Delhi, 6th May
I opened my emails to some news today that made me feel tainted, disgusted. It was the news that this Swine Flu Epidemic malarkey has been found, not unsurprisingly, to hail from the usual sorts of corruption and oppression. A huge pig factory farm in Veracruz Mexico, owned by the Smithfield Corporation (the largest corporation in their field) looks to be the epicentre of the growing disease. Not only are the pigs sprayed with a multitude of drugs, but the outrageous conditions in which they live are increasing the likelihood of these diseases and viruses emerging. So to look a at things logically, these factories are harmful to animals and humans. This, in my opinion, is a classic example of a corporation living above and beyond the practice of international law and morality. Not only has the Smithfield Corporation spawned a disease that is reaching across the breadth of the world (vegetarian Tibetans in Kathmandu are be issued with free precautionary medicines) but it has also frozen imports and exports in and out of Mexico. And thanks to these sorts of corporations, there are more and more of these factories cropping up all over the world, and if you're supporting the meat industry, you're supporting these factories. Big claim perhaps? One could argue that by supporting free range meat that one was actually helping bring about the end of factory born meat. This is to a certain extent is true, but it's also contentious, and here is when we get down to a acute differences in moral lines. Instead of just arguing my case, and since I'm here, I thought I'd tell you about vegetarianism in India.
First of all, animals are everywhere in India, and quite a few of them are dead. In the bazaars of Old Delhi goats heads are lined up and sold. I have seen chickens carried by their legs as if they were a plastic bag. There is a meat industry here, but not as we know it. A lot of fish is eaten on the coast. But scenes like this are minimal in proportion to the size of a country in Hinduism is widespread, and furthermore, to say that vegetarianism in India is simply a practice of religious doctrines is just not the truth. Many of the Indians I've befriended have told me that if there is one thing that India is not lacking in, it is food. Along with many of the strictly vegetarian holy towns such as Rishikesh, meat just isn't really needed. India has some of the best recipes in the world, made out of relatively cheap ingredients. Why double the cost of the dish just to put some meat in?
The amount of animals and fertile land in which they could graze is abundant. Instead, animals really coexist. Ask any cow in the middle of a Delhi street where she gets the better end of her food from, she'll point to the same restaurant you've just eaten in. And for an encore, she'll lie down in the middle of a traffic jam and kindly ask if there's any more roti about. Children here know how to treat and respect animals because they've been living next to them for the entirety of their lives. I won't pretend I haven't seen an overzealous Hindu boy run after a dog with a stick and attempt to hit it, but I can tell you for sure that the last thing he'll do is draw blood. Vegetarianism works in India, that's it. I'm afraid I reckon that the UK is to far gone to ever achieve this, but there is always hope. For a start, let's bankrupt the Smithfield Corporation. There's supposed to be an economic crisis, isn't there, and there's nothing like kicking a bastard company while it's down.
Anyway. Delhi votes tomorrow. The Times of India boasts the headline, and reads:
COME 7th MAY...
There's a threat to Delhi polls - Delhi's Pappu has many reasons not to vote this time. If you're making excuses, or if friends or family are, tell 'em that it's vote-on-sight in Delhi tomorrow!
I Will Vote Because...
-The new Government might not give you any holidays - tax or otherwise - if the wrong one gets into power!
- We'll never have the kind of placements (and even the Bollywood family drama-style weddings that we have) if the wrong Government gets in!
. . .
It continues in this vein for a while longer.
I feel incensed already!
I'm moving onto Kolkata tomorrow, I want to play some cricket.
Wednesday, 6 May 2009
Tuesday, 5 May 2009
Golden Triangle (Parts IV, V and VI)
Delhi, 5th May
How to explain such a long, wordless stay in Nepal?
So many of the small, sparkling details have escaped my memory, and an entire country seems now like a photo album of events and thoughts. I say an entire country, but this is highly inaccurate because we rarely strayed from the tourist circuit of Kathmandu, Pokhara and Chitwan. However, three and a half long weeks in Nepal haven been given the Delhi treatment: it all feels behind me.
