears that went into its building is a fantastic testament to the character of human nature at its best. If I was to imagine a heaven, I would guess that the building of the Taj is a pretty close re-creation of it.

Forts, palaces, temples and a slight detour

2010-02-22T03:21:00.000-08:00

The following morning I met up with Babalu (the Sundar Palace rickshaw driver) who was going to show me around Jaipur. Our first stop was the city palace in the heart of the pink city. Away from the glitzy shopping malls near where I was staying, the old town was India in its truer form with rampaging rickshaws, hardworking stall holders and a plentiful scattering of mangy dogs and bloated cows. The city was founded by and named after Maharajah Jai Singh II when he decided to move abode from the congested city of Amber.

In 1876 Maharajah Ram Singh had the entire city painted pink – the traditional colour of hospitality – to welcome the Prince of Wales (later King Edward VII). Today, at dusk, the city glows pink in the fading light.

The city palace in the heart of the pink city is a fantastic maze of courtyards, Islamic style arches and a blend of Rajasthani and Mughal architecture. Successive Maharajahs have made additions to the palace over the years and today it stands as a fantastic museum of regal textiles and impressive armoury. I spent a good hour visiting the palace with an audio guide.

Babalu was waiting for me outside the gates and we made our way to the rickshaw. Yanking at a lever the rickshaw roared to bone-juddering life and I got in. We pulled away but, just as we did, the rickshaw jerked, there was a loud clunk and the rickshaw suddenly lent over to one side. help him out. One guy immediately handed Babalu 500R (a day’s wages!) so that he could afford to get his rickshaw fixed.

A few minutes of lively discussion, head scratching and general poking about and it was decided that a mechanic was required for the job. I was asked to sit on the side of the rickshaw that hadn’t sunk, and we limped lopsidedly through the old town to find a rickshaw mechanic.

We arrived at a small bustling square where sickly looking buses marooned on jacks were being tinkered with by men blackened with oil. On one side of the square was a row of shiny new green and yellow rickshaws next to the crumpled carcass of a rickshaw that had come there to die. Nothing was wasted: every little bit of scrap that could be used had been stripped from the rickshaw carcass leaving just the clean bones of its shell. From those parts, other rickshaws were given a new lease of life.

In a small hut men tapped, prodded and drilled away at rickshaws whilst others took a welcome break at the chai stall next door. Babalu got into negotiations and a group of men gathered to assess the extent of the damage. The verdict was out: it would take four hours.

Whilst Babalu finished arranging for his rickshaw to be fixed, I had a wander round. I watched as a man and woman sat in amongst a large pile of rubbish, carefully sorting it out into piles. There was a pile for plastic items, a pile for rubber shoe soles and a pile for cardboard. Forget recycling plants, here it is all done by hand!

Directly opposite them was a flower stall selling sacks of flower heads in every colour of the rainbow – their flowery scent overpowering that of the rubbish. I wandered back to the mechanic hut and got chatting to one of the men at the chai store who very kindly offered me a seat. After the obligatory ‘Where you from?’ conversation, I asked him how much a sparkly new rickshaw would cost and he told me that they cost 25,000R (349GBP). This is a substantial sum for rickshaw drivers who, on a good day may earn 500R taking tourists sightseeing but only take home 100R on a bad day.

Babalu had arranged for his uncle to lend him his rickshaw so we had a chai and waited. I asked him how he got the job for Sunder Palace and he explained that one of his uncles worked there and had got him the job. Babalu’s English was excellent but he explained that he had never been to school and had only learnt English through his work with tourists. It really makes you realize how lucky we are in the West to be offered education as standard when you sit across a table from someone who had never set foot inside a school. I asked him about the guy who’d lent him money and he explained that he lived in an area where lots of rickshaw drivers live and they all help each other out when they need it. There seems to be a real sense of community here that we could really learn from in the west.

We were soon on our way again in Babalu’s uncle’s rickshaw. We headed out of town then took a left onto a smaller, quieter street. Babalu asked if I wanted to drive the rickshaw. I explained that I’d never ridden a motorbike nor did I have my glasses on thus making me a risk to our health but he was fairly insistent. Perched next to him on the driver’s seat he explained how to change gear and how to accelerate. Worryingly, he kept control of the brake. We set off and I dodged cows and cycle rickshaws, narrowly missed head on collisions with cars and was over taken by smoky buses. At times, our way was blocked by a cow and there would be a car heading straight for us. My instinct was to brake but Babalu had other ideas so we would swerve violently with a hair width to spare between us and the car. After 10 minutes and the loss of 8 of my 9 lives I decided that I would take to the back seat once more.

We headed out of town towards the hilltop town of Amber and its magnificent fort. On our way we passed the mystical water palace set in the centre of a lake and casting a perfect reflection.

Amber fort stands tall on a hilltop overlooking the old city. It was once the abode of Jai Singh II before Amber got too congested and he decided to move the city to Jaipur, which he designed and named himself. The fort is magnificent structure with the noteworthy Jai Mandir (Hall of Victory) that is beautifully designed with a mosaic of mirrors and beautifully carved marble pillars.

After a couple of hours of getting lost inside the fort, it was time to head to Galta – the temple of the Sun God. Here, monkeys converge at dusk. We headed there and Babalu dropped me off to walk up the steep hill to the temple. A man was feeding the monkeys bananas so they were absolutely everywhere. At one point I came across a car where four monkeys, with the guilty look of sly vandals, were trying to chew and rip off the windscreen wipers and the plastic edging of the car’s windows. Each time, they would look around to make sure the coast was clear before attacking the plastic.

The Galta temple is unremarkable in its design but does have commanding views of the city. It would be a great place to watch the sun set; unfortunately, I was a couple of hours too early but I soaked up the view for a while, watched a group of people in the centre of the temple worshiping, before retracing my steps into the throng of begging children at the bottom of the hill. In front of me were three friends from Estonia (I heard them trying to explain where Estonia was to a young boy who asked them where they were from) and I watched as one girl took a photo of a cow that was in the process of giving birth, only for a man who happened to be stood nearby demand money from her for the photo.

It was 4pm and I decided that I’d reached my sightseeing limit for the day and that I’d head back to the hotel. On our way, we passed by a sweet shop called Rawat Kachori, which is famed for its kachori (flat dough that puffs up when fried and is stuffed with dhal or onion) and its fantastic array of artisan Indian sweets. Babalu picked up a couple of kachori for us both and I virtually inhaled mine having had only a small snack for lunch.

Just as I was getting out of my rickshaw in front of the hotel, Gavin walked passed and asked if I’d like to go sweet shopping back at Rawat Kachori. I had no other plans so I took him up on his offer and we walked back. He was buying sweets to take back for friends and he seemed to have a better idea about which to get so I asked if he could get another box made up with the same set for me. We also bought some thick lassis which were flavoured with rose water before returning to the hotel.

We sat outside and I hit WiFi as he wrote his play. When it got to 7pm he asked what I was doing for dinner. I said I had no plans but that I was secretly very tempted to return to the restaurant frequented the night before for another dose of tandoori chicken. He had been thinking the same and, as it was Valentine’s Day and we were both away from our respective partners, we decided to have dinner together again. We ended up at the same table, in the same restaurant and ordering the same food as we had the night before.

A Zimbabwean in Jaipur

2010-02-22T03:16:00.000-08:00

It was 9am and I was sat on the rooftop of Sunder Palace overlooking the city of Jaipur. I’d just put my order in for fresh coffee and a banana pancake when the guy on the table next to me turned round and thanked me for the inspiration to have a pancake for breakfast.

Gavin Warner is a Zimbabwean who lives in South Africa and is an actor by trade. We started chatting and didn’t stop for three hours. Having not spoken to someone who could speak English fluently for some time, it was a great relief to have a good old chin wag. In the time we spoke we’d discussed the ins and outs of Indian culture, the terrible dress sense of tourists in India, apartheid, Gavin’s play, my thoughts on a career change and the problems associated with African politics.

Two pots of coffee later and I was fully relieved of the loneliness that had crept up on me the day before. Gavin and I arranged to head out for dinner in the evening to a restaurant that he’d found the night before that served up great tandoori chicken then I headed off to take a look at the shopping malls of Jaipur. I’d decided to take a day off from temples and forts and had decided that a little retail therapy was in order.

From my short tour of the shopping malls, I came to the conclusion that, unlike the west, clothing stores here are primarily catered to the needs of men. There were surprisingly few shops for women yet many jeans, shirt and sports shops for men.

That evening I chomped away happily on the best tandoori chicken I’d had in my whole time in India; unfortunately, there was no chance of a beer or glass of wine to go with it. As Gavin quite rightly pointed out, it’s virtually impossible to enjoy a beer or wine with a meat dish in India: the only restaurants in which you are likely to find beer are Hindu owned vegetarian establishments, whilst the places that serve meat are usually Muslim owned and don’t serve alcohol. Either way, the number of licensed places is surprisingly so if you do order a beer it may be a clandestine beer that arrives in a teapot.

Pushkar

2010-02-22T03:02:00.000-08:00

Adam Katz – a travel writer who’s been travelling for three years – wrote an article about loneliness when solo travelling and stated that:

"Oddly, the times that I feel the most lonely are in the most touristy cities. There are tons of people. Plenty of people speak English, but no one is excited to meet a tourist. The locals ignore you, or want to sell you something. The tourists are involved in their own activities and chat among their friends."

I can only agree with this statement as it was exactly how I felt in Pushkar. Pushkar is the Rajasthani beachless version of Palolem with tourists aplenty and the likes of mashed potato and pizza gracing the menus. I’d been warned in advance that the town, famous for its bathing ghats was missing a key ingredient: the lake. The monsoon rains last year had been very light and consequently, the lake had shriveled up into a small muddy puddle – a mere dribble of its former self.

