Varanasi verdict

Delhi, Monday 11 March 2013

So, was it worth the overnight train journey each way to spend a day and a half in the famous Varanasi? Yes, I'd say it was. And I wasn't doing anything else anyway.

What other travellers have told me about Varanasi along the way is that you'll either love it or hate it. Like Agra, I was therefore poised to hate it, foreseeing a bunch of hassle from sadhus and touts of all types. But again, like Agra, I enjoyed my time there, albeit short.

My train from Agra had been due in at 5am, but it was well gone 6am before we pulled into Varanasi Junction station. My initial plan had been to head for the hotel, dump my bag and try to get a sunrise boat ride along the Ganges. Tired from not having had a full night's sleep, though, I was a bit relieved by the delay... I was off the hook, as it were. A group of three French people with whom I'd been on the same bus between Bikaner and Jaisalmer were also on the train, as were an English couple who'd been on the train to Ranthambore. Small world, this tourist trail around Rajasthan and its neighbouring states. One had been allocated the bunk opposite mine, in fact. We said cheerio and good luck on the platform, and I braced myself for the tuk-tuk onslaught on leaving the station. The booth where you can pre-pay and have a fixed rate for your tuk-tuk wasn't open, but the drivers honoured the prices displayed on the booth and took me to my hotel for 90 rupees.

Unfortunately my room wasn't ready yet - I'm sure the current occupants were just turning over for their second sleep - so I sat myself down on the rooftop restaurant to have some breakfast and wait. Feeling a bit red-eyed, I was glad to see a huge mug of ginger masala chai approaching, followed by a lovely banana and chocolate pancake. Despite my unkempt state, I was starting to feel a bit more human again with some food and tea in me. I could have wandered on to the river then, but decided to just chill out for there instead and get a shower when my room was free. There'd be plenty of time for wandering along the ghats.

My room was a tiny single, with a balcony over the street below. It was clean enough and would do the job. I'd intended to treat myself to a nice hotel in Varanasi, with a view out over the Ganges from my room, as it'd be my last hotel night in India. But after investing far too long reading reviews and checking prices while in Agra, I concluded that even the more expensive mid-range hotels still had poor reviews of being dirty and what have you. Availability was low. In the end I decided to just get the cheapest room I could and enjoy the view from a rooftop restaurant instead.

Not long after I arrived, the hotel staff explained that there was a big festival in Varanasi the following day, celebrating the marriage of Shiva, one of the Hindu gods. My heart sank. Not being one for organised fun, festivals, to me, equal hassle - more crowds, harder to get around, fewer hotel rooms available and higher prices. Yes, I'm a contrary type.

My bathroom was the first I'd had that didn't have a sink. But it did have really hot water, and it was good. I'd had no hot water in Agra, so just a cold bucket wash sufficed. I was overdue a proper scrub! Feeling recharged, my next job was to find the Ganges. All along the main stretch of the river where the ghats are, the streets running off it are narrow laneways. Difficult to find your way around, especially for the geographically and memory challenged, such as myself. One of the hotel staff walked with me to the nearest ghat, and, after turning down his kind offers to continue to the first of the burning ghats with me, where the dead are cremated, I set off alone. (Well, with Grover, of course.)

The ghats are flat platforms along the river, with steps running down to the water. All along, people were busy bathing in this holiest of their rivers, which must surely be one of the most polluted waterways on the planet. Meanwhile, sadhus (the Indian holy men who renounce the pleasures of life and dedicate themselves to study, prayer, giving advice, smoking pot and bearing their all) had set up a kind of tent city sprawling along the river. Sitting cross-legged, with what little clothing they were wearing a bright orange, they beckon you in... I suppose to do prayers for you or whatever, in return for a donation. I'm not really sure and I didn't partake. Some were ghostly grey, covered from head to toe in sacred ash. Many were completely naked.

Most people would know Varanasi for the burning ghats, though. Hindus come to Varanasi to die, as they believe it frees you from the cycle of rebirth. Some people wait there many years. I arrived at a burning ghat quite suddenly, and a chanting crowd appeared carrying a body high on a stretcher, covered in colourful cloths. Another arrived shortly after. They took their loved ones down to the river and set the stretcher in the water, each of the mourners taking turns to anoint the body with handfuls of the Ganges water. They didn't stay around to watch the cremation lads begin their task, but filed away leaving their loved ones still immersed in water at the shore.

I sat down a way's back to observe for a while, as other tourists (foreign and domestic) milled past. They hadn't started to burn the bodies when I finally continued on my way, but were building up the funeral pyre. Further along the river, I did subsequently see bodies burning away on the wooden fires.

The whole stretch is just one spectacle after another - the bathers, the cremations, the sadhus, the tourists watching it all and each other, errant cows running around as always, sometimes with a sadhu helping them on their way with a slap on the bum. And the mangiest dogs I've seen anywhere, their backs gnawed raw and their fur worn away in patches by their own teeth and scratching.

It was lunchtime, by this stage. I'd read in the guidebook about a restaurant called the Brown Bread Bakery, some of whose profits support an educational NGO. I decided to give it a try. I tried to follow a trail of old, worn signs painted on the walls here and there, but it took an absolute age for me to finally get there, after asking half of Varanasi for directions. I had a veg curry and chapati - up there with the best I've had in India. Organic ingredients, and just tasting really fresh, and all with a great view over the Ganges from the rooftop.

For dessert, my next mission was to find the Blue Lassi Shop, supposedly a well-known institution in Varanasi. A few people had recommended it to me along the way. Backwards and forwards through the lanes, I arrived back at a junction of paths, with the now-familiar painted signs directing the lost to various hotels and restaurants. I stopped to take a photo of the wall, which I thought was picturesque, with some old bicycles leaning against it. I felt a tug on my rucksack. Some police officers sitting to the side told me no photos. 'Security issues here,' they said. I smiled at one, and said, 'No Pakistanis here, surely!' He smiled back, despite himself, I felt. 'No Pakistan, but security issues,' he repeated, pointing to a surveillance camera surveying the scene, as they do. 'What issues?' I asked, genuinely interested. He smiled, but the conversation was clearly at an end. Searching for the word in English, his colleague said, 'Go aw.. go aw'. And I finished it for him with a laugh. 'Go away! Yes, OK, I'll go away,' I said, shaking his hand. They all namaste'd with a smile as I did as I was told and got lost.

Unfortunately, the trail to the Blue Lassi Shop was to lead me back past them again, and I scuttled by hopefully unnoticed. The streets were full of police or army - it felt like there were more of them than locals or tourists. I never got to the bottom of why they were there in such force. Anyway, I found the holy grail of lassis and sat down to watch the guy make them. He chucked a bunch of curd into a big silver jug, with some sugar and rolled a big up-ended rolling-pin-like thing around and around in it, loosening it into a more milky substance. I'd ordered a chocolate and coconut one, and it came served in a clay cup, with a wooden spoon. I have to say it wasn't as good as others I've had.

Back at the ghats, I whiled away some more time, sitting down at the main boat-ride ghat, and just watching the comings and goings. A young waif of a boy, I suppose about 8 or 9, sat down beside me with an even younger girl in tow. I presumed he was there to beg, but he just seemed happy to chat, as he fed the girl, his sister, some chapati with a bit of pickle or paste on it, taking a few mouthfuls for himself. In my few words of Hindi and his few of English, I established that his dad was dead or gone and his mum was blind. He was from Agra originally. Passing tourists lingered taking photographs of us as we chatted - the stereotypical poor kids, I guess, with their tattered clothes, dirty faces and warm smiles. He has a wisdom about his face that was too old for his years and he had the manner of a parent as he resettled his sister on the concrete alongside him. He asked for nothing, dear help him, and so I gave him a few rupees to buy himself and his sister some food before I went off to find out about a boat ride.

There were rowing boats and longer ones with puttering, smokey motors pootling up and down the river. I definitely wanted a rowing boat, eager to drift up the river at an easy pace, without the noise and stench of diesel. A boat was half full with Indian tourists, sitting at a wooden pier at the ghat. 50 rupees to go up the river a ways and back. I hopped in, an older couple budging up and gesturing for me to sit beside them. A woman appeared on the boat, holding a big flat basket out from her hips. It was full of little trays of flowers with a candle in the centre. 'For good luck,' the older couple said, pointing to others already afloat on the water. What the heck, I thought. I paid my 10 rupees and the woman lit up the candle. The couple beside me were gesturing at my hands and finally got me to understand that I was to set it the little tray on the water with my right hand. So there I was, setting aside my cynicism at any form of mumbo-jumbo, leaning over the edge of a wooden rowing boat, easing the scented offering onto the Ganges. I released it, and took some photos as it floated away. I have to say it was a lovely experience, joining the masses in littering the river.