Nevertheless, here I rant:
The four hour long bus journey to Pokhara took 12 hours. A strike held in a small village on the Pokhara root stopped us, stranded, with only 60km left of the journey. A road block had been made by the locals because (from what I could gather) a local had killed another, run away, and had yet to be found. Everyone in the town was determined to hunt down the killer, and I suspect to try attract the police's wandering eye, had stopped all traffic. So, at 11am I stepped off the bus to young men running down the road with large, wooden instruments of pain and fast faces. At 5pm I stepped back on the bus reflecting on what a nice bunch of people I'd met, and how cheerful the cafe owners were. 12 whole tourists buses stranded! If I were honest, I's say it was the best day of business they'd ever had. If I were cynical, I'd say no murder had ever taken place.
Now Pokhara is a very clean and beautiful city. It is also, if I'm talking of Lakeside, exceedingly expensive and stereotypical. The tourist end of Pokhara, named Lakeside, is one of those places which is made to include "everything a tourist needs". Like all of these places, it doesn't really convince. A bit like going to Atlantis and finding a shop full of swimming trunks. Perhaps Lakeside's translucency was due to brash lights, mini supermarkets, the various "blues bars" or the fact that there are Tibetan refugees selling craft outside Pashmina emporiums, cafe owners shooing children away from their white customers, or drug dealers pitching to women on package holidays. I think the main reason Lakeside was the area equivalent of a credit card (plastic, destructive to your bank balance) was because it was next to a just perfect lake.
Hari and I took quite a few rowing trips on the lake, and on one of these we rowed to the bottom of a of the steep walk up to the giant Buddhist Stipa. The walk, I confess, was grim. Not only had we chosen midday to 1 o'clock to climb, but I was wearing jeans, again. Sweat factor infinity. Also, halfway up we acquired half a dozen boys, whiskeyed up and crude all over. The top was worth it though, boasting a gorgeous monument and the best view of the lake and city in Pokhara. On the way down, I think when me and Hari were having some sort of pseudo argument about English language, I got far too cocky about the steep decline and fell over, spraining my ankle. Moaning all the way down like a pissy footballer, I limped my way back to our room. The next two days were quiet, as we pottered and waited for my ankle to heal.
When it was pretty much better we hired bikes and road around the surrounding countryside, which was my favourite thing we did there. It was easy to forget you were in Nepal, west coast Ireland felt more like it, if not for the odd reminder thanks to a bus with as many passengers on the roof as inside, or the odd flurry of children chasing a chicken. Oh yes, and I went paragliding. All I have to say that was it was surreal, and that my Bulgarian tandom pilot a very funny man. I don't really remember the views if I'm honest, I think I was wrapped up with how unnatural flying felt.
So Pokhara to Chitwan - more road diversions, more demonstrations, more Nepali citizens evicted from tourist buses. Chitwan, now that is a very hot place, ridiculous at points. We stayed in one of those hotels where you know the staff love your wallets, hate the sight of you and are uncomfortably attentive and inquisitive. We spent our time avoiding the heights of the heat and looking out for animals. I am now very used to the sight of elephants and rhinos. The highlight was the elephant breeding centre, home of month old twin-baby elephants, the only twins born in captivity. I can't recall much more, maybe it was the heat.
After completing the last line of the triangle we arrived back in Kathmandu to familiar surroundings. We stayed there for what seemed like a long time. The day before yesterday there were massive strikes in Kathmandu, marches bigger thank I've ever seen before. The Chief General of the Army has been ousted, the coalition government is collapsing. Indian newspapers told me this morning that Nepal are blaming India. Delhi's leg of the national elections is in two days. Hari is in Nepal and I am in India. I miss her very, very dearly.
I'm back in India.
How to explain such a long, wordless stay in Nepal?