Nonetheless, I was told that Pushkar was worth a visit, and in many ways it was. The pizzas were good and there were plenty of temples to take a look at. But equally, it was extremely lonely. To sit around at the street-side stalls brimming with tourists and for them to pay little attention to you in spite of your attempts to initiate conversation can be pretty hard going. I was also missing Mike terribly so all-in-all my time in Pushkar was not the happiest.

Added to this was a sleepless first night brought about by a bunch of Indian tourists in my hotel who insisted on having massive shouting conversations right outside my door for much of the night. Twice I got up to tell them to shut up to which their response was to knock on my door every time they walked passed. The following morning I told the manager that I was going to find somewhere else to stay and that I wouldn’t be paying for the sleepless night: I give him that, he said he understood completely and that that would be fine.

I left my bags behind whilst I headed down to the Honey Dew coffee shop to tuck into muesli and curd, banana lassi and Italian coffee. From there, it was a slightly depressing tour of dark and damp rooms before I found Comfort Holiday Home. This great little place was right in the centre of town and had a fantastic roof garden where one could escape the hustle and bustle and catch a few rays.

Having visited a couple of token temples and decided that the walk up a steep hill for panoramic views of the lake would be more trouble than it would be worth, I spent much of my time attempting to socialize with other tourists and then, when unsuccessful, migrating to one of the many internet cafes. Two days would have been the perfect amount of time in Pushkar but I had three days and the third dragged.

It was finally 8pm and time to get the bus to Ajmer where I’d then catch the train to Jaipur. The bus was packed with men, women, children and luggage – there were 8 men in the driver’s compartment alone and one man had to lean to one side every time the driver wanted to change gear. We set off in the dark up the steep hill that separates Pushkar and Ajmer, swerving to avoid those cars and motorbikes heading straight for us without lights.

After a half hour drive we finally arrived at Ajmer. I was ladened down with my backpacks and there were lots of women with babies and young children getting off the bus so I stood back and let them off first. In true Indian style, which lacks any attempt at chivalry, the man behind me started nudging me and then actually started telling me off for not pushing into the exit fray. Putting on my best English accent I responded with: “ Excuse me! There are ladies with children so it’s only polite that we let them off first isn’t it?” He grumbled away to himself but he wasn’t going to get past my rucksack so he had no choice but to endure enforced chivalry.

Opposite Ajmer station I tucked into spicy dahl and chapatti at a small street stall for all of 16 rupees (about 20p) before heading for my first class compartment on the train. First class is very different from the 2A or 3A tier classes: it consists of an enclosed compartment with four beds. Whilst it is definitely a comfortable way to travel, I preferred the 2A tier compartments which were open and had more people about. I was in luck as the gentleman I was sharing the carriage with was very pleasant and worked in the plastics and PVC industry; nonetheless, there was something a tad odd about sharing a compartment with just one other man. Fortunately, I only had a short train ride so I didn't actually sleep in the carriage.

Two days in the blue city

2010-02-22T02:48:00.000-08:00

I arrived in Jodhpur with a mild case of Delhi Belly and wrote my first day off. Instead, I sat in the beautiful atrium of my guesthouse, reading, moping and generally feeling sorry for myself.

The following morning I was feeling much perkier and was ready to face Jodhpur city. The city is centred around the clock tower: the tower is not that spectacular but it’s a great place to start a city visit. Heading out in all directions from the clock tower are market stalls piled high with fruit and veg, bazaars, stalls selling lassis and chai, and a network of small streets in which you can get hideously lost.

Behind the clock tower and perched atop a cliff face is the Meherangarh Fort. Getting there is much harder than the characteristically vague LP map would lead you to believe. You meander through tiny little streets lined with the blue houses* for which Jodhpur is famed, then backtrack as you find yourself at a dead end with a woman firing rapid Hindi at you whilst smiling and waving at you to about turn. Eventually you find yourself at the steep litter-lined path that leads up to the fort.

The path offers commanding views of the city with its blue houses colouring the grey morning mist that hangs low over the city. In the distance is Umaid Bhawan Palace – now part hotel and part residence for the current Maharajah and his family. To the left is is the milky white marble memorial of Jaswant Thada.

The fort itself is fantastic with its overbearing sandstone outer walls and beautiful internal palace and courtyards. After independence the fort was closed up and left to crumble, and it was only thanks to the current Maharajah that it was restored, transformed into the fantastic museum it is today and given back to the people. Of all the forts I visited, this was by far my favourite.

After an enlightening couple of hours – which included having my palm read a second time – I decided to walk back down to the clock tower. Given the myriad of little lanes, it was inevitable that I would get utterly lost. I found myself winding my way around cows and street dogs and along the quiet residential streets that were free of motorbikes and rickshaws. Goras (whit people/tourists) were a novelty here. Street children gathered round all wanting to shake my hands, women stopped mid conversation and stared, every passerby asked me where I was going and I even noticed one man sneakily trying to take a photo of me with his camera phone.

I wandered about the intricate lattice of streets taking in the crumbling but well-loved blue houses beautifully painted with potted plants lining their entrances, the small streams clogged up with all manner of filth and rubbish running inches from people’s front doorsteps and the glint of a golden Hindu God draped in marigolds and tucked away in a discreet corner.

Eventually, I found my way to a main road where rickshaws abounded and I was returned to the more touristy area of the clock tower. At a small street-side stall, I stopped off for a makhania lassi – a yoghut drink made with sugar and butter. I watched the world go by for a while then decided it was time to head back to my guesthouse for some much needed rest in preparation for my early morning journey to Pushkar.

*a blue house used to be the sign that a Brahmin family lived there. Brahmins were the highest of the Indian caste system and were the British equivalent of the clergy. Now anyone is allowed to paint their house blue.

A beautiful city and a shoddy sand dune

2010-02-22T02:15:00.000-08:00

Jaisalmer is stunning. Perched high on a cliff top is the one of the oldest lived-in forts in the world. Head through the main gate and you are greeted with a myriad of tiny streets with stunning havelis (read about them here) made of intricately sculpted stone, exquisite Jain temples with their characteristic cone shaped roofs and the beautiful overhanging balconies of the Maharajah's palace.

Jaisalmer is also clean. After trailing through streets clogged with rubbish, it was wonderful to get lost in the maze of narrow streets and alleyways without seeing rubbish strewn about the place.

My three days here were lazy days. I’d booked myself into particularly luxurious accommodation for a change. The hotel had a fantastic roof terrace overlooking the fort where I could sit and watch and listen to the buzz of the city. On my first day I got deliberately lost, soaking up life in the tiny backstreets of Jaisalmer. Here, women in colourful saris sat in groups on their doorsteps laughing, singing or gossiping in rapid Hindi , school kids sat on the back of their fathers’ bicycles with leather satchels on their backs and books to hand as they caught a lift to school, men tapped away energetically in a typewriting centre (no joke…the equivalent of an Internet cafe but with typewriters!) and a man with a handcart full of fruit and veg weighed out portions as local women put in their orders.

My second day was spent seeing the sights. I arrived in the fort to the sound of people singing in the Hindu temple nearby so I went to take a look. The Laxminath temple was reverberating to the sound singing and drumming. This temple is definitely not a ‘mumbling-in-the-back-pew’ affair; everyone sings at full pelt to the beat of a drum – it’s vibrant, it’s energetic, it’s colourful. At one point saffron coloured grain is thrown out into the congregation. Everyone reaches out to catch the grain, turns in unison then motions as though cleaning the air in front of them before putting their hands together as a prayer and touching their foreheads. The ceremony is over and everyone queues up in front of another holy man who hands out small pieces of cotton wool which members of the congregation take and tuck into one of the little folds in their ear. When I got chatting to a shopkeeper near the Jain temples who was actually Hindu, he explained that the cotton was blessed and represented the word of God. By placing it in the ear, the word is with people wherever they go.

Jainism was founded by Mahavira, a contemporary of the Buddha in the 6^th century BC. Jains believe that liberation can be attained by achieving complete purity of the soul, and that purity can only be achieved by shedding karman – the matter generated by one’s actions that attaches itself to the soul. Fasting, meditation and non-violence in thought or deed towards any living thing are fundamental to the purification process. Moderate Jains don’t eat meat or wear animal products such as leather; those who take it a little more seriously do without clothes altogether, may wear a mask over their mouths so that they don’t inhale, and thus kill, any microscopic organisms and, in certain situations, brush the ground ahead of them as they walk to ensure they don’t inadvertently stand on any living thing. The Jains in Jaisalmer were very successful merchants and helped build many of the bastions of the fort wall. Their temples are elaborate works of art, every surface intricately carved out of sandstone. Five interconnecting temples dominate the skyline in the centre of the fort, making the palace look almost insignificant in comparison.

The temples and the palace (I highly recommend the audio tour) were both fantastic to visit and I thoroughly enjoyed my second day in the city.

Unfortunately, my third day wasn’t quite so inspiring. Everyone I’d met raved about the camel treks on offer here; having been on a camel once before and having sworn I’d never get on the back of a camel again, I remained unconvinced. However, with time on my side I thought that I might as well give it one more go by heading out on a half day tour. The LP warned that the half day tour was touristy and that rubbish was a bit of a problem so I set off expecting the worst.

The tour started badly. I’d asked for a group tour so that I could meet other Westerners but I was directed to a car bulging with 8 local men (most sat in the boot area) and one woman. I was squished between two men in the back seat. We set off with the windows down and the guy to my right clearing his throat and gobbing out of the window. At one point, the driver stopped to talk to two people by the side of the road. As he chatted to one of the men, the other picked his nose to great depth in view of all of us then proceeded to wipe his nasal detritus on our car door. As if inspired by this gentleman, the man to my right started to pick his nose as we continued on our journey. He duly flicked what he retrieved down by our feet, opened a packet of crisps and offered me one. I politely declined.