The boatman chatted in Hindi with the other customers as he rowed, answering their questions about the various ghats and buildings as we went by. I was happy to sit there and let it all wash over me as we drifted along, the sun giving way to the haziness of early evening. It wasn't until I'd got onto the water that I remotely felt I 'got' it, sensed the magnetism of the place. Until then, I'd just viewed it as a riverside spectacle, and I think I'd have gone home with a different view of Varanasi had it not been for the boat ride.

We arrived back at the main ghat just as crowds were gathering for a nightly ceremony. I took up a spot at the edge of the crowd sitting on rows of steps. The best of the show was this one guy associated with it, who was marshalling the crowd. Dear help you if you were milling past and blocked the way, as more and more people tried to find a spot to watch from. He was taking his job very seriously, even to the point of hauling an older woman out of a sitting space she'd hopped into 'illegally'! Finally, a group of five blokes in white stood up at the front, and went through a series of ceremonies, to music, whirling a smouldering brass pot of incense, then a flaming tree of candles. The crowd clapped along, spurred on by the enthusiastic marshal. It went on for a while, and eventually people began to head off, their attention spans and their patience with the pesky, mothy flies exhausted. I'd had enough myself, and started my walk back along the ghats with the crowds, stopping again for a few minutes at an impromptu chanting circle, to enjoy the rhythmic, hypnotic chants.

I somehow remembered most of the way back to my hotel in the darkness, only having to stop and ask one person the way at a junction. I'd a tasty cheese and mushroom omelette and a fruit salad on the rooftop restaurant before retiring. All in all, it'd been a good day.

I'd the luxury of another shower on my second day, checked out, and headed upstairs for breakfast of cornflakes with fruit and nuts, and the obligatory big mug of chai. I felt I should go and see this festival before heading for my train back to Delhi, but couldn't really be bothered. I was spared the trouble... a Japanese man asked the restaurant guy what time it was at, and he got on the phone to a friend. 'It's over,' he said. Phew. I was off the hook again. But he advised me to leave plenty of time to get to the station, as many of the roads were closed due to the procession. Could take two hours, he said.

So, having had my fill of Varanasi the day before, I was happy to head straight to the station rather than try to explore the town any further. If I missed my train, I'd likely miss my flight. It was a chance I wasn't prepared to take. In the end, it only took about 15 minutes by tuk-tuk, although we had to do a bit of a diversion and the roads were certainly very busy. I wound up at the station nearly three hours early, had some lunch in the 'Re-Fresh Food Plaza' on 'Plate Form One' (very apt), and went to my platform to wait. I was quite anxious, as a few other trains came and went. It was getting closer to the time when my train was supposed to come in. Always worried that I might have missed a change of platform announcement, I asked a few people. Some young chaps said it was platform 9. I checked with a woman coming out of the waiting room, and she assured me she was taking the same Delhi train and it was this platform.

A minute later, an announcement confirmed I was in the right place. This was one train I couldn't afford to miss. And so, it was with relief that I plopped onto my berth when the train finally arrived... back to Delhi, to where it all began, looking forward to ambling about for the day and feeling ready to return to Blighty.

Awful Agra?

Varanasi

Everyone I've spoken to about Agra has said just go and see the Taj, maybe the fort, and then get out of there. So I wasn't really relishing the expected hassle onslaught. But, as often happens, my expectations were so low that I ended up enjoying my day and three-quarters there. It was well after 10am when I got to my hotel after the train journey from Ranthambore. By the time I had a hot choc and went to bed it was after 11 and the 5.15am alarm call was already seeming quite close. I was at the ticket window by 5.45am, about fourth in line. I understood from various sources that it opened at 5.30 so you could see daybreak over the palace. But no. By 6.15 we were still standing there, muttering among ourselves that we could have had a lie in. Finally, about five minutes after that, they opened the hatch and the game was on. But it came unhinged after the first two people were served. The ticket lot had no change, and an American woman in front of me paid 1000 rupees instead of the 750 due, with a promise she could come back later and get her change. But nowt in writing. I was in the same boat, with just two 500 rupee notes. They wouldn't sell me a ticket. How can you not have change available, I asked, more rhetorically than to get any kind of answer. What could I do? By now there was a big queue and if I went off to find an ATM and joined the back I'd never be in my lunchtime, never mind sunrise. I told the next lot in the queue what was going on, and while I was remonstrating I noticed the audioguide window. Maybe they could break 500 for me when I rented the guide. They did, but were 100 short of change and wrote on my chit that I was due it. I'd get it when I picked up the guide inside the palace complex. Happily, the people in the queue let me back in and I finally had my ticket. But they still hadn't started letting people in. It was fully light by now but the sun wasn't up yet. A govt guide hoping I'd hire him helpfully reminded me to pick up my free bottle of water and shoe covers, and I went up the road for a quick masala chai and then joined the women's line waiting to go in. Different queues for men and women. Before too much longer, they started letting us in, to have our bags and persons searched, and I was through. Despite all the faff, the sun had yet to touch the Taj Mahal. I would see this wondrous event after all. Turning into the courtyard and towards the big sandstone entrance gate into the gardens in which the tomb sits, it was a thrill to catch my first glimpse of it. I took some quick snaps and then joined a huddle of people in pole position front and centre, waiting for the big moment. There was some serious jostling going on, and one American man with two cameras mounted on a tripod finally had to point out that he had a permit to shoot and had to persuade one particularly resistant guy to get out of the way. I was standing slightly off centre, wondering why I was bothering at all with my wee compact camera. I said to the poor Indian guy trying to sort it out that all this is a bit ironic given the Taj Mahal is a monument to love. He laughed and then beckoned me into a decent spot. The sound of digital shutters snapping was all around. One guy complained that the man beside me was occupying a prime slot but wasn't shooting. He kneeled down out of the way, but in doing so nudged another fella, who in turn hit the permit guy's tripod. "No!" he protested, in frustration. "No, you cannot touch the tripod, Dude. Now I gotta start all over again." At last the sun rose high enough in the sky for its rays to lightly begin to lick the white marble of the tomb. As the minutes wore on, it took on a white sheen where the sun's touch was felt. Then I began to wonder when it'd have that lovely pink glow you often see in pics. I stead, it was just gradually getting whiter. Hmmm. his wasn't what I had in mind at all. I extricated myself from the snapping pack and went off to get my audioguide. The gal issuing them said I'd get my 100 rupees back where I'd paid initially. I was beginning to feel I'd been had, especially after the gal tried to hide my chit under her register book. Anyway, I set off back into the grounds at a more relaxed pace this time. In the end, I found the Taj Mahal so familiar from all the footage and photos I've seen that it was almost as if I'd been there before. As sublime as it is, it wasnt ultimately as fascinating to me as the forts and palaces I've rambled through and explored. The building itself consists of a small central chamber where the fake tombs of Mumtaz and her supposedly adoring husband are. Their actual bodies are in a chamber below, which you can't visit. There's an outer walkway around the tomb chamber, which you go round and find yourself at the back door, and that's it. I was also disgruntled at the sentiment behind the building. The emperor built it in memory of one of his wives, who died after giving birth to their 12th or somesuch child. If he hadn't turned the woman inside out he'd have saved himself the lavish grief-ridden building project. With my Western modern-day women's empowerment head on, I had no sympathy. It's always the men who beat their wives up and run about with other women who buy the biggest bunches of flowers, isn't it. No, I wasn't having any of it. I spent a few hours in the grounds, taking my time and enjoying the audio commentary, while wondering if I'd get my 100 rupees. Was this another scam? The old no-change-Madam-come-back-later trick? Heads would roll, I decided. Even the glory of the Taj Mahal couldn't silence my conspiracy theory paranoia. When I came back out, I got my 100 rupees - ironically from Miss Slip the Chit Under the Book, who was now back at the outer audioguide window. In the afternoon, I walked to the fort, about a km from the Taj Mahal, through the bazaar and then a park, albeit along a busy road. Camel carts, tuk-tuks, horse traps and cycle rickshaws were ferrying people between the two sights, or the various bus and train stations. I really enjoyed wandering around the fort, again with my audioguide to my ear - apart from a shockingly persistent bunch of cretins dressed like pimps who wouldn't take no for an answer when I refused to get involved in having my picture taken with the pack of them. In the evening there was the prospect of a Taj view from a rooftop restaurant but when I sat down you could see nothing. Turns out they don't illuminate it at night. I spent the next day at my hotel, just chilling out and writing a few letters, with an impromptu cookery lesson from the cook. So, all in all, an enjoyable couple of days where I'd expected the opposite.