So many of the small, sparkling details have escaped my memory, and an entire country seems now like a photo album of events and thoughts. I say an entire country, but this is highly inaccurate because we rarely strayed from the tourist circuit of Kathmandu, Pokhara and Chitwan. However, three and a half long weeks in Nepal haven been given the Delhi treatment: it all feels behind me.
Nevertheless, here I rant:
The four hour long bus journey to Pokhara took 12 hours. A strike held in a small village on the Pokhara root stopped us, stranded, with only 60km left of the journey. A road block had been made by the locals because (from what I could gather) a local had killed another, run away, and had yet to be found. Everyone in the town was determined to hunt down the killer, and I suspect to try attract the police's wandering eye, had stopped all traffic. So, at 11am I stepped off the bus to young men running down the road with large, wooden instruments of pain and fast faces. At 5pm I stepped back on the bus reflecting on what a nice bunch of people I'd met, and how cheerful the cafe owners were. 12 whole tourists buses stranded! If I were honest, I's say it was the best day of business they'd ever had. If I were cynical, I'd say no murder had ever taken place.
Now Pokhara is a very clean and beautiful city. It is also, if I'm talking of Lakeside, exceedingly expensive and stereotypical. The tourist end of Pokhara, named Lakeside, is one of those places which is made to include "everything a tourist needs". Like all of these places, it doesn't really convince. A bit like going to Atlantis and finding a shop full of swimming trunks. Perhaps Lakeside's translucency was due to brash lights, mini supermarkets, the various "blues bars" or the fact that there are Tibetan refugees selling craft outside Pashmina emporiums, cafe owners shooing children away from their white customers, or drug dealers pitching to women on package holidays. I think the main reason Lakeside was the area equivalent of a credit card (plastic, destructive to your bank balance) was because it was next to a just perfect lake.
Hari and I took quite a few rowing trips on the lake, and on one of these we rowed to the bottom of a of the steep walk up to the giant Buddhist Stipa. The walk, I confess, was grim. Not only had we chosen midday to 1 o'clock to climb, but I was wearing jeans, again. Sweat factor infinity. Also, halfway up we acquired half a dozen boys, whiskeyed up and crude all over. The top was worth it though, boasting a gorgeous monument and the best view of the lake and city in Pokhara. On the way down, I think when me and Hari were having some sort of pseudo argument about English language, I got far too cocky about the steep decline and fell over, spraining my ankle. Moaning all the way down like a pissy footballer, I limped my way back to our room. The next two days were quiet, as we pottered and waited for my ankle to heal.
When it was pretty much better we hired bikes and road around the surrounding countryside, which was my favourite thing we did there. It was easy to forget you were in Nepal, west coast Ireland felt more like it, if not for the odd reminder thanks to a bus with as many passengers on the roof as inside, or the odd flurry of children chasing a chicken. Oh yes, and I went paragliding. All I have to say that was it was surreal, and that my Bulgarian tandom pilot a very funny man. I don't really remember the views if I'm honest, I think I was wrapped up with how unnatural flying felt.
So Pokhara to Chitwan - more road diversions, more demonstrations, more Nepali citizens evicted from tourist buses. Chitwan, now that is a very hot place, ridiculous at points. We stayed in one of those hotels where you know the staff love your wallets, hate the sight of you and are uncomfortably attentive and inquisitive. We spent our time avoiding the heights of the heat and looking out for animals. I am now very used to the sight of elephants and rhinos. The highlight was the elephant breeding centre, home of month old twin-baby elephants, the only twins born in captivity. I can't recall much more, maybe it was the heat.
After completing the last line of the triangle we arrived back in Kathmandu to familiar surroundings. We stayed there for what seemed like a long time. The day before yesterday there were massive strikes in Kathmandu, marches bigger thank I've ever seen before. The Chief General of the Army has been ousted, the coalition government is collapsing. Indian newspapers told me this morning that Nepal are blaming India. Delhi's leg of the national elections is in two days. Hari is in Nepal and I am in India. I miss her very, very dearly.