We whizzed along on scrubby desert road towards the Pakistan border, arriving at the camel depot an hour later. Everyone in the car except me was told to pick one of the camels sat by the side of the road. I was summoned by the driver and told to walk further along the road to another group of camels and a group of camel ‘drivers’. I was given a camel which I duly sat on and then clung onto for dear life as it raised itself to its full height. The stirrups meant my knees were positioned up near my ears, my bum ached from the instant we started moving and then the driver encouraged the animal to trot and I almost strained my boobs with the relentless bouncing around. My memories of camel hatred came flooding back! It’s the most uncomfortable and unglorified mode of transport one can find.

We proceeded to make our way through the ‘desert’ which consisted of barbed wire fencing, sand strewn with broken glass bottles and plastic and, young boys persistently pestering you to buy drinks for yourself of your driver. We finally arrived at what can only be described as a rubbish tip but marketed as the ‘Sam sand dunes’. People flock to these pathetic lumps of sand strewn with rubbish to watch the sunset. Much to my relief, it was time to dismount my humped steed. My driver explained that I was to watch the sunset then head to the carpark that was all of 50m away. I tried to express my dismay at the rubbish and explained that one day tourists would stop visiting the dunes because of it, but he just didn’t see it as a problem and simply explained that Indian people dropped it.

I dismounted, tipped the camel driver and then was instantly encircled by young girls and women in full costume jiggling about before me so they could extort money from me, there was a magician trying to show me a trick and the usual gaggle of young boys trying to sell me Coke or Sprite. I couldn’t bring myself to stand, let alone sit amongst all the trash, and the harassment and chafing had taken their toll: I made a swift escape to the carpark.

There I sat waiting for my ride back into town as the sun disappeared behind the clouds taking the sunset with it. I was seriously peeved by the whole experience as anyone who approached me soon found out. I was dismayed by the rubbish and the hassle, and by the fact that whoever I spoke to (camel drivers, taxi drivers, the owners of the stalls in the carpark) just didn’t care about it. It just wasn’t seen as a problem. I was desperate to get back to my hotel but I couldn’t find my driver. I was fed up, aching, lonely and emotional so I did what any girl would do and had a little cry.

My lift back to town dropped me off in an area of town that I didn’t know and then, to top it all off, a usually placid cow decided to try and head butt me with its horns as I made my way back to my hotel. This was the day that India nearly broke me!

Rats to riches

2010-02-22T01:32:00.000-08:00

I’d decided to head to Bikaner primarily in the search of rats; not just any rats, but holy rats. I’d arranged to be picked up by Mosheem who’d agreed to be my rickshaw driver for the day. I’d warmed to him when he’d picked up my business over other rickshaw drivers who were refusing to drop their prices below ‘rip-off’.

The following morning at precisely 9am as promised he arrived at Vinod’s guesthouse (a clean, friendly and very cheap place to stay http://www.vinodesertsafari.com/) and we set of on the 64km round trip to the small town called Desnoek made famous for its truly bizarre rat temple.

According to the Hindus who worship here, the rats are re-incarnations of dead storytellers (it's a long story...read more here) so they deem rats to be sacred. The temple itself is modest in size and style by Hindu standards, but it is its hairy residents that are the real attraction. There are rats everywhere. As you stand barefoot in the temple, the fearless rats scurry and scamper over your feet, clamber across handrails or preen themselves atop shrines. Placed around the temple are large flattened bowls filled with milk where hungry rodents perch with milky moustaches; in other corners rats huddle together stuffing their faces with grain. Surprisingly, the rats aren’t as big or as ugly as one would expect given their daily calorific intake, but the sheer number of them and the slightly overpowering smell of rat pee are a tad off-putting.

Whilst I watched one of the holy men wafting a small tray of candles and incense about one of the shrines to Karni Mata, I watched as a female worshiper knelt down and kissed the floor. It should have been a moving experience watching someone worship their deity but all I could think about were the bacterial, parasitic and viral infections she could contract from kissing a floor contaminated with rat urine and faeces. I guess this particular God/ belief isn’t the one for me!

From Desnoek we headed back into town to visit Lalgarh Palace. Once the home of the Maharajah of Bikaner, it has now been converted to a heritage hotel with a small museum dedicated to the Bikaner Maharajahs and their families. The museum wasn’t overly exciting but there were a fair few photos documenting the lives of the current maharajah and his children. The maharajahs of each of the princely states of Rajasthan, whilst no longer head of state, generally contribute one way or another to their respective communities. This particular maharajah and one of his daughters compete in shooting competitions and have represented India in a number of competitions.

A brief tour of the museum and it was soon time to head to Junagarh – an impressive fort that stands over the city of Bikaner. To visit the fort you have no choice but to have a compulsory guide. I was in a group of locals and the guide was rushing us all in an out of each room giving me only the briefest explanation in English. I trailed behind and eventually managed to ‘lose’ the guide so that I could have a look around at a more leisurely pace.

As I came to the end of my tour I walked passed a man sat on a chair in front of the gift shop. ‘Where you from?’ he asked. ‘Here we go again’, I thought. I muttered ‘England’ and he responded with ‘How does it make you feel?’ I was taken aback by this (the second question is usually ‘You no friend?’) and asked him what he meant. ‘Well there was a time when England was in charge of India. Was that a good thing?’ Hmm a leading question. I explained that I wasn’t sure and that there was no way I could compare what India was like before, during and after British rule. I decided to turn the question back on him: ‘What do you think? Is India better now, since Independence?’ Surprisingly, he lent forward and quietly stated: ‘No, it’s not better’. ‘Let me tell you why’, he continued ‘The British gave us a lot. They built the roads, the railways, the schools. We still use everything the British gave us today.’ I joked we’d also given India cricket and now they use it to beat us every time. He laughed and then admitted he didn’t actually like cricket. It was a fascinating conversation and I was very surprised that a local would outwardly admit to a Brit that they thought British rule hadn’t been such a bad thing after all.

I had one more place to visit: the National Research Institute on Camel. At the institute various research projects are undertaken to find ways of making camel breeding profitable. I arrived to a panoramic vista of 30 camel backsides as they fed. Having a wander around I came across a pen of ‘stud camels’, saw the ‘camel dairy’ and finally came across the ‘project on agro processing and electric generation through camel draught’ (make of it what you will!). At the end of my short but amusing tour, I headed for the small café where it was possible to purchase camel milk, camel ice cream and camel cheese. I bought some pasteurized camel milk to drink: it was very creamy milk but with a definite essence of camel. I’m not sure I’d want it on my cereal for breakfast!

An unfortunate position

2010-02-22T01:19:00.000-08:00

I was catching the night train to Bikaner. Unfortunately, I’d been unable to get First Class or Two Tier tickets so I’d been demoted to Sleeper Class. I’d been nervous about the journey given the horror stories I’d heard but I needn’t have worried: my bunk was in an open compartment with two ladies in their 70s and a middle-aged man who was genuinely friendly and not at all sleezy.

The only downfall was the position of my bunk – it was in the section closest to the toilet and the door that usually separates the compartment and the toilet area was missing. I got on the train at 10:30pm for a 12-hour journey and the air was already thick with ammonia. My only saving grace was that the windows could be opened so by lying down with my face close to an open slit in the window (it was too cold to open it fully) I could get a few gulps of fresh (ish) air.

Ammonia, I’m sad to say, was not the worst of it. You can get used to ammonia and soon your nostrils barely notice it; what I found harder to accept were the sounds – not the sounds of people going to the toilet (the toilets were soundproof) but the sounds associated with the early morning routine undertaken by every member of the carriage at the one sink available which happened to be positioned about 1m from the end of my bed.

As everyone woke the following morning, there was the usual dawn chorus of farts and belching (the women in my section being particularly gifted), which was followed by a steady procession to the sink. Here, each individual took ten minutes at the sink where they cleared their throat and hocked into the sink at least five times, before pressing one nostril in at a time and clearing the contents of their nasal passages. This culminated in them using brown paste smeared on a finger to clean their teeth before a little extra hocking just to make sure their throats were well and truly clear.

This stomach-turning procedure was repeated by each of the 30 people in the carriage. I, meanwhile, had my earphones in and my iPod turned up to max but to no avail. Needless to say, breakfast was well and truly off the menu that morning!

New Delhi

2010-02-22T00:50:00.000-08:00

Karl and Haley had hired a car and a driver for the day and asked whether I’d like to join them: I was more than willing!

We were heading into New Delhi. New Delhi bears little resemblance to what I would call Delhi proper. This is where the other half lives – a place of towering mansions, lush gardens, shopping centres and five-star hotels.

Our first stop was Lakshmi’s temple. Lakshmi is Vishnu’s consort and, as the goddess of wealth, she is a firm favourite of many Hindus who come bearing offerings in the hope of future wealth or success in business. The temple was grand with numerous statues of Vishnu and Lakshmi in various guises, all emblazoned in gold and draped with flower garlands.

Leaving Lakshmi and Vishnu behind, we headed towards the area that housed all the parliamentary buildings. Like stately buildings all over the world, these buildings were an uncharismatic, ostentatious display of wealth far removed from the reality in which the majority of the populace it represents exits. The main parliamentary building bore an uncanny resemblance to Washington DC's Capitol Building, and at the end of the wide boulevard that led up to it was a pseudo Arc de Triomphe. We stopped for the obligatory photos then moved swiftly on to Humayun’s tomb.

Unlike the bland parliamentary buildings, Humayan’s tomb is not only a work or art but a work of love. This Mughal masterpiece preceded the Taj and was commissioned by a woman out of love for her dead husband. The building is a stunning example of Mughal architecture built out of marble with fantastically intricate carving covering the beautiful domed ceiling. It was breathtakingly beautiful and yet is deemed infinitely inferior to the Taj itself.

After lunch in an over-priced, upmarket restaurant riddled with tourists, our final stop of the day was Qutb Minar. Here a giant minaret stands tall surrounded by a complex of historic mosques and grassy areas. Qutb Minar was built in 1193 to celebrate the onset of Islamic rule after the defeat of the last Hindu kingdom in Delhi. The complex of well-kept ruins is great to wander round but is marred by the amount of litter strewn across the lawns. Unlike most of the sites I’ve visited, which are generally very well maintained, at Qutb Minar it seemed that they'd neglected to install dustbins or employ someone to pick up the rubbish. It was a real shame given both the importance and popularity of the complex.