Paw prints

Sawai Madhopur, Wednesday 6 March 2013

So far, I've managed to avoid getting eaten by any of India's wildlife (including the human variety - although I do feel kind of fleeced, stripped bare of my rich foreign flesh!), on my various treks and safaris. There have been some species that I'd like to have seen less of and others that proved too elusive.

I was quite happy not to have encountered any of the wildlife that fills the Mount Abu hillsides. A run-in with a leopard, panther or sloth bear isn't what you want, really. I think the two day treks I did in Mount Abu were probably the first I've done where there are serious animals like that milling around, and it does keep you on your toes. When you're walking along and you hear something big moving around in the bushes not far from you, it does spike your adrenalin a bit. Straining to see what it might be, it's often a relief when it turns out to be a monkey winging its way around the trees. I did see a variety of paw prints and poo, though, which the guides I was with took a stab at identifying... leopard and bear were clearly not too far away.

I found the landscape really interesting in Mount Abu. It was great walking... good dusty, dry dirt trails and plenty to look at, whether open vistas or the nearby valleys and vegetation... the kind of thing we don't see too much of in the Lake District... mango trees, cactus-type plants, aguave. It was a curious mixture of desert flora and forest.

We wandered through a few villages on the trek with Charles, Walter, Eddy and the Canadians, which I wrote about before. Eddy was a keen photographer, and, where I would have been shy about taking pics of the villagers, Eddy, being Indian and more easily able to smooth the way, got stuck in. And the villagers loved it. He and I spent a good ten minutes in one village, photographing the locals, who arranged themselves  into group after group, asking for more and more photos. They enjoyed seeing the results instantly on the screens of our digital cameras. 

The villages were pretty remote. If you went for a few groceries and forgot something, it'd be a long way back! No nipping down to the corner shop for them. Reaching the farthermost end of the Mount Abu plateau, we dropped down onto a large terraced area below, home to a self-sustaining village. Being so remote, they grow everything they need and have developed other ways of doing things, like cooking in water instead of oil. One of the villagers helloed to Charles as we stood overlooking their green, irrigated terraces, full of crops. They invited us to stop for a drink. We got more than that.

Working our way round their fields, which I noticed including the odd hemp plant amidst the crops, we arrived in front of one of the huts. We pulled our shoes off, and ducked low into the darkness, our eyes taking time to adjust to the inside - all except Eddy who was busy outside taking photos. When he pointed his lens into the hut, however, he was told no pics inside. Sitting by the wall opposite the doorway was a sadhu - bare chested and otherwise clothed in the trademark orange. He chatted jovially with Charles and the other Hindi speakers, while he pulled some dried hemp out of a small pouch. Dropping some water on it, he rolled it in his palm, mixed it with some tobacco and packed it into a small straight pipe. I was reminded of Bruce Parry in one of his 'Tribe' adventures, getting involved in the most bizarre rituals as he sampled tribal life in some far-flung corner of the world. Would I be expected to smoke this thing or risk mortally offending half the village? Well, offended they'd have to be, because there was no way I was partaking. I'm insane enough without adding a drug habit into the bargain.

But he offered the pipe round in a casual way, and one of the Canadians gave it a try, passing it back. No one else took up the kind offer. Charles later told us that some sadhus might smoke maybe 15 times a day. It's strange to my Western view... for us, being a religious devotee generally means the exact opposite of smoking your brains out all day. 

I wasn't turning away the other thing that was offered round, though. It was a delicious bowl of kheer (rice pudding).  

The hut was made of mud bricks, I assume, and was plastered inside in mud. But it was cleverly done, with alcoves set into the walls for shelving. A pit beside the sadhu was apparently where they'd cook in winter. There were a few beds set out inside, with people lying on them. I'm always struck by how simple life can be. No need for a huge sprawling complex with ensuite bathrooms here!

After half an hour or so, we came back out into the sunshine, and Walter almost immediately doubled up with the pain of a badly cramped calf muscle. There wasn't much we could do for him but tell him to stretch it that way or this, and offer him some Ibuprofen. It eased off after a bit, and we began our long descent to the plains below.

On the next Mount Abu trek, there was just me and Ashok, son of the owner of my hotel. That being the case, he threw his leg over his motorbike and motioned for me to get on. No need for a taxi this time. But this is the one thing you don't do abroad... riding around on motorbikes with no helmets let alone any other protective gear. According to the NHS information I got with my vaccinations, more Brits come acropper abroad because of road accidents than anything else. Against my better judgement, I got on. It was a 3km ride to the start of our walk, so I just crossed my fingers and hoped for the best... after asking him to be careful. Our trek was in the Mount Abu sanctuary (park), and after paying the entrance fee, we walked up the road for a few minutes, before Ashok hopped up onto the side of a huge boulder, sitting down on top.

We looked out at the forested hills before us. He pointed out some birds to me, and explained that we would sit for a bit and watch, because he'd often be able to spot some wildlife up on the hillsides. No one was coming out to play, though, except the ubiquitous monkeys, rattling through the treetops, the branches waving frantically in their wake. We rejoined the trail, and Ashok found a big-cat print on the ground. Perhaps a leopard heading downhill for an easy meal in a village the evening before. 

We followed the trail up to a lake called Trevor's Tank, where we stood in a viewing pagoda to have a look. Ashok asked for my camera, framed a shot, zoomed in, flicked it to play and  handed it back to me. To my disbelief there were two crocodiles perfectly pictured. I looked out again at the lake, laughing at his experienced eye. He pointed them out to me across on the far shore, sunbathing on a rock.

Resuming the trail, we wound our way up above the tank, and, on a concrete viewing platform, stood scouring the hills for half an hour or so, with eagles circling overhead in the distance. At one point, the path narrowed with dense bushes and trees on either side. Rustling from the thicket. We stopped. Ashok was all ears, watching. Probably a monkey. We passed on. I was just thinking I was glad it hadn't been a bear, when Ashok told me this was where Charles was attacked by a sloth bear while out trekking with a French couple. He'd told me about it. The bear had suddenly appeared onto the path from the bushes, and Charles said he knew he was in real trouble when her two cubs appeared. That's when they're at their most aggressive. The bear attacked the French woman, while Charles did his best to scare it off, hitting it on the nose with his stick. It made off eventually, but not before leaving her with a gash on her hand that needed 20-odd stitches.

I had another wilderness experience today, on a safari here in Ranthambore National Park. By the time I was on the cantor (the open-topped bus type of thing that drove us round inside the park), I was already feeling a bit fed up. Organising it had been a complete faff. For such a popular tourist thing in Rajasthan, I couldn't find much detailed information online about it. When I did some research while I was in Jaipur, I saw that you could book online directly with the government agency that runs the park, and that's what I did. I figured it must be cheaper than going through some agency. So, I had my print-off confirming my booking, but read on it that I had to turn up at the Forest Booking Centre at least 45 minutes before departure, to collect a boarding pass and pay a vehicle rent and guide fee. An inexplicable added layer of bureaucracy. To make things worse, I couldn't anywhere find the opening hours for the centre. I tried a few different phone numbers that I came across online, was given another number, which nobody answered. In the end, I decided to go the day before and try and sort it out, because I'd read online that it's a mad scrum at the centre in the mornings, with people trying to book seats for that day's safaris. 

So, arriving at the centre around 2pm, I got in the very short queue, only to be told you couldn't get your boarding pass the day before. Come back at 5am. It was later explained to me that at the close of their business day, they sort out all the bookings they've had for the following day and organise which tourists will be on which jeeps and cantors. That's why you can't do it the day before. 

This meant I'd have a ten-minute walk in the pitch darkness from my hotel to the booking centre, at 4.45am, with who knew what animals (human and otherwise) wandering about, and then have to engage in some scrum to get served. Great. The thought of it all wasn't exactly conducive to a relaxing evening (along with some other issues at my hotel, which I'll get to).

I was first in the queue at 5am, waiting for the office to open, which wasn't until 5.30am. I was prepared to draw blood from anybody who attempted to jostle me out of my place! I'm not a morning person. It turned out that most of the fellas hanging around were drivers of the jeeps and cantors, and guides, just trying to establish what vehicle they were on. They shouted through the window from beside me, but no one tried to push in in front. A few minutes after 5.30am, after an inordinate amount of form filling going on inside, the official took my paperwork, tried to tell me my passport number didn't match that on the booking form, finally handed me the prized boarding pass, and pointed out the number of the cantor I'd be on. It would pick me up there, at the booking office. 

At last, there was time for a cup of tea at the stall next door, which was open early to serve all the drivers, guides and the people hired by hotels to come and get the boarding passes. Yes, this is what I should have done. I should have called one of the hotels in the first place and asked how it works, and got them to arrange it, like all the other tourists. As usual, I was the only whitey standing there in the scrum. I don't know what their commission would have been, but it surely would've been well worth a few hundred rupees. I could have had an extra day in Bundi instead of faffing about in Ranthambore.