I'm back in India.
Friday, 17 April 2009
Wednesday, 15 April 2009
Into The Filling
Shiva Puri, 11th April
Manali. Altitude. Nepali breakfasts. Rain, Snow. Drinking from waterfalls. Rum punch. Gin rummy. The light from the moon. The rivers from the mountains. The harsh light of day. Hotel Yeti. walks along hill and river. Dystopian literature. Long, lost hours. Bliss, Visisht, Manali.
Delhi Mark III. Rain. Heat. Humidity. Hotel Ajay (Again). The return of familiar surroundings. Duncan Forsyth. Old Delhi. Spectacular Mosque. Old Delhi Eateries: Advice on health and welfare from local customers. Tens of mechanics and repair shops all bunched together. Bussy, witty streets unable to hide the sheer volume of life. The dead, bloody heads of goats. Generous rickshaw drivers. Little sleep. The aeroplane to Nepal.
We arrived in Kathmandu at around 9.30am. Stepping off the plane we found our way into one of those usual, pointless buses which seem to drive for around 12 seconds to a spot easily in walking distance from the plane. Walking through the quiet, deserted arrivals and customs section of Kathmandu airport was bizarre. Four or five tables were topped with a various assortment of scattered, unorganised pieces of A4 and A5 paper. These being the customs and visa forms, we eventually located the appropriate papers, indeed ones not already half filled out with mistakes, made our way to the desk and were handed our visas five minutes and 140 US Dollars later. Joe met us at the airport. From here we drove to the house of Prem Singh, through roads calmer and altogether less congested by rickshaws than my eyes were used to. At Prem's we ate, talked of our past in India and our future in Nepal, old age, youth and the city of Kathmandu. In the kindest of ways we were being looked after, in the most honest waited on, in the slightest of ways scrutinized, but in the most holistic we were being welcomed, and gorgeously so. This I truly appreciate, arriving in any new capital is confusing, exciting and frightening. We were taken around Kathmandu to banks, spirit shops and travel agents. These administritive jobs gave me a chance to digest the city by it's streets. The fonts and colourful letterings of India accomany Kathamndu's shops, yet there are less shops. The Nepali people hold not the faces of their Indian and Tibetan neighbours, but simultaneously a mixture between both and neither. There are less animals visible by street, and more Newari meat on menus. There is a prescence of numerous major embassies and American pressure. There are occasional huge areas of rubbish, the street cleaners are on strike, I am told the Maoist government pay them too little. Strikes are very common. There are massive shopping centres. I am told that in the Nepali's opinion the king will regain power within a couple of months and that the government are widely unpopular. I try Nepali paan. My head is nearly blown off until the spearmint flavour eventually breaks through and sooths the spicy taste of the brittle stuff. I am introduced to the monkey temple, but all the monkeys have been scared off by their brothers, as the thousands of humans crowded into the small temple complex for another religious occasion. At this temple, in sight of eachother, Hindu and Buddhist temples exist together. We make our way around slowly, but eventually the gridlock of people drives us back out and into the gridlock that is Kathmandu rush hour. It takes an hour to return to Prem's house. The cars may drive slower, but the roads are not, as I first thought, calmer.
From Prem's we start the climb to Shiva Puri, the almost slapstick bumpiness of the journey skillfully and quitely navigated by the coy, lovely 17 year old driver. Now Shiva Puri is bright green. Blossom and pink flowers hug the trees and grass. From our dining spot we can see from the grass land plains right to the peak of the Himalayas. The birds are tuneful and rhythmical. There is a single goat that strolls along and around the tiny place, past the woodshed and sleeping areas. The moonlight immeadiately allows your eyes to see as if they've been staring into the dark for an hour. The staff are humble, attractive and embarrasingly attentive. It is, I'm contemplating, the most serene and godly place I've inhabited yet. We spend our days playing music, talking, laughing, and apart from regular arrival of meals, not much else. I am immeasurably lucky. Life has never felt so tender.