A day in old Delhi

2010-02-22T00:35:00.000-08:00

On my first day in Delhi I decided to walk the 3.5km from my hotel to the Red Fort – a path that led me through an intricate maze of bazaars selling everything from nuts and spices to filthy motorbike parts and stunning handmade wedding invitations. The streets in Delhi are in constant motion, brimming with thousands of people busy making their way through life. Handcarts piled high with hessian sacks of grain are pulled by slender, wiry men; cycle rickshaws laden down with three male passengers struggle to meander through the bustling streets, whilst motorbikes and auto-rickshaws honk their horns and swerve violently in and out of pedestrians and stall holders.

Passing through the spice bazaar, large colourful pyramids of spices are piled high in shop fronts and you’re invited in with the scent of cinnamon and cardamom. Lining the streets, chai wallahs and the owners of food stalls do a roaring trade as people stop briefly to sup on chai and eat – the sweet scent of sugar and oil thick in the air.

A man sits next to a stall and has his hair cut, women chattering and giggling disappear excitedly among swathes of material in glittering sari shops and men sit on beds with shop owners sipping on chai and doing business for the latest mobile phone. Above, a tangle of electricity cords hangs low and gathers at poles in a massive, dangerous knot of wires.

Emerging from the bazaars, you end up on Chandni Chowk – the main shopping street in Delhi that leads to the Red Fort. Glass fronted shops sell plasma TVs, mobile phones and washing machines, there are designer clothes stores and even a McDonalds. This street is the perfect example of India today: a unique juxtaposition between Asian powerhouse and spiritual centre of the world. On this single Westernised street in Delhi, the cultural and spiritual roots of India are still firmly cemented into its foundations. At the end of the road is a mosque, a little way along there’s a Sikh temple, on the opposite side of the road is a Baptist church, then a Hindu temple, culminating with a massive Jain temple that stands directly opposite the Red Fort. Few Western cities could boast such cultural diversity on a single street.

The Red Fort is impressive in its scale but lacking in its content – the rooms inside were stripped of their luxurious treasures long ago, leaving the visitor to meander around the outskirts of the various buildings within the fort wall. My timing was poor. Despite it being a Saturday morning, the place was heaving with school children all dressed in brightly coloured uniforms. And, unfortunately, this made me (single, white female!) the main attraction. I lost count of the number of hands I shook or the times I heard: “Miiiiiss, miiiiiss, photo miss” (they all wanted their photos taken with me). I soon reached my threshold of interaction and was glad to escape!

From the Red Fort, I decided to make my way down to Jama Masjid – the largest mosque in India. At full capacity the mosque can hold a spectacular 25,000 worshippers. As I made my way through the ammonia-ladened air of the open urinals (they are actually official urinals and you see men lined up there peeing against a nominated pee wall at the side of the street), and through stalls selling leather goods and food, I got chatting to Karl and Haley – an American ‘couple’…or so I thought (it was only the following day that I discovered they were actually just friends).

They very kindly invited me to join them for the afternoon and I jumped at the chance: it had been over 4 days since I’d spoken to anyone who spoke fluent English and it was bliss not to have to resort to international sign language for a while.

The mosque is truly majestic, dominating the surrounding area with its domed roof and minarets carving its defining silhouette. Unfortunately, the majesty of the building itself was not quite replicated by the men who managed it. Haley and I were given a hard time of it for being ‘inappropriately dressed’ – in spite of the full length jeans and long sleeved tops we were wearing – and were aggressively handed weird gowns to wear. The men then grabbed our bags and started to rifle through them demanding 200R to take photos (extortionate in India where you usually pay a maximum of 50R for the privilege) so we gave our cameras to Karl to look after.

A young boy came up to us and starting speaking to us in English. He was very sweet and told us all about his mosque. He suggested that we went up one of the towers (at an additional cost!) but the sign saying ‘All women must be accompanied’ soon put an end to that consideration. In the corner of the courtyard behind a grille – with an uncanny resemblance to a cage – was the women’s prayer room, whilst the men were allowed in to prey in the ornate main building. As we wandered about having a look round, a man walked up to us and shouted at us angrily saying ‘prayer now, you go, you go!’ and jabbing his finger towards the exit. With that we’d had enough and were happy to leave.

This experience felt very much at odds with India as a whole. On my wanders around towns and cities, I’ve always popped my head in to have a look at temples (Buddhist, Jain, Sikh or Hindu) or churches and I’ve always felt very welcome; at the mosque, I felt like an unwelcome intruder. It was really dispiriting to be treated with such contempt not just because of my differing beliefs but also because of my sex. It certainly wasn’t a particularly engaging or welcoming introduction to Islam.

We spent the rest of the afternoon winding our way through the tiny maze of alleyways in the area absorbing the innumerable sights: a man sat on a stone step, a goat beside him with its neck slit and bleeding; a live chicken stood atop a pile of ‘freshly’ prepared chicken pieces; metal workers hammering aluminium and copper into the shape of bowls; a kitsch statue of a Hindu god draped with marigolds and fragranced with incense; and a small girl squatting to pee into the open sewer running along the length of the alleyway.

Haley, Karl and I arranged to meet the following day and I walked with them to their hotel before setting off back towards mine. My plan was to pick up a cycle rickshaw to save having to walk all the way back but, as is often the case in India, my plan fell through.

I found myself back on Chandni Chowk but instead of the chaos of two lanes of cycle rickshaws, cars and buses, the road was roped off with police turning cars back at every junction. People lined the pavements, waiting in anticipation for what turned out to be a religious procession. The noise – it was in no way music – was tremendous. Two marching bands in dramatically colourful regalia marched one behind the other. Both were attempting to play different ‘tunes’ and outcompete each other in the volume and out-of-tune stakes. Rather like Indian driving, these musicians insisted on playing their instruments at full pelt with little regard for what the other members of the ‘band’ were playing. The result was a cataclysmic collision of sound that played havoc with eardrums; nevertheless, the locals were enthralled.

Mid way through the procession was a carriage of holy men in bright pink turbans. They handed out alms of food and the locals flocked to receive it. At the back of the carriage was a golden statue seated in a silver throne bearing lions. More ‘musical’ entertainment and flag bearing individuals followed the carriage. The procession slowly made its way down the street whilst at each junction, chaos ensued as cars, motorbikes, rickshaws and handcarts were all attempting simultaneously u-turn whilst ever more vehicles joined the fray.

I made my way through the packed street until I made it to the other end. Having given up on my chances of getting a rickshaw that could actually move, I stood in a shop doorway and waited the procession out. Finally, the clogged up arteries of Delhi’s roads slowly began to flow once more. I found a rickshaw driver and haggled for a reasonable price (down from 10x local price to 5x) for the remainder of my journey.

It was the first time I’d taken a cycle rickshaw and it will certainly be the last. Unlike the cock-sure, muscular, well-fed rickshaw drivers in London, these rickshaw cyclists reside very near the bottom of the social pile. They are often men who left the countryside in search of a more fruitful existence in Delhi. The work is exceptionally difficult and the money they receive for it less than minimal. Many of the rickshaw cyclists don’t have a home but live in rickshaw communities where a group of cyclists congregate at night and sleep on or under their rickshaws. I found it deeply uncomfortable sitting in a rickshaw whilst a fellow human toiled away, standing his full weight on each peddle in order to get me back to my hotel. As he struggled up a hill, I had a real urge to jump out of the rickshaw and lend a hand but, in truth, I was the least of this man’s worries: I was only a single person (I’d seen entire families being carted around on a single rickshaw) and I was paying well over the odds (enough for two decent feeds). Nevertheless, I didn’t find any enjoyment in the experience.

Delhi

2010-02-22T00:30:00.001-08:00

Delhi is a place that everyone in the world should experience at least once in their lives, even if just for a day. No description, photo or film can do it justice; you need to experience the city with every one of your senses. Only by walking through the streets of Old Delhi can you truly absorb the cacophony of sound, the myriad of scents and the innumerable mind-boggling sights. Only here can you savour the fantastic flavours of food with a thick aftertaste of polluted air, and only by getting lost in the narrow alleyways, caught up in religious processions, nearly mowed down by rickshaws or reached out to by lame old men who pull themselves about on wooden carts can you really feel the city that pulsates with the anguish, joy, suffering and celebration of 14 million people and a thousand cultures.

Goodbye Palolem; hello Delhi!

2010-02-04T08:05:00.000-08:00

Three days in the hippy-dippy touristville of Palolem is more than enough for me. Indian culture here is obliterated by the pizza-choffing, beer-swilling, weed-smoking silly trouser brigade and I’m itching to get back into the thick of things. Despite the stories of harassment, smog and general unpleasantries, I’m secretly looking forward to what Delhi has to offer me.

I dump my rucksack at the side of the road, sit on it, un-stick the sweaty shirt from my back, whip out my book and, in the shade of fat cows grazing on plastic bags, I read as I wait for the bus. Rickshaw drivers congregate, all too keen to tell me that the bus is going to be hours; I have time on my side so I’m happy to wait.

Half an hour later and 25 rupees lighter and I’m sat on the ‘ladies only’ seat on the one-hour bus to Madgoan. Leaving Palolem in a hazy cloud of dust and smoke, we set off at the national speed limit of ‘break-neck’.

As we hurtle through the Goan countryside that I haven’t had chance to explore, I realize just what lies beyond the coco huts of Palolem. The countryside is lush with green fields and banana palms; water stagnates in pools, flows freely in rivers or nurtures crops. Inevitably, locals wash in the pools; further up-stream, men relieve themselves.