Anyway, I enjoyed the safari, bouncing around in the cantor through the beautiful park. We explored one particular zone during our three or four hours, as it's too big to go round all of it. It was incredibly scenic in its own right, with a long hill as a backdrop, topped with a huge sprawling fort, and with a lake in the foreground. The park is famous for its tigers. There are about 50 living there, all named and photographed in a book that our guide had to hand. Both the guide and driver did their best to find us a tiger, getting us all to shush as soon as they heard a monkey or deer's warning call, which generally signalled that they'd spotted trouble of the big-cat variety nearby. We saw two good prints in the mud along the track, but no trace of its creator. 

We saw a few interesting birds, though, including kingfishers and painted storks. And a cousin of the jay with an exotic echoey call, which is so brazen as to hop onto the rails of the cantor and look at you, waiting for a titbit. 

I was the last to be dropped off. After all the other tourists had descended into their various hotels around the area, I was abandoned at the booking centre, to walk the kilometre back to my hotel, as this was where I was picked up.

The hotel had been a weird experience. I'd booked it because it was one of the pick-up points named on the online safari reservation I'd made. I'd tried a few others in the list first, to gauge prices, and none seemed exactly cheap, by Indian standards - over a thousand rupees (11 pounds or so). Online, I'd seen some cheaper ones not on the pick-up list, but I'd no idea where they were in relation to the booking centre and thought it better to play it safe and stick to the list. Some were booked up, but I found one that was available and booked online. Farm Villa Resort. 1500 rupees (about 16 pounds) for a deluxe room. I've generally been paying around 500. Luckily, it turned out to be just ten minutes' walk from the booking centre. It was situated about 300 metres off the main road, on a sandy trail across open scrub land, with a few houses here and there. I asked a few women living in shacks where it was, and they assured me in Hindi there was no hotel there. I knew that wasn't right, because the sign had clearly pointed here. A man working on a nearby building shouted over and pointed in the direction I'd been going. It was the white building behind some trees in the distance.

I got checked in, and, looking at the ledger entry above mine, it looked like it'd been some days since the last guest. I dismissed it as me misunderstanding, and they showed me to a lovely room across a grassy garden. The building was, as the name suggested, like a villa, with rooms along a veranda upstairs and down, all looking out over the garden. My room was on the ground floor. 

I hadn't had lunch, but they told me it'd be ready in half an hour or so. The manager explained that there was no menu... you had a set meal with everything included. For 400 rupees. My usual lunch budget was more like 100, for which you can generally get a nice thali that includes rice, bread, a veg curry, a lentil curry, some curd and often even dessert. This hotel was clearly exploiting the captive audience factor. I agreed. It would cost as much to go back into town and back, even if I could find a tuk-tuk, and it was only a fiver in our money at the end of the day. 

I did some laundry while I waited, but still no sign of dinner. An hour went by. Finally I got the nod to say it was ready. It was absolutely delicious - beyond good. Paneer cheese in a rich, flavoursome, tomatoey sauce with caramelised red onions, chapatis, popadoms, dal, rice. I tucked in, really hungry by that stage. Given the lateness in the afternoon, and the price, I knew I wouldn't be having dinner here later and ate enough for two meals! I was the only person dining. I figured the other guests were probably on safari. It was a bit uncomfortable, with the staff hovering about peering at me. I didn't exactly feel like lingering.

Back on my chair on the veranda, I pulled out some paper to write a letter. It wasn't long before the manager came over and began chatting. He offered to take me for a stroll around the area, but I explained I was happy, for once, to just chill out. A rarity. He talked for a while and I kind of look longingly at my letter paper in my lap, and he told me to give him a shout if I needed anything, and went off. 

Next, another bloke appeared. Turned out he was the owner of a small shop at the corner of the garden, and he invited me to have a look if I wanted. All I wanted to do was be left alone to write my letter. He told me I was the only guest, and I immediately began to feel like a goldfish in a bowl. Eventually, he went back and sat in front of his shop, clearly in the hope that at some point I'd come and look around. Great. I wrote a few more lines, sat and looked at the garden, but felt ill at ease. If I didn't go and look at his bloomin' shop, I'd be conscious of him sitting there, hour after hour, with me his only hope for a sale. I couldn't bear it. I went over in the end and bought a T-shirt. 

Right, now I can sit down and do my own thing. But no, then the owner appeared and had a chat with me. They were all very friendly and meant well, but for the love of all that's holy, I've come miles into the middle of nowhere, there are no other guests even in the hotel to disturb my quiet, and I STILL can't get five minutes' peace. I went in my room and locked the door in the end, looked out at the view over the garden through the big window and sat on the bed to write my letter!

Then, when I was checking out, they left a bad taste by charging me 35 rupees for the water they'd placed on my table at lunch. The old squeeze-the-last-rupee-out-of-the-tourist trick. A 400 rupee meal - all supposedly included - and they charged me more than double the usual price for a bottle of water. And to add insult to injury, they had no change, so I ended up paying 50 rupees for the water. All I can say is, TripAdvisor here I come!

Bloody Walter, man

Bundi, Monday 4 March 2013

When I think of the British legacy in India, there are quite a few things that spring to my mind, from the railways and bureaucracy, to buildings, churches and hill stations, as I mentioned before. But far from being just past history and static monuments from a different era, it continues to be a living legacy - alive particularly in many of the older generation of Indians. 

One such person was Walter Aubert. I arranged to do a one-day trek from the highest point on the Mount Abu plateau, which is also the highest point in Rajasthan, meandering across the plateau through various villages, to descend off its furthermost nose. This time, it was 'Charles' leading the trek (as recommended by Lonely Planet!). His real name is Indian, but everyone knows him as Charles. He'd arranged this particular route for two of his friends, and I joined in along with a Canadian couple who were staying at my hotel.

These two friends of Charles's were men in their sixties, lifelong friends of each other - Walter and 'Eddy'. Although from Mount Abu originally, they'd both moved away. Walter seemed to have moved back fairly recently, from Goa, while Eddy was back visiting. They were of a rare old breed - native English speakers for whom Hindi was a learned second language. But their English is not exactly the English of English village greens and cricket fields (any more than mine is, I suppose!). Listening to them talking at first, I could tell they weren't speaking English as a second language. Their fluency was too good for that. Their accent was strong and unmistakably Indian, but their turn of phrase, their ease in the language, their quickness of speech, their idioms - and their swearing - were those of a native speaker. It had me a bit confused at first. 

But I soon got the explanation as we wandered along the trail together. They were Catholics, had gone to Catholic school, taught in English, and were raised speaking only English at home. In fact, it wasn't until Walter went to work for the government telegraph office that he figured he'd better learn this Hindi business. Raised outside the Hindu religion, their culture is clearly different, too. With the ease of familiarity, they teased Charles about all his millions of 'bloody' gods. 

'No time for all that shit,' Walter affirmed, with jocular irreverence. In fact, over the fourteen hours we'd spend together that day, I'd come to see that the two of them were beautifully irreverent about a lot of what makes up modern-day India, as though viewing it all with the objectivity of outsiders, which, I suppose, in some way they are... neither typically Indian, nor typically English.

We stopped for lunch in a clearing surrounded by sloping hills, with a big flat granite rock formation serving as our work surface and table for preparing and eating our food. Charles dished us out our various jobs. Casey, the Canadian woman, was to help him chop vegetables; her husband and I were to gather firewood, and Walter and Eddy were to provide a running commentary on the whole affair, like Waldorf and Stadtler from The Muppet Show. 

'Look at that, Walter,' Eddy mused, looking at me, busily picking up sticks and bringing them back to the fire pit. 'See how the British get on and get the job done.'

'Yes, while the bloody Indians sit on their asses!' I retorted, pointing at the two of them, laughing. 'In fact, why is it all us white people who are doing the work?!'

Anyway, we got the fire lit while Walter attempted to eat one of the small wild oranges growing on a tree in the clearing. He screwed his face up at their bitterness, and offered me a bit. I couldn't have eaten a whole one, but a few segments were great.

'Only the bloody British could eat a lemon!' Eddy quipped, as I did so.

Charles finally got a bit of work out of the two of them, opening cans of mushrooms and baby sweetcorn. 

'Wonder what the juice tastes like,' Eddy said, as he ran a can opener around the mushroom tin. 

'Bloody brine, man,' Walter replied.

'Why not try it? We eat the things in it. What's the difference?' Eddy tipped up the tin and poured some of the brine into his mouth from a height. It dribbled down his chin, as he nodded approvingly.

'It's OK. Give it a try, Walter.'

Walter wasn't having any of it, literally, but Eddy approached him, holding the tin above his head. Walter put out his arm to ward him off.