And oddly, it's Easter tomorrow.
Kathmandu, 14th April
It's 2066.
Leaving Shiva Puri, the loss of Joe to England, these departures left me cold, purposeless, lost and sad. I think they call this homesick. The return of the inevitable sense of being dumped in an large, inpenetrable, city swept over me for most of my first day back in Kathmandu. Stuck in the overpriced, Espressotastic, westernised shit hole Thamel, we wandered aimlessly around for a number of hours, upset by restaurant bills and lack of real substance until we eventually decided to venture to the "Garden of Dreams". "Tom's Midnight Garden" came to mind. We philosophised here for a while, enjoyed the lushness and plushness of it's greenery, and chose to set sail for Freak Street. The cycle rickshaw opened our eyes to a side of Kathmandu infinitely more attractive, and as I write we are staying in the very guesthouse above the restaurant we found ourselves in on Freak Street.
Halfway througha plate of Momos and a copy of the Himalayan Times I discover it's New Years Eve, circa the Nepali Year 2065. Suddenly my mood shifts, my eyes brighten. I start to catch glances of excited, contented expectation is the faces of courting young Neplai girls and boys. As we make the half an hour walk back to our original hotel in Thamel through the lampless, yet electric streets we pass uncountable directions of music. We direct ourselves around laughing crowds of disinterested shopkeepers, the lyrical horns of motorbikes, sharp looking men, beautiful looking women, the discoloured heads of dead pigs, the occasional chicken, the odd drug dealer, the frequent tourist. Back at our weird, dark hotel, Hari and I feel it approriate to celebrate. We play cards, crack into the Baileys and whiskey we've acquired and make our way to "Reggae Bar". As we walk past someone who can only be loosely described as a bouncer, he lets us in with a smile and declares that we do not have to pay (no one has to pay), we collect our drinks from the bar (Thamel price) and sit down to the local band. The lead singer is wearing a bandana and is tattoo-clad as he rasps out the final chorus repeat of an extremely extended version of Pink Floyd's "Another Brick In The Wall (Part II)". We leave the bar as the band are going into pseudo-heavy mode and laugh ourselves into bed well before midnight, as always.
So after departing Thamel and uprooting to Freak street, we explore the nearby Durbar Square. in the centre there's a stage, and loads of doctored-Nepali flags, which have been erected to the surrounding centuries-old temples. Some sort of event is taking place, and a large crowd onlooks. . On the stage there are around six men, seated, who fail to move throughout the event. Standing in front of them is a speaker with a microphone. He, like the seated men behind him and many of the supporters in the front row, wear identical caps sporting this flag. Some men wear rosettes. So - this is a New Year's Day celebration turned political ralley. Just as this realisation dawns on me it is challenged, then discarded when a man wearin a rucksack joins the stage, mumurs "Track 8", and proceeds to soulfully sing to a romantic backing track. A few young girls and one or two old men dance just in front of the stage. They all wear the caps. The simple question repeats over in my mind - what the fuck is going on, please? Once again the language barrier kills any chance of understanding, and we stroll off completely confused and utterly bemused.
Two rickshaws later and we're at Pashupatinath. The smoke rises from the dead. There are children running around, playing. There are sadhus who pose for photos. There is a dirty, almost waterless river that runs through the temple complex. There are cows in the mounds of grass in the river, monkeys everywhere else. Nepali yuppies wlak past poor, crosslegged countrymen.
We are at temple that has existed in part since the 5th century. We are also at an open air crematorium. The naked, death cold bodies are wrapped in robes of orange (peace) and white (sadness, grief). The firewood is prepared. The body is rested on the wood. The oldest son begins the fire, setting his father's mouth alight. The body burns for three hours. The ashes are swept into the river from the platform. The five Hindu essential elements of fire, water, earth, sky and air are represented in the ceremony. The smoke, being air, rises from the fire into the sky. The fire is made on the platform, being earth. Finally the ashes of the fire are returned to water. There are around seven platforms, some empty, other at the different stages of funeral. An old women is being undressed. The temple is open at all times, all hours, the disposal of the dead is a continuous task. Families surround the platforms. Nobody cries, many talk. The grief, like the cremation, is public. We are invited to take pictures.