We pass by a shambolic concrete block. A sign on the wall advertises the Indian version of the RSPCA; in front of the sign, a man beats a cow with a stick. The stench of stagnant water and the putrid flesh of a dead cow mixes with incense and spicy sweat and hovers about us like a smog that no amount of window-opening manages to dissipate.

On the bus, wailing Indian music blares whilst the conductor, attempting to be heard above the din, hangs out of the bus by his fingertips yelling MADGOOOAAAA, MADGOOOAAAA at the top of his lungs to any unsuspecting passers-by.

We come to an abrupt halt and the bus suddenly fills with the irredescence of saris and the gentle clinking and sparkling of gold bangles. A little old lady is carefully placed in the seat next to me. She is tiny, each limb barely half the size of mine, her leathery skin is blackened by the sun and her wizened face is puckered up into a toothless smile. Life has been hard to her. Dressed in a flimsy nylon sari and clutching at a dirty cloth, she is fragile, vulnerable and utterly beautiful.

Two hours later and we are edging towards the outskirts of town, creeping along the all-too-obvious socioeconomic path. On the furthest reaches of town are makeshift tents: a sea of blue tarpaulin pulled over upright sticks. Here, on patches of no-man’s land and on the edge of the road people eek out an existence under a tarpaulin they call home. From here we pass small square brick homes packed tightly together with tiny alleyways of filth barely separating them. The people who live here are reasonably prosporous in that they have stalls set up along the road selling fruit, spare tyres, cycle helmets, chai…whatever passing drivers are willing to pay for.

The road widens and the small brick homes give way to apartment blocks and glass-windowed shops. There are offices, small park areas, large churches and bus shelters. The middle class live here enjoying the luxuries that the people we’ve just passed merely dream of.

Our journey then leads us down residential streets. Here the houses are set back from the road, showing off their pristine gardens. Each house is brightly painted with intricate balconies adorned with flowers. Large gates open up to long driveways where posh cars pose effortlessly: here the Indian upper-classes live.

My one-hour bus journey takes two hours and I arrive hot and sweaty, just in time to jump on another bus to the airport. From here, it’s a one hour flight to Mumbai, a one-hour wait on the flight for re-fueling, an additional one-hour delay on the Tarmac due to us being at the back of the take-off queue and a two-hour flight to Delhi.

At 11:30pm I step off the plane and into thick reddish smog. My asthmatic lungs automatically tighten, desperate to keep the bad air out, and I can feel a wheeze kicking in before I’ve taken my first breath. What's more I’m still inside the terminal building!

My rucksack arrives and I load it onto a trolley, making sure to attach it in preparation for porter theft. I take a deep breath, keep my fingers crossed that they’ll be a driver waiting on the other side and brace myself for being pounced upon by a motley crew of untrustworthy rickshaw drivers and porters wanting to rip me off.

I walk through into arrivals expecting the worst but I’m left dumbstruck. There is no pouncing or tugging or yelling or porters grabbing my bags. In fact, arrivals is perfectly serene with a handful of drivers trying to find their passengers by waving mis-spelt names about on pieces of paper at all who walk through the arrivals door.

I find my driver and he helps me with my bags. We hop in the car, pay the parking fee, go under the barrier and promptly get stuck in a traffic jam: it’s midnight and there’s a line of lorries all beautifully painted with hand written signs on their behinds asking other roadusers to ‘use horn’. My driver gives up on Tarmac and takes off down the dirt road that has yet to be surfaced, overtaking all the traffic before trying to weasel his way in to the line when the dirt road runs out. Every time he stops at a junction, he opens his door and gobs a stream of phlegm onto the ground.

The traffic clears and we’re free to drive. I notice how clean and modern this area of Delhi is and I’m surprised: no cows walking the streets, no rubbish piles, no pot holes, no stench. This wasn’t what I was expecting at all.

Then we swerve and take a road to the left and suddenly we’re in Old Delhi. The Tarmac disappears and we stumble over massive pot-holes, rubbish piles up, packs of un-loved mangy dogs limp and whimper pathetically, stopping occasionally to scratch fleas, and my nostrils are greeted with a familiar stench. On the makeshift pavements, rickshaw drivers have pulled up their rickshaws for the night. Some sleep on the rickshaw seats; others huddle in blankets just below. For these drivers their rickshaw is everything to them: it’s their business, their home and their only means of survival.

I arrive at Hotel Le Roi exactly 12 hours after I got on my first bus in Palolem. My hotel is just off the main bazaar, in the throng of old Delhi and well away from the sterility of New Delhi. Hotel ‘the king’ as it is called, is posh by my standards and despite being weary and in desperate need of a good bed, I can’t help but drift off into a sleep tinged with guilt at the poverty I’d witnessed in just one day.

An evening stroll with David and Anan

2010-01-27T04:30:00.000-08:00

In the evening, when the day had begun to cool, I decided to take a stroll along the beach. As I walked I was approached by the usual array of trilby-wearing local drug dealers, restaurateurs gently plying for trade and the odd fisherman asking the most frequently asked question: ‘Hello! Where you from?’.

I then got chatting to Anan and David. Initially, I was slightly suspicious and curt with them, but it soon became clear that they were genuinely nice guys who just wanted to chat. David asked about Flintoff: ‘How is Flintoff? Is he a good guy? Is he got good character?’. I had to admit that I neither knew Flintoff personally nor did I know that much about cricket.

It turned out that Anan and David were actors who worked in Bangalore. They explained that it was hard work with 12-hour days. They’d been given 10-days leave and had come to Palolem for a break. After that they were off to Malaysia with work.

When I explained that I worked in advertising, Anan explained his sister worked in media also. She took jobs out in the countryside and was paid 50,000Rs a month which was extremely well paid for India.

I asked them whether they’d been into the sea to which they shook their heads and said no – they don’t swim in the sea because a lot of people get rashes. I couldn’t determine what these rashes were but they were adamant that they only swim in ‘fresh’ water. I decided at that moment that maybe I wouldn’t be swimming in Palolem!

The subject soon turned to why I ‘had no friend’. They were fascinated that I was 29, travelling on my own and not married. I explained that my boyfriend was in New Zealand and, with genuine concern for my age, they asked when we were getting married. I had to explain that in England, marriage wasn’t necessarily a given when you have a boyfriend and that I had to wait until my boyfriend proposed. Confusion washed over their faces…I think they found it all a little overwhelming. Anan explained that he had four sisters and no brothers; ‘They’re hard work’, he explained. They both laughed and said they were happy being bachelors.

Having walked to the end of the beach and back, and found a suitable restaurant with tables right out by the sea, I decided to say my goodbyes. They said goodbye and headed off down the beach.

It’s always refreshing when you travel to meet genuine people who demand nothing of you. Often, you’ll meet people and they’re after something: a relationship, your business, your money, your business for ‘my cousin who owns the best hotel/restaurant around’, to be ‘your friend’, to ‘learn English’, or the plethora of other ways people attempt to derive money or a marriage visa out of you. Whenever you’re chatting to someone, you’re always slightly on edge waiting for the conversation to turn to what it is they want. To be able to have an amiable chat with people and to be able to walk away not feeling done out of something is a truly great experience!

A very touristy Palolem

2010-01-27T04:21:00.000-08:00

Palolem is touted as the best beach in Goa; for some, it’s one of the best beaches in the world. I must admit that I’ve been incredibly spoilt in life and spent time on beaches in the Caribbean, and Palolem, in my mind, just doesn’t quite compare.

When I arrived on the main road of the street leading down to the beach, the first thing I noticed was the usual rubbish strewn about the place. There were small piles hidden between buildings and an array of plastic bags and bottles carelessly flung out among the palm trees. The beach itself (given the sheer number of beach huts lining it) is reasonably clean and is given a once over every morning during peak season, but during the rest of the year it is often left accumulate rubbish (according to the LP). It’s a real shame that a state so dependent on tourism as Goa is, hasn’t got round to cleaning up its act.

In fact, sat in one of the restaurants on the beach edge, I watched as the Indian man sat next to me proceeded to wipe away the sweat from his face, arms and legs with napkins and, without a second thought, throw the napkins onto the beach. My anger got the better of me and I turned to stare at him and loudly said ‘Do you have no pride in your country? It’s disgusting that you throw rubbish onto the beach.’ One of his friends translated and they all burst out laughing – such is the maturity of some of the guys here. It is blindingly obvious that there is a real need for education to alter the habits of people here in order to protect the environment. Palolem has the potential to be stunning but the rubbish issue clearly lets it down.

On a positive note, Palolem does offer some much needed respite for weary travelers, especially for those heading down from frenetic north India. It is completely westernized with bars selling burgers and chips, roast dinners, pizza and pasta. If you’ve been eating curry three times a day for a month, it can provide a much needed break.

Whilst Palolem is the most expensive place I’ve been to in India, it’s still cheap compared to anywhere else in the world and offers people sun, sea and sand at a fraction of the cost of, for example, the Spanish coast.

Palolem also seems to attract yoga/hippie types so the place has a very relaxed feel about it – partly because many people are stoned for much of the day. Get up early and you see people walking with their yoga mats under their arms as they return from an early morning yoga/meditation session.

In fact, where I’m staying you can have introductory Hatha yoga lessons. I watched as a couple took part in the square of sand in front of our huts. Laying their towels out and placing incense sticks in the ground at four corners, they began their yoga stretches led by an overweight, white guy. There was something rather amusing watching a flabby, white, middle-aged, British guy with no top on lead a yoga class: for some reason, I’d always expected yoga teachers to have svelte, vegan-esque type bodies.

Onion bhajis, very little sleep and a rickshaw full of weed-smoking Israelis

2010-01-27T04:10:00.000-08:00

At 2pm I found my seat in Tier 2A of the sleeper train to Goa. It was a 15-hour journey but I had my blog, a handful of postcards and a very big book (Shantaram – the cheesy choice of book to read whilst travelling round India!) to keep me occupied.