'Don't do that, boy!' he said, laughing. 'Don't do that, boy!'

It was the 'boy' of the English cricket game, with the 'oy' spoken in a clipped and rounded way. I laughed at the two of them larking about and their funny turns of phrase.

Charles was completely intrigued by the large round tin of pork luncheon meat that Walter and Eddy had brought with them, repeating that he'd never seen such a thing before. Walter explained he'd bought it directly from the factory in Goa, where he'd also had a house until recently. They were having trouble opening the tins, and Walter explained he'd never cooked anything - he had a cook.

'How do they make it?' Charles asked.

'What d'you mean how do they make it? The pigs go in one end and the tins come out the other! What the bloody hell you think!' Walter and Eddy laughed.

'How you want to cook it?' Charles asked them. 

'Just put the tin in the fire and warm it up. It's already cooked,' they told him. 

Charles scratched his head at the idea. 

'You don't want any salt, any spices?'

'No, it's bloody salty enough, man! Just put it on the fire! It'll heat in its own fat.'

'I've never seen such a thing,' Charles said again, plonking it into the burning sticks.

Charles asked me to help him add some spices to the vegetables that he and Casey had chopped, and which were now bundled up in a few packages of tin foil. The little measures of spices were wrapped up in bits of newspaper. I unravelled one after another: cumin seeds, turmeric, ground coriander, chili powder. He scattered various combinations over the chopped green peppers, onions, baby sweetcorn. He'd heated some butter in a pan, and, pouring some onto the veg, he sealing up the foil parcels and placed them onto the fire. The mushrooms and some onions went into the pan with the remaining butter and a selection of spices, and that, too, went onto the fire.  

Walter and Eddy weren't the patient type.

'Why didn't we just bring some sandwiches?' Walter asked. 'My cook could have packed us up a great picnic.'

Charles was affronted. 

'Never have I brought sandwiches,' he said. 'Always I cook a proper lunch.'

'Is it ready, man?'

'Ten minutes.'

A pause.

'You're a great guide, man, but a bloody slow cook!'

When the mushrooms and onions, and the veg in the parcels had softened amidst their flavoursome buttery juice, Charles lifted it all out onto our slabby table, and we enjoyed it with chapatis, which Walter and Eddy supplemented with white loaf and luncheon meat sandwiches.

For dessert, Charles had slit some bananas, slid in some chocolate and roasted them in tin foil on the fire. He handed them out to us all. Walter opened his parcel with a hesitant look.

'What is this, man?'

'Banana. Delicious.'

With the gooey banana revealed to the full, Walter peered at it disdainfully, before trying a bit.

'Never seen such a thing in my life,' he said. 'Never in my life have I seen the like of it'.

We laughed at his bewilderment at this camping classic.

But he ate the lot, shaking his head.

Despite being from Mount Abu, Walter had never really been trekking before in the amazing hills on his doorstep. His footwear - very light-soled trainers - weren't really up to the task, and, dear help him, he was struggling on the long descent down. No complaint did he utter, though - he just got on with it. Every ten minutes, Charles would reassure him that it was only another ten minutes to go!

Eventually we got down to the waiting jeep, and Walter eased into the front seat like a happy man staggering into an oasis in the desert. It'd be more than an hour's journey back to the town of Mount Abu, along the bottom of the mountain, through the fields and past the low-land farmers, before winding our way up and up the road leading back to the top again.  

'Stop for some whiskey, man,' Walter said, and the driver pulled up at a cluster of roadside stalls - including one called the English Liquor and Wine Store. All alcohol stands, I notice, have 'English' in the title. All depravity clearly comes from abroad. Walter and Eddy gave the driver their instructions for what brand they wanted.
'And get me one of those cranberry things for the road,' Walter said. The driver was drawing a blank, and a discussion ensued in Hindi, after which the driver crossed the road to the liquor store, with Walter's money in his hand.
'He didn't bloody know what a cranberry is,' he explained to me and the Canadians, 'and I can't remember the name of the thing... cranberry something.'
'Breezer,' one of the Canadians said.
'Breezer! That's it.'
He got out of the front seat and onto the ground, to stretch his sore legs and test his tender feet. Meanwhile, Charles, who'd gone off to buy some water and an ice-cream, jumped back into the double front seat, but Walter quickly had enough of standing up and chastised him: 'Let me bloody in, man, before I *%&ing faint,' he said, as Charles slid hastily over, laughing.

I didn't think I'd see Bloody Walter again after we dropped him and Eddy off at Eddy's hotel. But I wandered down to the hotel where Charles operates out of the next day, to pay him for the trek, and Walter and Eddy showed up. It was great to sit down and while away an hour or so chatting to them over some chai. Charles was telling us about a business idea he had, and said he was going to run it by his astrologer.
'What bloody superstitious shit is this, man?' Walter asked, disparagingly. 'That's what's wrong with this country!'

Charles laughed, but he described how his astrologer had helped him make sense of a series of unfortunate incidents he'd had over the past number of years. Many Hindus use the services of an astrologer, with a reading based on their date and time of birth. In fact, a baby's first astrology reading is one of the big occasions after its birth.

Regardless, Walter was having none of it.

I was to see him once more before I left Mount Abu. The day after our astrology discussion, I'd been out for a half-day trek with Ashok, the guide whose family own my hotel, and we were heading into an ayurvedic herbal place on our way back so that I could pick up a few lotions and potions, when who pulled in on his scooter only Walter. He'd steeled himself for another walk - a shorter one this time - and the Canadians had joined them. Having survived the stroll, they were about to have a drink up the road, but he'd popped back to town to drop off his niece, I think he said it was. And with a put-put-put of his scooter he was gone.

The last of the Raj... the legacy of the British, incarnate. 

Sunset - with/without crowds, Mam?

Bundi, Sunday 3 March 2013

Mount Abu... for me, of course, it was the perfect antidote to the cities and towns where I've spent much of the past six weeks. This was my time to recharge my batteries and indulge my best-loved hobby of trekking.

Arriving into Mount Abu on the overnight bus (as I described in a previous post), I napped for a few hours and then spent the afternoon exploring the town, before returning to my hotel for a sunset trek. It wouldn't do to let a whole day go by here without getting out into those hills. Ashok, the son of the owner of my hotel, led me and a French couple up the road behind our hotel... upwards through a cluster of poorer houses we walked, returning the waves and hellos of the villagers. It wasn't long before we left the road, veering off along a track and contouring along and up into the hillside. Up we climbed on grippy granite boulders strewn  across dry dirt trails in the evening sunshine. The perfect temperature for walking. Views began to open up around us, down into the valley towards a lake that looked a bit like a reservoir. Up and up we went, finally reaching the top of the ridge... and there, down the other side, was a stunning view over the main lake of Mount Abu, complete with its passenger balloon and hordes of boaters.

We sat down on a rock for a while to take it all in, our breath caught by the sight of the patchworked plains running away into the distance, overlooked by other long, fingery mountains, one behind the other.

With the sun now beginning to sink, we got up and headed towards it, a little bit further along our ridge. From our superb vantage point, we sat and watched it dip down and down, balanced by the moon coming up and up behind us. Off on another hillside to our left was the 'official' Sunset Point. This was where the majority of tourists schlepped along a concrete road to, to watch the sun go down. There were four terraces over there, all crowded with people, their cheers and whistles reaching us only lightly. That was one way to watch the sunset, I guess! For us three Europeans and our quiet-natured guide, though, the blissful tranquility of sitting quietly in a row was just perfect. Even Ashok's dog sat attentively watching the sun disappear and leave a spray of colour behind.

Ashok scanned the hills to see if he could spot any bears for us, as they sometimes come out around sunset for a wander. But, not this time. We returned back to the Shri Ganesh - but not before turning to thank nature for the beauty it had chosen to reveal to us on that, my first evening in Mount Abu.

The ingredients for a mountainous paradise

Bundi, Sunday 3 March 2013

The four days I spent in Mount Abu were among the best I've had in India. Setting aside all the negative things about the British influence in India, I've always been intrigued by the 'charming' side of it... the railways, the bureaucracy (everything in triplicate... I've never seen so much carbon paper), the buildings, the hill stations and, not least, the enduring Englishness still to be found in some of the people here. I found the latter two in Mount Abu - in spades.

But first, to describe Mount Abu. Let's create it, shall we? Let's go right back in time to the earliest days of mountain building, because the Araveli range, on the peaks of which the town of Mount Abu sits, is reputedly the oldest mountain range in the world. These long fingers of mountains are what's left of the lava that cooled from volcanic activity churned up by the shifting of tectonic plates. So hard is the granite that it has survived until today, where the wind and water have whittled away all the softer rock around them, leaving a vast expanse of plains.

