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 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.
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!
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)
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.
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 SunderPalace 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.