Plying the corridors of the train were chai wallahs, coffee wallahs and a range of different food wallahs – employees of the train company – who walked up and down calling out and selling their wares. It’s a very effective system. Unlike the UK where you either walk to the buffet carriage or see one person whizz past you with a snack trolley, here you could literally eat and drink your way through 15-hours straight. Coffee, tea, onion bhajis, cheese sandwiches, cold drinks are available to you constantly throughout the journey up until about 9pm when the wallahs leave you in peace to sleep.

At about 5pm, a man comes through the carriage asking whether you'd like dinner and offers you the choice of three or four dishes for 50Rs. A couple of hours later, and your meal arrives in a small takeaway container. I had hot chapattis and a vegetable and paneer dish to go with it. The food was piping hot and arrived at your seat for you to get stuck in to. A damn good service – Network Rail take note!

After the 15-hour journey, I stood bleary eyed outside Madgoan station. It was 5.30am. Taxi drivers, rickshaw drivers and motorbike drivers were all touting for business. I saw the pre-paid taxi rank – it was going to cost me 600Rs to get to Palolem. I wasn’t too keen to pay that much so I decided to think about it. There were a few other small groups of tourists hanging about so it was pretty safe so I did what anyone would do: I put my bags down and bought chai whilst I pondered my options.

Whilst taking my time drinking my chai, I'd noticed a group of guys who looked like Israelis stood in a small group. (It wasn’t that much of a guess – thousands of Israelis travel through India each year as it’s one of the few places they can travel easily on an Israeli passport. Chatting to one of the guys later on, he put the number at 20,000 at any one time).

I headed over and asked whether they too were heading to Palolem and whether they’d be keen to share a taxi. I was in luck! They were, and whilst they were considering taking a bus, my offer to add an extra body into the equation of the cost of a taxi perked their interest. One of them jogged over to a rickshaw van driver and came back to announce that we could get to Palolem for 100Rs each.

The rickshaw van was like a small van: it was fully enclosed with two benches facing one another. Piling up our large rucksacks into the passenger seat next to the driver, we hopped in the back with some of our day sacks. Surprisingly, it managed to fit the five of us in the back quite comfortably, which was just as well as we had a 1 hour drive ahead of us. The guys were very friendly (we did exchange names but for the life of me I can only remember Raff) and we chatted for a little while before the tiredness took over and I busied myself looking out the window as they chatted in Hebrew.

No sooner had we got started (by now it was 6am) than out of a day sack came a piece of paper, a little sachet of weed, a cigarette and a roll up. By the light of a mobile phone, with one of them holding the folded paper in a v-shape, I watched one of the guys adeptly roll up a spliff. Given that we were in a rickshaw and it was dark, it was an admirable feat!

Opening one of the windows – despite there being a breeze rushing through the van anyway – they sat and smoked their breakfast spliff, kindly offering me some in the process. I declined as, even if I was a smoker, I felt 6am was a tad early to be getting stoned!

After a long one-hour journey, punctuated by our driver clearing his throat and gobbing out of the window at regular intervals, we arrived at the beach resort of Palolem. I didn’t have any accommodation booked and hadn’t been looking forward to trailing up and down the beach with my large rucksack. The Israelis were great though, two of them offering to look after my bag with theirs, whilst I went with the other two to find rooms.

It was just as well they did look after my bag as it took us a good hour walking up and down the beach to find anywhere with room. The beach is a long strand of yellowy sand with a palm-fringed boarder in which wooden huts of varying size, colour and quality had been built. The few places we found were charging 1,000Rs a night – double what I’d been paying for accommodation elsewhere. The boys finally found a place that suited them housing all four of them for 600Rs. I didn’t particularly like the beach hut set up there (the huts looked particularly shoddy) so I decided to carry on. The boys very kindly offered to continue to help me look, which was very kind of them and very much above the call of duty. Shortly after, we came across Presleys – a restaurant and bar with a few beach huts set out in a small, sandy square. The area was clean, the hut was clean, there were a few piglets and chickens running around and they were only charging 500Rs: I went for it.

On our way back to the others looking after our bags, the two guys who were with me stopped to read a sign in Hebrew. I asked what it said and they explained that in most towns or touristy areas in India, there’s a Jew House and the sign was welcoming them to the house in Palolem. The house is not a synagogue but a place where Jews can meet, get to know one another and enjoy a Friday evening meal together. They explained that when they had travelled to one town and couldn’t find accommodation anywhere, all four of them had stayed in the Jew house overnight. It seemed like a pretty good idea to me! Unfortunately, the closest sense of community us Brits have in Palolem is The Smugglers – an English pub serving everything from Yorkshire puds to bangers and mash!

An introduction to the Indian postal service

2010-01-27T04:06:00.000-08:00

I finally arrived at Prem’s a little bedraggled after my bus journey from Munnar. I’d decided that that afternoon I’d pick up a few souvenirs and lighten the load of my rucksack slightly, by sending a box of stuff home. I spent the next few hours doing deals with various stores selling a massive array of silk items and carpets. I was in a touristy area so it was obviously overpriced but as I had a window of opportunity to send stuff home, I thought I might as well take it and pay over the odds. After a lot of haggling I managed to come away with various silk table placemats, some cushion covers and a random patchwork piece that I’ve yet to decide what to do with.

The following morning I picked up some spices, packed my box and joined the hustle and bustle of the Indian post office system. Fortunately, Prem had forewarned me that I needed to get my parcel covered in material by a tailor beforehand, which I’d duly arranged. The tailor sewed material around the box and then placed a wax seal all down the seams to ensure no one tampered with it.

I arrived at the Post Office and stood in the parcel / speed posting queue. The man behind of the counter had decided long ago that life wasn’t worth rushing so he took his time with every item. The other ladies behind the counter sat twiddling their thumbs and directed everyone who came in towards the parcel queue. In front of me was a tourist who was also sending a box. As I stood behind him in typical Brit style, a couple of local guys came in and just walked to the front of the queue hanging over the tourist’s shoulders to try and get served. The tourist turned to one guy who was being particularly persistent and broadcast loudly that I was next in line.

As the tourist was about to finish being served, I positioned myself in such a way that as soon as he moved I had my box on the counter blocking the persistent queue jumper. I was about to be served when Mr Persistent started trying to wave paperwork in front of the counter guy. A very loud ‘Excuse me. Do you mind? It’s my turned to be served’ soon put him in his place and he shrunk away and stood and waited in line with everyone else.

Whilst I appreciate that queuing is not part of Indian culture, it can be infuriatingly annoying – especially as a female travelling alone as people feel they can get away with brushing you to one side. Rule number 1 in India: always stand your ground!

Silly trousers

2010-01-27T04:04:00.000-08:00

When tourists arrive in India, it appears that instinct draws them immediately towards oversized, garishy patterned, hippy-esque trousers with the crotch down by the knees. It would be understandable if they were trying to fit in with local Indian style but, no, locals most definitely don’t wear them. The result is a bunch of tourists wandering about India looking like complete and utter wallies. I wonder what the locals must think of us!

A little too much vomit for my liking

2010-01-27T01:49:00.000-08:00

It was time to leave Munnar behind and head back down to Fort Cochin for the evening before getting a train to Goa. A four-hour bus ride down through the mountains cost me 75Rs – about £1.

The bus was virtually empty when I got on. With the help of the conducter I managed to manoevre my oversized rucksack down into a little area next to the driver. From there I took a place next to the window on one of the bench seats that seats three people. Behind me was an Indian lady who was also sat on her own.

The windows had metal shutters that could be pulled down or released to expose a windowless window if that makes any sense. Basically, if your shutter was up, you were exposed to the elements. It was pretty chilly so I had my shutter down.

We started to make our way down through the mountains at the usual breakneck speed, the only conciliation being that the size of bus meant that physics wouldn’t allow two buses to pass by one another on the narrow mountain roads so our driver was forced to slow down to a near stop, giving passengers some much needed respite from the constant weaving and swerving along hairpin bends.

I occupied myself by acquainting myself with bus politics. Whenever men got on the bus (and it was mostly men travelling) they would sit anywhere except next to me or the one lady sat behind me. As the bus filled up, I began to feel a bit like a leper. The bus was full to the brim and I had a three-seater bench to myself or, if one or two men did sit on the bench they were very careful to be seen to be sitting as far at the other end away from me as possible. As soon as a seat became free they were up and away from my bench as quickly as they could be. Part way through the journey, a man and his wife boarded. Seating his wife carefully between me and him, I finally had some company on the bench.

My conclusion was that it was obviously deemed impolite for a man to sit next to a woman who wasn’t his better half. Looking around the bus, women naturally sat with one another; it wasn’t anything sinister, that’s just how it happens here…an unspoken rule!

The bus was soon full: not to cattle market standards but every seat was taken and there were a few people standing. Most people had their window shutters open, and for no other reason than for being a tad cold, I still had mine closed. I’d taken my jacket off but had it covering me up to my ck to keep warm as I was still a bit chilly. And what a fortunate thing that was too!

Three guys were sat in front of me and in my daydreams of life, love, the universe I hadn’t really noticed them. Suddenly, as we turned a particularly brutal corner, the guy sat in front of me who was obviously feeling more than a little travel sick, without warning jumped out of his seat and threw up out of the window. This act in itself would not have caused me much distress…had the bus not been moving at full pelt around a corner at the time. As the person sat directly behind him, I was to receive the brunt of what can only be described as ‘splash back’ – the unfortunate result of the vomit + wind equation. Fortunately, I had my shutter down so it was literally just splash back and not complete immersion.

The poor lad, who was clearly looking very green, received a lot verbal heckling from other passengers and a clip round the ear from the guy sat on my bench who stood up for me and his wife who also received a few bits of sick on her sari. My trusty wet wipes were soon out of my bag and the speckles of sick on my jacket (fortunately not on my clothes!) were soon wiped up and balance was once again restored.