Having trouble picturing it? OK. There's a huge patchwork quilt sitting beside you. Lift it by the corners and whirl it out onto the ground before you. That's our plains. Some of the patches are the bright, almost luminous green of young wheat fields (don't worry... they'll take on their familiar yellowy-brown shade when it's harvest time). Add some darker green fields, too, and a fair scattering of parched brown ones where we haven't done any irrigation. 

There's a little trowel beside you... carve out a winding river bed, zig-zagging off to the end of your quilt. But don't add any water... it's a dry bed for now. But just wait for the monsoon!

Now to add those mountains. Take some immense chunks of brown plastercene with your giant's hand, roll them out a bit to elongate them, pinch the top a bit to make a few sharp points. Now, stand up and drop them from a height - splat! - onto your quilt. And behind that one, another one. And another. The morning mist and haze can lazily explore the valleys in between. Can you believe they were once higher than the Himalayas? Worn down to stumps of their former selves by millennia of wind and rain.

There's a huge bucket to your right, labelled 'Ayurvedic plants and trees'. See it? Scoop out as many as you can hold and let them fall onto your plastercene mountain ridges - and make sure they're concentrated particularly on one of your mountainous plateaux; this is the one where we'll put the town of Mount Abu. Watch them fall and take root by their millions. Throw on a smattering of other vegetation now, from the smaller bucket next door. Mango trees, date palms, trees with fronds and ones with broad leaves like your cheese plant. But don't overdo it, because 90% of our trees, plants and bushes on the Mount Abu plateau are to be used in ayurvedic herbal medicine.

Let's zoom in now on this one plateau. Grab your trowel and dig out some holes. Put them in beautiful niches, surrounded by hills. Now lift that watering can and fill them up. Lakes and tanks, ready to welcome some inhabitants.

See that squirming sack on your left? Pick it up, lay it down on the plateau and pull off the string holding it shut. Stand back! There go the cobras, the vipers, the pythons... watch as they spread themselves all over the hillside and then disappear. You'll probably not see them again. They hibernate in the winter and try to keep themselves to themselves the rest of the time. Just watch where you put your feet, though, if you're out trekking about or gathering wood in the summer.

Tip on that bucketful of lizards... watch them dart off and away. Throw on some rodents and insects - those lizards and the birds we'll add next will need something to eat! Open the lids on all the jars you've lined up beside you and let the birds soar, like spices hanging in the blue skies over your new landscape. Up, up go the eagles, circling above your forests. The chattering of those green parakeets! So many pigeons. Little bee-eaters - hello wee chaps! Wading birds and kingfishers to enjoy your lakes and tanks. Woodpeckers whose hollow tap-tapping will echo through your trees. 

What could be in that other sack... the chattering, jumping one? Set it down and loosen the cord... wait for it... monkeys! Out they come in their hundreds - mummies, daddies and tiny babies, swinging through the trees. Hear the boom boom from the chests of the males.

See that wooden crate marked 'Danger!'? You'll have to be careful with this one... pull up the door from far back. Out come the leopards with a snarl, looking furtively around them. And panthers hot on their tails. In a flash, they're gone. You might only see their tracks in the future, so well they'll blend into the forest. What's that lumbering out after them? Is it dark pigs? No, don't make that mistake. It's sloth bears. Off they go. You'll see their tracks, too. You might even see one in the distance if you're watching the sunset in your forest one evening, but better hope you never cross one with cubs on one of your woody trails.

So, now to add our town. How to begin... plonk on an oblong piece of green grass, bigger than a football field. This is our polo ground. Draw a road either side, one leading to the most lovely of the lakes you created before, with hills all around. Off to the side, throw on a big higgeldy-piggeldy handful of shops in little alleyways. That'll be the Main Market. All along the road leading down to the lake, let's have more shops... restaurants, ice-cream stands, souvenir shops. Scatter on a good helping of people with carts - some are selling fruit, others are boiling and roasting cobs of sweetcorn, or samosas, or hot milk, or omelettes. Dot on some hotels. Put a pier at the lake, with pedaloes and rowing boats to rent. See how the road follows the shore of the lake... more hotels here, I think. And some men and boys offering rides on the beautiful Rajasthani Marwari horses, with their characteristic long, thin ears cocked inwards as though listening to each other's whispers. Drop in a big white balloon, the size of a house, but tether it down, mind! We can offer our visitors rides up and down in it when they come.

Add some houses - 50-odd grand villas perched here and there around our hilltops - summer homes for the various majarajas of Rajasthan wanting to escape the heat of the plains. Some of them are hotels now. Don't forget the simple shacks, though - unfortunately some of our residents won't be so well off.  

OK, now for the people... here they come! See the villagers claim their houses and shacks. Watch out for the tourist stampede... in bus-loads they come, from Gujarat to the south and from Rajasthan all around. Don't forget the white faces, too... us visitors from across the seas. Watch as we all mill frantically around, like ants, exploring in and out of the shops and market stalls and swarm down to the lake and into the waiting boats. There we go, pedalling and rowing furiously.

Before you reach the lake, there's a road running off to the left. Let's go up there. Lining the road on either side are the stalls of the Tibetan market. Maybe we'll try on a few tops there later. Come back a bit. See that road heading up hill? There's St Sophia's school at the corner. A legacy of the missionaries. Uphill up the road we go. There on the left is the Shri Ganesh Guest House where you'll spend a few nights. From your room on the second floor, you can enjoy the views out over the hills, but let's not just look at them; let's get our walking shoes on and get out into them, too - that's the best way to taste the wonders of all those ingredients you've lovingly added to your patchwork quilt. 

So... a few days in Mount Abu, then...

Buses in the night

Udaipur, Friday 1 March 2013

The overnight bus from Jodhpur to Mount Abu dumped me on the roadside about 4.45 in the morning. This was becoming a habit! 

'To the right, to the right,' the driver called to me, gesturing to a road leading off into the night. He shut the door and the bus pulled away.

Luckily (for once) a tuk-tuk appeared and took me several km to the bus station, from where I'd take a bus up into the hills, to the town of Mount Abu. I asked around at the station, and found out that the local buses would begin at 5.30am. I sat down on a bench beside an older man. A younger guy on the bench opposite looked at me with wildish eyes, and made a questioning hand gesture as if to say, 'So what's going on?'. I ignored him, but over he came and sat down and the usual rigmarole of questions began... where you're from, where you're going. He was clearly a bit strange, and it was five in the morning. I wasn't interested in humouring some idjit, so I pulled out my book and started to read, hoping he'd clear off. 'What's your country famous for?' Oh for goodness sake. 'Guinness,' I said, barely looking up. He hadn't understood and asked again. 'Guinness,' I repeated. Confused, he finally beat a retreat back to his original seat. 

The old man beside me pointed to a private bus that had pulled up on the roadside at the station. 

'Going to Mount Abu,' he said. 'You can go and ask.'

I did. And it was. It was nice of him to point it out to me, as for a few more rupees I got a comfier ride for the hour-and-a-bit journey, and didn't have to wait for another half hour being stared at by a crazy person.

So, next stop Mount Abu...

Being a refugee

Udaipur, Friday 1 March 2013

My visit to Jodhpur was fleeting at best. I arrived off the overnight sleeper bus from Jaisalmer at around four in the morning and left on another sleeper bus at 10.15pm that night. I landed on the footpath somewhere in Jodhpur in the darkness, along with a few other backpackers and local people. When you use the private buses rather than the usual government buses, you generally end up being deposited at one of their offices somewhere in the city, or at the private bus station, rather than the municipal bus station. For this reason, it's often difficult to establish where in the city you are, and whether you need a tuk-tuk to reach your hotel. On this occasion, the other tourists invited me to share a tuk-tuk with them to their hotel, and I took them up on it. Better than figuring out a plan of my own in the dark. 

They were from Chile, and were staying near the Clock Tower, the main landmark in the old city area of Jodhpur. They invited me to wait in their hotel if I wanted, but I opted to stay in the tuk-tuk and head for the main train station instead... I knew I'd be able to leave my bag there in the cloakroom for the day and could wait there until it was daylight. Pulling into the forecourt outside the train station, the scene before me was like something you've seen in a disaster movie, with refugees lying all over the floor outside in the darkness... people waiting for trains later in the morning, or perhaps just sleeping there anyway. 

Inside was no different. I picked my way through the sleeping bodies of old men in their baggy white trousers and turbans, young men in their jeans, whole families including young children... the whole shebang was here. I used the loo (only 5 rupees) and found myself a seat for the duration. I listened to some music, cat-napped, people-watched and waited. Gradually, as the night turned to morning, people began to awaken and stir. I checked my bag into the cloakroom and crossed the street in the new light of day to a street-side restaurant across the road - high time for a chai.  