From here we walk to Boudha, from the realms of Hinduism into the huge monument space of the Tibetan Buddhist stipa, which is maybe a century older than Pashupatinath, but in honesty, nobody really knows. The size, colour, visible simplicity and ideologically representitive features of this stipa make it a stunning sight. I am moved by both temples as I have not been before. So old.
We eat, return to Freak Street through boringly endless jams and pollution, through continual New Year celebrations and a melting pot of sound and light. As as we ride through the streets clutching onto each moment stubbornly, I am a pinprick on the passage of time, a moment of dust on the expanse of space, and so young, so ignorant, so curious.
Manali. Altitude. Nepali breakfasts. Rain, Snow. Drinking from waterfalls. Rum punch. Gin rummy. The light from the moon. The rivers from the mountains. The harsh light of day. Hotel Yeti. walks along hill and river. Dystopian literature. Long, lost hours. Bliss, Visisht, Manali.
Delhi Mark III. Rain. Heat. Humidity. Hotel Ajay (Again). The return of familiar surroundings. Duncan Forsyth. Old Delhi. Spectacular Mosque. Old Delhi Eateries: Advice on health and welfare from local customers. Tens of mechanics and repair shops all bunched together. Bussy, witty streets unable to hide the sheer volume of life. The dead, bloody heads of goats. Generous rickshaw drivers. Little sleep. The aeroplane to Nepal.
We arrived in Kathmandu at around 9.30am. Stepping off the plane we found our way into one of those usual, pointless buses which seem to drive for around 12 seconds to a spot easily in walking distance from the plane. Walking through the quiet, deserted arrivals and customs section of Kathmandu airport was bizarre. Four or five tables were topped with a various assortment of scattered, unorganised pieces of A4 and A5 paper. These being the customs and visa forms, we eventually located the appropriate papers, indeed ones not already half filled out with mistakes, made our way to the desk and were handed our visas five minutes and 140 US Dollars later. Joe met us at the airport. From here we drove to the house of Prem Singh, through roads calmer and altogether less congested by rickshaws than my eyes were used to. At Prem's we ate, talked of our past in India and our future in Nepal, old age, youth and the city of Kathmandu. In the kindest of ways we were being looked after, in the most honest waited on, in the slightest of ways scrutinized, but in the most holistic we were being welcomed, and gorgeously so. This I truly appreciate, arriving in any new capital is confusing, exciting and frightening. We were taken around Kathmandu to banks, spirit shops and travel agents. These administritive jobs gave me a chance to digest the city by it's streets. The fonts and colourful letterings of India accomany Kathamndu's shops, yet there are less shops. The Nepali people hold not the faces of their Indian and Tibetan neighbours, but simultaneously a mixture between both and neither. There are less animals visible by street, and more Newari meat on menus. There is a prescence of numerous major embassies and American pressure. There are occasional huge areas of rubbish, the street cleaners are on strike, I am told the Maoist government pay them too little. Strikes are very common. There are massive shopping centres. I am told that in the Nepali's opinion the king will regain power within a couple of months and that the government are widely unpopular. I try Nepali paan. My head is nearly blown off until the spearmint flavour eventually breaks through and sooths the spicy taste of the brittle stuff. I am introduced to the monkey temple, but all the monkeys have been scared off by their brothers, as the thousands of humans crowded into the small temple complex for another religious occasion. At this temple, in sight of eachother, Hindu and Buddhist temples exist together. We make our way around slowly, but eventually the gridlock of people drives us back out and into the gridlock that is Kathmandu rush hour. It takes an hour to return to Prem's house. The cars may drive slower, but the roads are not, as I first thought, calmer.