No sooner had I got back to daydreaming when the sick guy's mate who was in the middle of the row in front of me jumped up, leant over his sick mate and proceeded to projectile vomit out of the window. I was prepared this time and with the speed of a ninja had my jacket over my face to protect it. And yes, I was the receiver of splash back number two. Again the bus erupted in uproar and the poor lad was grabbed by the scruff of the neck and dragged to the far back corner of the bus where he could vomit without causing anyone any problems.

Meanwhile, sick boy number one was still having a torrid time of it. He continued to throw up, receiving abuse and smacks from all angles. I had my sick shield action down to a tea and all I can say is thank God for wet wipes!!

Once we were off the mountains peace was restored and the boys’ stomachs obviously calmed down. The husband and wife got off the bus and a woman with a young child got on and promptly sat next to me. Whilst the bus was going full pelt, stopping and starting erratically, this woman was able to breastfeed her child. I was absolutely astounded at how she managed to feed whilst gripping onto the back of the chair in front as we swung violently around corners. Talk about feeding on demand! India will never cease to amaze me.

TV India style

2010-01-27T01:40:00.000-08:00

The couple of times I’ve had TV in my room I’ve had a good look and I’ve decided that Indian TV is truly fascinating. Bar the news channels and the Discovery channel (which became my TV saviour), the majority of Indian TV takes the form of loud musical romance films with flamboyant, overweight, mustachioed male leads who sporadically burst into song and dance routines mid-conversation surrounded by beautiful women in glitzy saris. There is usually a couple of arguments to be had, some making up to do and then, inevitably, part way through the film, someone dies, resulting in copious melodramatic crying and wailing before balance is restored and everyone sings and dances once more.

The advertising – something I check out wherever I go – is also interesting. In the UK the likes of Dove and Garnier sell fake tan; in India, they sell skin lightening products. Every other ad on TV is focused on skin lightening – pale skin being a status symbol over here. The premise is that the lighter your skin, the less likely it is that you work out in the fields in the blazing sun thus you must be relatively wealthy either not needing to work at all or working in a higher-paid office environment.

Private medical insurance also makes up a large proportion of ads. Either there is no public health system or the ads reflect the inadequacies in such a system. Those who can afford it obviously opt to go private, thus private medical insurance becomes a heavily marketed product with companies competing hard for business. On a single channel (Discovery Channel!), I must have seen at least 10 different companies touting their medical insurance policies.

Other than that, it’s hair oil or shampoo containing hair oil and paint containing Teflon. :).

Christianity India style

2010-01-27T01:19:00.000-08:00

Religion is a seriously big deal in India, and it doesn’t matter what religion you are, India will cater for you. And unlike the more sedate, subtle appreciation of religion we have in most of the West (bar maybe some of the fanatical Christians in the US), in India, religion is a vociferous, colourful and often slightly garish affair.

Take the Christian churches I came across in Munnar. On the hill was the Roman Catholic church – a large stately building looking down over the whole town. Down below, at the base of the hill was another Christian church. This church was an outdoor church: a white, fixed cross stood high and proud on a wide pole. Attached to the pole was silver bunting, which created the shape of a makeshift church roof. Beneath the bunting the priest stood.

At night – every night – this church and the RC church at the top of the hill came to life. And it was in no way subtle! The RC church on the hill had neon blue lights that created an outline of the church so that it shone out from the blackness of the night sky like a beacon. Down below, at the more makeshift church, a PA system attached to the roof of a rickshaw was set up. Out of this blared the tinny sound of an electric organ/keyboard and the unfortunate whine of Indian song performed on a very cheap and nasty mic. Small neon lights were hung around the invisible edge of the church and flashed every colour of the neon light colour spectrum.

Out in the street, life came to a halt. Rickshaws came to a firm stop in the middle of the road and people gathered holding candles to hear the sermon boom through the crackling loudspeakers. People had come from everywhere for the service and filled the entire road, frustrating those rickshaw drivers who were still trying to make a few pennies and who insisted on nudging the mass goers out of the way with their front tyre whilst simultaneously pelting their horns.

The following evening I was sat in the garden of Rheinberg Homestay when I nearly jumped out of my skin in fright with the sound of the loudest and, what must have been, the lowest airbourne fireworks I’ve ever heard. Intrigued, I headed down into the town to take a look at what was going on. A large procession was taking place on behalf of St Anthony (I’m not entirely sure why as that’s as much information as I could gather). The street again was filled with people walking in procession and holding candles. At the front, beneath a tarpaulin attached to four poles and held by four people, the priest led the way. Just behind him was a large open-backed truck. On the roof of the driver’s compartment was attached a large gaudy statue of, I guess, St Anthony. The truck was draped in coloured tarpaulin and flowers; a thin string of neon lights also made an appearance. At the back of the truck were (as you’d expect) a PA system blaring religious hymns and a collection of V.I.P’s. Again, traffic frantically wove in and out among the procession goers and yet they continued to walk peacefully with their candles not fearing for their lives whatsoever.

It was a fantastic sight to see, the colour, the culture, the clamour, the character bringing my vision of India very much to life!

On to the foothills of the Western Ghats

2010-01-27T01:02:00.000-08:00

I headed to Munnar – a mountainous town renowned for its tea making. Originally I was planning to head there alone by bus but Mark, Phil and Sam decided to come with me (Walt had lost his passport and had had to fly to Chennai to sort it out!). We went by car on the 4.5 hour journey that took us from sea level to 1,900 metres. Hair-raising would be a bit of an understatement to describe the trip: take typical Indian driving, 3 hours of hairpin bends and a lot of overtaking in an underpowered car and you pretty much get to feel what it’s like to be stood outside those pearly gates.

Whilst Indian road rules – or lack thereof – leave many a westerner utterly bewildered, if you observe it for a while, you begin to notice a certain liquidity that enables cars to keep moving and accidents to be avoided. The horn plays an integral part to driving here: you sound your horn at every corner so that a car coming in the opposite direction knows that you’re there (and most probably on his side of the road as you overtake in a bend) and thus slows down; you sound your horn as you overtake someone so that they know you’re overtaking and move to one side; and you sound your horn as you come up to a junction because the chances are you won’t be stopping and others better be warned. When you get to a junction, there won’t be a traffic light to direct you so it’s first come first served, and if you are turning left or right at that junction, there’s no need to look to see if anyone is coming, you just pull straight out. Anyone driving along the road you’re turning onto will have anticipated you doing that and slowed down to allow you to pull out. From the outside looking in, it looks like utter madness but, in reality, as long as everyone abides by the same set of ideals, the traffic keeps moving and most accidents are avoided…there are a fair few very near misses that keep you on your toes though!

We arrived in Munnar about lunch time and found our way to The Rheinburg Homestay (recommended by an Australian couple who also attended Leelu’s cooking class!). It was slightly more expensive (by £2) than other homestays I’d seen but this was seriously stunning. We had huge rooms, a shower with hot water (very rare!), internet and, as we were perched on the hill side, we had lovely views over the town and the peace and tranquility you get from not being stuck in a town centre. What’s more, we were just a short 2 minute walk down a very steep hill to the town; the only downfall being the very steep walk back up! I was staying here for 4 nights whilst the guys were only there for one night before they headed back to Aus.

We’d just sat down to a beer when Ravi – a rickshaw driver cum tour guide turned up, brochures in hand, to advertise the various activities he could offer us. He was a decent enough chap but he didn’t half go on…especially when we were sat enjoying a beer after our frenetic drive! I agreed to do a trek (primarily because I needed to get some practice in before Nepal) in a couple of days time and that seemed to keep him happy.

That evening and the following morning was very quiet as the guys were beginning to wind down at the end of their holiday and weren’t particularly keen on visiting the area. The following morning, after a long debate on the nature of love (don’t ask!), it was time to say our goodbyes and for Mark, Phil and Sam to head back down through the mountains to begin a 28-hour journey to Australia.

The following morning I got up bright and early and met Sasi – my rickshaw driver for the day. He’d offered to give me a tour of the local sights for half the price the local tour operators were trying to charge me and I gratefully took him up on his offer. His rickshaw was very tidy with photos of the local sights displayed proudly inside. He also showed me with great pride a little book in which he’d collected various opinions from tourists on his services as a tour guide, all of which were very complimentary.

Sasi was a wealth of knowledge on the area. We left early at 8am and headed up into the hills. It was seriously nippy and I regretted not picking up my hat and scarf as I left my room. As we wound our way up the desolated roads free from other rickshaws and tourist buses, it was beautifully peaceful. We made our way up to a large lake that had been created by a dam. At this time in the morning it was perfectly calm with not a ripple in sight; on all sides were blue tinged mountains; rising from the surface, a soft morning mist. I took a few photos but Sasi was even more of a happy snapper than I and insisted on stopping every few metres so that I could take photos of the lake from a slightly different angle.

From the lake we headed passed the ‘Honey Bee Tree’ touted by the tour operators in their list of ‘sights’ that you see on their tour. Unsurprisingly, it was just a tree with a few natural bee hives in it – certainly not worth the money some of the operators were asking for.

After half an hour or so, we turned a bend to be greeted with a panoramic view across the deep valleys below, tea plantations spreading out across the horizon. Again we stopped for the all-important photos with the ultimate Kodak moment of me picking tea. Dropping down into the valley below, we passed bright pink and purple houses in rows, small churches and temples, a school, shops – all the trappings of a village except that this ‘village’ was part of the tea plantation. Sasi explained that the workers who work in the field are paid as little as 120 rupees a day (About £1.25) but in return they get a free house to live in, free medical care, free child care until the child reaches 4, free milk, fruit and eggs for young children and the women get 3-months paid maternity and then are only required to work three or four days a week if they choose.