By around 9am, the travel agencies within the station forecourt were opening, and I booked my bus for that evening. Now I was free to head out into the city, starting, as usual, with a haggle with a tuk-tuk driver. My guidebook gave the impression it was only a few km to the fort, and I was reluctant to accept the driver's price, which seemed very high for such a short trip. I showed him (and the other drivers who had by then inevitably gathered round) the guidebook map and explained that I thought it was closer. Anyway, once we set off I realised how far it was out round the city and up, up, up the winding road climbing ever higher above the city. By the time we reached the fort entrance, I figured he'd earned his 100 rupees or whatever it was. He offered to wait for me while I visited, but I wanted to be free to set my own time, even if it meant a faff getting a tuk-tuk later. 

I got lucky... there was a music festival happening that day and the next, and there were traditional folk music and dance groups performing throughout the day at various points around the fort, so I was able to watch them for a bit along the way. As always, I enjoyed wandering around with the audioguide, picturing it all in my mind's eye in its heyday and imagining the battles that had played out around its walls. 

The views out over Jodhpur from the fort ramparts were superb... lots of the houses and buildings in the city are painted blue, the colour traditionally associated with the high Brahmin class. The surrounding countryside was spectacular in itself, with hills dotted with scrubby desert plantation.  (There are some pics in the previous Jodhpur post.)

Leaving the fort by the back entrance, I found myself in the old city streets, several km from the Clock Tower, and picked up a tuk-tuk to this landmark. It was enjoyable poking about in these old streets, with shops that weren't dominated by tourist tat. Passing a mosque, I came upon a procession of Muslim men and boys and watched it go by from a shop doorway. Police officers made up the head and tail, complete with their sticks to hand. It was all good-natured, though.

I was in search of some blue houses and lanes to photograph, and it didn't take long to find some, with the residents more than happy to pose for a quick snap.

I also had the pleasure of eating the best omelette I've ever had. I stopped at a shop near the old gate into the bazaar area around the Clock Tower, just to make a few reservations for Mount Abu. When I hung up, the shopkeeper asked if I was hungry, and offered me an omelette. It was none other than the Omelette Shop, as recommended by Lonely Planet. I've never been a great lover of omelettes, but the masala cheese gorgeousness, served between a few pieces of warmed white loaf bread, sitting on a small chair on the roadside, was bliss. 

While up at the fort, I'd spotted the grand palace which houses a museum, the majaraja's residence, and a hotel, and decided it'd make a good spot for a late afternoon tea. Now to get a tuk-tuk. I went up to the first one I saw after coming out of the tourist bazaar and showed him in the guidebook where I wanted to go. He was busy chatting on his mobile phone but we agreed a price and I got in. He hung up after a few minutes, but then made another call not long after. As I understand it, yakking on the phone while driving is a crime here, as at home - and with tuk-tuks already feeling like a precarious ride, I wasn't happy about his lack of attention. He took me to the wrong place initially - clearly hadn't been listening to me at all. But we got to the palace in the end. Unfortunately, there was no getting in for a tea. It was dinner by reservation only. Great. I'd just spent 100 rupees getting there and was going to have to spend another 100 to get back. One of those things.

Got a few pics of the building from the outside, and the greener side of Jodhpur sprawling out below it, and got back in the tuk-tuk. But the cretin was back on the phone again. I tapped him on the shoulder and gestured for him to hang up. He nodded but drove on still yakking. I lost my patience with him and insisted that he pulled over, and got out. He wasn't getting another 100 rupees out of me to sit and yak on the phone, not paying attention to the road. He looked quite shocked but went on his way. Great, Jaki. Now what? You're in the middle of nowhere, several km out of town. So what's the plan? I walked to the next roundabout and asked a shopkeeper which was the way back to town. He suggested crossing over to a petrol station on the other side of the roundabout, where I could get a bus. There were a few fellas waiting, and they told me which bus to get. Only cost me 10 rupees or something.

By this stage, there was time for a quick wander round the old town again, before heading back to the train station area for some food and to wait for my bus. Nature called, and I went into the station to use their loo again. This time, the attendant wasn't for letting me in.

'Your toilet is in first-class waiting room,' he said, pointing into the station concourse. 

I looked at the other women in the queue that I'd initially tried to join. They were apparently not holders of first-class tickets and certainly weren't middle-class in appearance, but there was nothing wrong with this general class toilet (by Indian standards, anyway) and I was happy to use it. Just then, the tuk-tuk driver who'd taken me up to the fort earlier appeared and heard the attendant repeat his instruction to me. He joined in the pointing to the first-class waiting room inside.

'But I'm not taking a train,' I protested, not feeling I'd any more right to go in there than the other women.

'So what?' the tuk-tuk driver said. 'Just use it. This is India.'

Hilarious! I laughed the whole way into the first-class toilet. And there ended Jodhpur.

Jaisalmer - sandcastles and perverts

Udaipur, Thursday 28 February 2013

Jaisalmer was what I'd hoped to find in Bikaner - a small town that really did have a desert outpost feel, and was visibly surrounded by desert.

Arriving in the late evening, I reached my hotel by tuk-tuk and checked in. It was the Dylan Cafe and Guest House - named for the two owners' love of Bob Dylan. I'd chosen it purely because it got good reviews on TripAdvisor, where guests talked lovingly of warm evenings whiled away on the rooftop terrace with views of the huge sandcastle of a fort. And it was cheap.

I got a warm welcome and, after dumping my bags in the mediocre room, was invited to the roof for a 'welcome drink' of chai. I'd had too many cups of chai that day already, but another was very welcome indeed, as it said on the tin. On the roof, enclosed by billowing, tie-dyed sheets, were mattresses laid out on the floor Moroccan style, with lots of cushions and a few low coffee tables. An Australian woman and one of the owners were online on a laptop, chatting about travel options, and we all said hello. After the chai, the owners promptly offered me a rum and soda, but the chai was my limit. I could see what people meant about enjoying the relaxed atmosphere in the place.

Tired from the journey, I left them there on the roof and headed for bed around 11.30am, but a combination of too much tea, the usual howling dogs, and noisey people somewhere outside kept me awake. By 2am, I'd had enough and went to see where all the noise was coming from. Was it people on the roof? I went up, but it was empty. Out in the street, a man was busy throwing stones at the neighbourhood dogs to shut them up and chase them off. I went back into the hotel, and realised the noise was coming from the room beside mine. I rapped the door and pointed out that they were keeping me awake. Silence at last. I finally fell asleep - but not before moving my alarm on a bit... this was a morning for a lie-in.

Next morning, up on the roof for breakfast, it came to light it was the owners who'd been making all the racket the night before. They apologised... a friend had come and they'd lost track of the time. With my Western logic, to me the main purpose of having a hotel is to have somewhere to sleep, and it should therefore be the hotel owner's main occupation to do what he/she can to ensure you can do so. But here was the owner keeping the whole place awake. But they were so friendly and helpful that I put my Indian head on and enjoyed my breakfast with my first views of Jaisalmer.

At last... here was a town that seemed 'of' its landscape, with sand-coloured houses dissolving into the desert landscape beyond. On all sides was desert. This was what I'd hoped for.

I'd finished the book I'd been reading the previous day on the bus, and so my first job was to buy another one. Wandering into the bazaar, I found a bookshop and got 'The Inheritance of Loss', by Kiran Desai, which was a Booker Prize winner. I really enjoy reading books that relate to where you are. So, happy that I'd be able to delve into it over a cup of chai somewhere, I went to visit the fort.

The fort at Jaisalmer rises up above the town. It's a walled city, and is a living fort in the sense that people still live in the maze of narrow alleys within its walls, alongside shops, restaurants, hotels and temples. It wasn't easy to find the way in. You go through several vast defensive gates and end up in a courtyard full of tuk-tuks and motorbikes, from which all the laneways spider off. I wandered round the lanes and then visited the palace building inside - another audioguide affair - before descending down through the series of gates and back into the bazaar.

I'll call home, I thought, and found a place that does international calls. No phone boxes or calling cards here. But after 15 or 20 minutes of talking to my partner, the owner of the place started gesturing to me, tapping on his watch. We finished off the conversation and I hung up.

The man explained that it wasn't good to be making long international calls at night, so close to the border with Pakistan. He seemed to think he'd get in bother, with the authorities asking questions.

The next day, I figured I'd explore the lake - Jaisalmer's other main attraction. It was lovely, with temples all round and tourists - Indian and foreign - milling around at town side of the lake, where the entrance was. I sat about for a while, watching the world go, before deciding to do a lap of the lake. It looked blissfully quiet over there - just a few people bathing, and a goat herd or two... a few lovely trees casting shade that would be lovely to sit under and read for a while. Working my way round the shore, I perched under a tree, roughly opposite the main entrance where I'd been eyeing up the spot, and sat down with my book. I saw a bloke approaching but he gave me a wide berth, prayed at a temple a way's along the shore from me, and went back the same way. I'd been ready to pack up and move off, as always.

