A beautiful city and a shoddy sand dune

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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.