Labour on the tea plantations is hard. New tea leaves are picked from the bushes every 10 days so as soon as one field is complete, another is ready to be started. During the dry season, the workers work in blistering heat; in the wet season they work through monsoon rains and leeches become a big problem. Mostly women work in the fields. Some use sheers to trim away the new leaves; others have large sacks on their backs to collect the leaves, which are attached to them via a headband strapped across their foreheads. When full of tea leaves, these sacks weigh around 40kg – three quarters the bodyweight of an average size 8/10 woman (of which very few of these women would surpass!). Tea plantations are usually on steep hills so the women are picking tea and carrying the leaves up and down very steep inclines making this particularly back-breaking work. After grape picking for only 4 days, I can fully appreciate the amount of effort it takes to get tea onto our tables. Next time you enjoy a cup of tea with breakfast, it’s worth bearing in mind the work that went into it!

We continued our journey up the mountain to reach a point on the border with Tamil Nadu known as Top Station. On a good day, you get stunning views across the valleys and tea plantations; on a bad day, all you see is a wall of cloud as the mist slowly rises from the valley below. I got there just in time. The clouds were still fairly low in the valleys so I got a stunning view across all the mountains. But as I stood there and watched, the wall of cloud slowly rose, blocking any view I had. For the busloads of tourists who were travelling up the mountain as we headed back down, there would have been little to see.

The following morning at 5am, myself and a NZ/Austrian couple met Ravi – our guide for the morning mountain trek we’d booked. I’d learnt from the day before and was fully prepared with hat and scarf as the three of us were bundled into the back of Ravi’s autorickshaw. Even with the canvas sides that had been Velcroed on, it was pretty nippy.

First stop, a chai shop and some very sweet, very milky tea to start the day. From there, it was a 15-minute drive up into the dark, misty, silent hills to reach the start of the trek.

We started the trek and made it up the first slope in time to watch the sunrise. Sitting on the rockface, we watched as the sun slowly peeped over the horizon. As we watched the orange ball rose, transforming the mountainous horizon from jet black to glorious pink. No sooner had the sun, in all its glory, freed itself from the clutches of the horizon than the eerie reverberations of an air raid siren echoed through the mountains: it was time for the tea plantation workers to start work.

It took us a couple of hours to reach the summit, Ravi insisting on stopping every few metres to tell us about a plant, to point out something in the valley below or to position us for the perfect Kodak moment. Ravi also had a mild obsession with finding Neel Thar – a mountain goat that’s only found in the Munnar region – and spent much of his time looking for them, pointing them out and insisting on taking photos of them with our cameras despite our zooms only achieving the vague outline of brown blobs.

At 8am we reached the summit where Ravi proudly dispayed the most amazing array of fruits for our breakfast: passion fruit, red bananas, green oranges (yep…they’re supposed to be that colour), pineapple and a couple of other fruits that I hadn’t seen or eaten before all made an appearance. Perched high (on the summit of the second highest peak in the area at 2500m) we sat and heartily tucked into the fruit with the mountain and the spectacular view across the valleys below all to ourselves.

Massage, manicure and masala

2010-01-27T00:52:00.000-08:00

Today I decided to treat myself. Having heard a lot about traditional Ayurvedic treatments in India (primarily to cure pain), I decided on a full body massage. Now massage, as many of you will know, is not really my cup of tea, but having had a Thai massage in Thailand, a Turkish massage in Turkey and a massage in an original Roman spa on an island off the coast of Naples, I decided to carry on the trend.

I rocked up at the small house-like clinic and was greeted by an older woman who was the doctor in charge. I was introduced to a younger lady who was to be my masseuse and taken into the massage room where a large, smooth wooden massage table took up much of the space. My masseuse told me to undress so, in true Western style, I stripped down to my bikini, only to be told I needed to take off ALL my clothes. I looked around hopefully for a towel of any description only to be sorely disappointed. I suddenly felt very naked and more than a little self-conscious; it’s not often you find yourself totally butt-naked in front of a complete stranger. She noticed how uncomfortable I was and gave me a small piece of string, which she tied around my waist and from which she draped the tiniest piece of white material to cover my most sacred of areas. I was then told to sit on a plastic stool where I had oil rubbed into my scalp as she massaged my head.

After 5 minutes of a pretty good head massage, I was told to climb onto the wooden massage table and lie on my back. I managed to manoevre myself rather awkwardly onto the already oily table before the little piece of material - my final shred of decency - was duly ripped away and I found myself slip-sliding, utterly naked about the table like frantic beached whale.

For the next hour every bit of my body was pummeled from head to toe; even my eyelids got a massage. My boobs got the full works as did each of my finger and toe joints as each finger and toe was clicked in sequence, much to my dislike. It felt like I was swimming in a sea of oil as the masseuse manoevred me around the table to get me into the right position whilst simultaneously telling me to relax.

After a good 45 minute massage, I was then told that it was time for my steam bath. I was led out of the massage room completely naked with no towel, to the room next door. In this very rustic of rooms was what can only be described as a giant wooden box with a hole through the top. The front was opened up and inside was a plastic stool that I was told to sit on. The only problem was that I was slightly taller than the average Indian so the stool was a little too high and the box slightly too short for me, thus when positioned on my stool I was rather uncomfortably hunched over as my shoulders pressed against the top of the box.

At the back of the box was some sort of mini coal furnace that boiled water, the steam of which was piped into the box. The final effect is a rather uncomfortable steam box in which you sit locked up for a good 15-20minutes.

From the box I was led into a mosquito-infested cold shower to hose myself down. Unfortunately, given the amount of oil used and the number of mosquitoes sharing my shower, a quick wash down with a bit of soap was not enough to remove all the oil so it was soon back to Prem’s for my third shower of the day.

The experience was about as traditional as you can get but was worth every rupee; I left the clinic with a big grin across my face and feeling pretty damn good. That afternoon I decided to continue the pampering process with a pedicure and manicure. It cost me 200 rupees for a luxury pedicure and basic manicure…all of about £3. As someone who hates having to fanny around with nail files etc., having the opportunity to get my nails done at this price was well worth it.

Finally, to complete my day, I’d signed up to do a Keralan cooking course along with my new aussie buddies. Leelu is a veritable institution in Fort Cochin and her cookery classes come well recommended. They are held each day between 10am and 12 and 6pm and 8. You turn up at her home, take your shoes off then take a seat in her kitchen where you are given a board, paper and a pen. Leelu then begins to show you how to cook traditional Keralan dishes. She has a very good set up with a kitchen help who chops and peels the veg and keeps an eye on the dishes that are cooking whilst Leelu prepares others. That evening we were taught how to make a fish masala, a couple of veggie dishes and chapatti. It was a really interesting evening and Leelu certainly knew her stuff: one guy asked how to make mango chutney and she just recounted an exact recipe from the top of her head. As someone who can only really cook to recipe, I was amazed by her ability to recount exact weights and measurements of ingredients of various dishes.

The best part of the evening was the chance to eat what we had cooked. It was truly delicious! Not too hot or spicy, just brimming with flavor. What’s more, I got to eat fish which meant chucking my veggie diet to one side for an evening…it made me realize how much I missed fish and meat and confirmed that I could never be a full-time veggie!

Keralan backwaters

2010-01-27T00:47:00.000-08:00

8am the following morning the divorcees, Sam and I hopped onto a minbus for the one-hour drive towards Alleppey where we, and a handful of others, were to pick up a traditional wooden houseboat for a cruise through the Keralan backwaters.

The backwaters are a palm-fringed network of rivers, canals and lagoons. On the banks, small villages grow spices or have thriving cottage industries in rope making or lime production. The houseboat is powered by two men: one punting, one steering, and it glides peacefully along the tranquil waterways. At times we’d turn off into tiny waterways that only just fitted the boat through and we’d brush past the lush vegetation draping down from the banks. Cutting through the silence every now and then were villagers practicing dance, children splashing about in the water or women washing clothes at the water’s edge.

At lunchtime we stopped for a traditional Keralan lunch. Typically food is served on a banana leaf. Placed in the centre are bread (poori, roti, chapatti or naan) and rice then dollops of various sauces such as dahl (made from lentils), pickles and milk curd are placed around the edge. Using only your right hand, you tear off a piece of bread or round up a small handful of rice before dipping it into one or two of the sauces and attempting to eat it as daintily as possible. Inevitably, food ends up all over the show so I’ve learnt very quickly to always ensure that I have hand wipes to hand before I start eating (it is very difficult to search through your bag for them when your right hand is covered in sauce!)

After lunch, we switched our transportation method to a traditional wooden canoe. Some canoes were large seating 6-8 people, others were smaller seating only 4 or 5. Again, we were punted along through narrow waterways, passing children splashing around in the water and women busy at work. Suddenly, ripping through the silence an autorickshaw with a giant speaker attached to its roof rattling over a bridge, government propaganda blaring out. As soon as it passes, peace and quiet is instantly restored.

We stopped off briefly at a spice village where we were given a short spice tour. Our guide pointed out cinnamon as the bark of a tree, the pepper vines and the fruits that house nutmeg. This was a very similar, yet shorter version of the spice tour I did in Zanzibar.

The Keralan backwaters are undoubtedly very beautiful and probably some of the cleanest water in India (throughout the whole tour I only noticed two shoe soles floating in the water) but having been spoilt with my visit to the Okavango Delta, if I were to recommend one over the other, it would most definitely have to be the Okavango. Nonetheless, the Keralan backwaters have been very well looked after and to see so little rubbish – given the amount in the surrounding area that you drive through to get there – is remarkable and a sign that at least in some places, India has started to do something about its rubbish problem and conserve some of its landscape.

Three men and a teenager

2010-01-27T00:43:00.000-08:00

Mark (Walt), Mark and Phil were middle-aged divorcees from Australia. With them was Sam (17), Phil’s youngest son. The four of them had spent a month travelling through India together and were on the last leg of their journey. They too were staying at Prem’s, and, having met, we spent the next few days together. Much of our time was spent in deep discussion over love, life, the universe, religion, politics and which superpower we would have if we could. They encouraged me, quite rightly, to give up my 48-hour vegetarian status and tuck into some of the amazing seafood on offer, and joined me on the trip through the Keralan backwaters before heading up to Munnar with me for a couple of days.