Then three young men began making their way towards me. I put my book away and got up, just to be on the safe side. I was about half-way round the lake, and so I could either continue my circuit, which would mean walking towards the me, or go back the way I'd come. Trying not to be too paranoid, I continued on my way. Two of the men helloed at me and wandered on their way after I muttered a quick hello and walked on. But the third had other ideas.

'500 rupees,' he said.
'Are you crazy?' I asked him, looking at him with disdain.
'Yes,' he replied. '100 rupees'.
I quickened my pace and ignored him. Out of luck as far as getting any money was concerned, he decided to see if anything else was on offer.
'Sex, sex,' he kept saying, his terminology then becoming somewhat more obscene.

Finally, he walked in front of me and I could tell from his gestures that he was exposing himself. I decided not to look down, and spared myself that wonderful image burnt onto my memory. I thought for a minute that this could easily turn out very bad, but I was angry and utterly disgusted that someone would think they could   treat a woman like that, here in broad daylight. It spoke volumes of his view of Western women - not that Indian women don't experience the same thing in this unnaturally repressed society. I steeled myself in anger to pummel the guy if he made any moves towards me and continued my march towards a goat herd with two young children not far away. To my relief, the pathetic criminal slinked off back to his mates.

Later, in a cafe where I stopped for a hot lemon, ginger and honey tea, I got into conversation with the owner. We chatted about Indian society, and he was telling me how hard it is to be honest and straight in your dealings with tourists and neighbours. It was difficult, he said, even for him to know who to trust, given the corruption and dog-eat-dog society, where everyone's trying to get by and get a bit ahead. He said he sometimes questioned himself for doing the right thing, because he could see others getting on and making more money. But it clearly wasn't in his nature to do that. I found myself telling him what had happened at the lake and we talked about why these kinds of incidents happen here (not that they don't happen anywhere else...).

Back on the roof at my hotel that evening, I was telling the Australian woman about it. Two friends of hers had been on a train in recent days when a man began openly masturbating while leering at them. Disgusted, they filmed him in an attempt to shame him into stopping.

I guess this is the kind of thing that happens when you repress normal relationships between men and women, and when the media and films give a wanton view of Western women. It's noticeable that in all Bollywood music videos, the scantily-clad dancers in the background are always white women, while the Indian women look resplendent in their saris (albeit skimpy versions!). Couple all this with a society that discriminates against women anyway, and it's a tinder box.

And so, on to Jodhpur...  

Tales from the desert - Bikaner

Udaipur, Thursday 28 February 2013

So, I've reached the 'Venice of India' - the beautiful city of Udaipur - but before I write about it, I should catch up on some of my desert travels.

To retrace my steps back to Bikaner, I've written about the camel safari, but not about the town itself. I was disappointed. Not having really done any research, other than reading the entry in Lonely Planet, I hadn't twigged that it was such a big city. I expected to arrive in a place surrounded by desert - which it was, I guess, except that you couldn't see it. From the centre of town, the urban sprawl stretched out so far there was no sand on the horizon. The guidebook describes it as 'a vibrant, dust-swirling desert town with a fabulous fort, a refreshing outpost feel and burgeoning tourist trade'. I just felt it was like any other modern Indian city, with an old area and a fort. This city of half a million people really didn't gel with me at all.

I arrived early in the morning after an overnight sleeper bus journey and took a tuk-tuk to my hotel. After a few hours' sleep, I headed out to visit the fort. I've visited quite a few forts and palaces now, and most were the stripped bones of their former glorious selves, but the fort in Bikaner really evokes what it must have been like to live there. In some other forts, you wander round the various buildings inside, where rajas and their entourages would have lived, and the audioguide describes what they would have been like. The walls and pillars would have been painted and jewel encrusted; the air inside would have been cooled by passing through hangings of fine cane soaked with water scented with flowers. You had to use your imagination. But, at Bikaner, so much of the interior decoration is still there or has been restored that it's not hard to picture the luxury of life there.

After the fort, following the guidebook's advice, I strolled down to the old town. I say 'strolled', but after being followed half-way down the main road to the old town by some cretin who claimed he wanted to spend the day with me to practise his English, my pace was more of a determined march. Once through the old city gate, there was no charm that I could see in the narrow streets. The usual rubbish everywhere, fighting with tuk-tuks, motorbikes, cows, goats and other people for space to walk along the street. Coming back to the old gate, I took another street this time, thinking maybe I was missing something. I stopped for a tea at a stand on the street (picture in the previous Bikaner post), and then wandered to the train station area.  Enjoyed some Indian sweets along the way - something I'll miss when I go home. And that was about it. I arranged my camel safari for the next day, and that was about it.

The camel safari was a welcome desert fix, but I was glad to move on to Jaisalmer afterwards - an afternoon bus journey, this time.

This was the worst journey I've had in India so far. It started off OK. I got on the bus at the starting point at the bus company's office, found my seat, and we set off. Our first stop was the main bus stand in the town, and that's where the fun began. People piled on and piled on. I was sure they must be going to the back of the bus and getting off and coming round again. So many people. It was like the cast of thousands. How could this bus hold so many people? Where were they all going? Down one side of the bus, where I was sitting, it was all fitted out with seats, two by two all the way to the back row. On the other side of the aisle and above me were sleeper berths. There were half a dozen people sitting on each of these sleepers, both upstairs and down. The aisles were completely rammed with people, stuck to each other's backs.

Within the first half hour or so of this five-hour-or-so journey, an older couple materialised at the row where I was sitting and the bus conductor began gesturing at me and the guy sitting beside me to squeeze up and let the typically portly woman sit down. I suppose they were in their late sixties. My first instinct was Western outrage - I've paid for my seat and if anyone else is going to sit in it they can pay for half of it! Then I checked myself. It's an old woman, for goodness sake. What are you thinking. It didn't matter anyway because she shoved herself in between us, sitting forward due to the lack of space. After taking off my Western head after a minute or two, I gestured for her to sit back and even lent her my fleece to fill in the gap between the two seats. But it sure wasn't comfortable for anyone.

Eventually, we stopped for a tea break and about three-quarters of the passengers got off. There was no way I was going anywhere - I knew how difficult it'd be to get back to my seat again, particularly with new people getting on and just taking any available seat. A woman with two children sat down on the seat beside me and I knew the scene was set for a show-down! I wasn't disappointed. Granny arrived back, shoving her way up the bus and flew into a rage when she saw the mother in 'her' seat. She practically hauled the woman out of it mercilessly, crowing at the top of her high-pitched voice. Well, that was it as far as I was concerned. She could go there. I occupied the whole of my seat and let her and the other guy (who eventually made his way up the bus) fight it out for his seat. Luckily, he got out less than an hour later, and she then shared the seat with her husband.

And it was thus that I arrived in Jaisalmer that evening, heartily glad to descend to the waiting snake pit of tuk-tuk drivers. 

Ahhh... back in the hills at last

Mount Abu, Monday 25 February 2013

It's bliss being back in the hills and away from cities for a while. Here are some pics from the past two days in Mount Abu, which is a hill station in southern Rajasthan.

Words to follow...

The view from my hotel balcony

As above

My hotel room window to the front, left and patio area further along the balcony

Looking down on the hotel's courtyard and restaurant

The shops selling ice cream on the way down to the lake

The lake, and the Hotel Jaipur up on the hillside to the left, which is just above my hotel

Popping out to catch some rays - and any unsuspecting insects

My hotel

On the way home from school

The lake, viewed from the hills above during a sunset trek

Hard to make out, but the place where my guide took me to see the sunset was a lot quieter than the official 'Sunset Point', seen here, with hundreds of people shouting and whistling as the sun went down!

Me, at the much more tranquil sunset spot

Me and a French couple who did the sunset trek with me

Grover and I poking the sun. It ain't half hot, mum.

The plains below and a winding river bed just about visible in the haze

This pic was taken at sun rise, at the start of the full-day trek I did yesterday. This is at the highest point in Rajasthan. I just love how the ranges of hills are divided by haze like this.

The hills here are formed from granite, a volcanic rock.  They've been weathered in a way that I've seen only in sedimentary rocks before. Extraordinary. This formation looks like an elephant!

One of our rest stops, under the shade of a weathered rock formation

Our lunch stop, with a large slab of rock serving as the table

The villagers who live in these hills have used the rock formations and caves to make houses and out buildings. Here you can also see dung patties drying, which are used for fuel for the fire.

Mummy, who are those funny looking people?