From Prem's we start the climb to Shiva Puri, the almost slapstick bumpiness of the journey skillfully and quitely navigated by the coy, lovely 17 year old driver. Now Shiva Puri is bright green. Blossom and pink flowers hug the trees and grass. From our dining spot we can see from the grass land plains right to the peak of the Himalayas. The birds are tuneful and rhythmical. There is a single goat that strolls along and around the tiny place, past the woodshed and sleeping areas. The moonlight immeadiately allows your eyes to see as if they've been staring into the dark for an hour. The staff are humble, attractive and embarrasingly attentive. It is, I'm contemplating, the most serene and godly place I've inhabited yet. We spend our days playing music, talking, laughing, and apart from regular arrival of meals, not much else. I am immeasurably lucky. Life has never felt so tender.
And oddly, it's Easter tomorrow.
Kathmandu, 14th April
It's 2066.
Leaving Shiva Puri, the loss of Joe to England, these departures left me cold, purposeless, lost and sad. I think they call this homesick. The return of the inevitable sense of being dumped in an large, inpenetrable, city swept over me for most of my first day back in Kathmandu. Stuck in the overpriced, Espressotastic, westernised shit hole Thamel, we wandered aimlessly around for a number of hours, upset by restaurant bills and lack of real substance until we eventually decided to venture to the "Garden of Dreams". "Tom's Midnight Garden" came to mind. We philosophised here for a while, enjoyed the lushness and plushness of it's greenery, and chose to set sail for Freak Street. The cycle rickshaw opened our eyes to a side of Kathmandu infinitely more attractive, and as I write we are staying in the very guesthouse above the restaurant we found ourselves in on Freak Street.
Halfway througha plate of Momos and a copy of the Himalayan Times I discover it's New Years Eve, circa the Nepali Year 2065. Suddenly my mood shifts, my eyes brighten. I start to catch glances of excited, contented expectation is the faces of courting young Neplai girls and boys. As we make the half an hour walk back to our original hotel in Thamel through the lampless, yet electric streets we pass uncountable directions of music. We direct ourselves around laughing crowds of disinterested shopkeepers, the lyrical horns of motorbikes, sharp looking men, beautiful looking women, the discoloured heads of dead pigs, the occasional chicken, the odd drug dealer, the frequent tourist. Back at our weird, dark hotel, Hari and I feel it approriate to celebrate. We play cards, crack into the Baileys and whiskey we've acquired and make our way to "Reggae Bar". As we walk past someone who can only be loosely described as a bouncer, he lets us in with a smile and declares that we do not have to pay (no one has to pay), we collect our drinks from the bar (Thamel price) and sit down to the local band. The lead singer is wearing a bandana and is tattoo-clad as he rasps out the final chorus repeat of an extremely extended version of Pink Floyd's "Another Brick In The Wall (Part II)". We leave the bar as the band are going into pseudo-heavy mode and laugh ourselves into bed well before midnight, as always.
So after departing Thamel and uprooting to Freak street, we explore the nearby Durbar Square. in the centre there's a stage, and loads of doctored-Nepali flags, which have been erected to the surrounding centuries-old temples. Some sort of event is taking place, and a large crowd onlooks. . On the stage there are around six men, seated, who fail to move throughout the event. Standing in front of them is a speaker with a microphone. He, like the seated men behind him and many of the supporters in the front row, wear identical caps sporting this flag. Some men wear rosettes. So - this is a New Year's Day celebration turned political ralley. Just as this realisation dawns on me it is challenged, then discarded when a man wearin a rucksack joins the stage, mumurs "Track 8", and proceeds to soulfully sing to a romantic backing track. A few young girls and one or two old men dance just in front of the stage. They all wear the caps. The simple question repeats over in my mind - what the fuck is going on, please? Once again the language barrier kills any chance of understanding, and we stroll off completely confused and utterly bemused.
Two rickshaws later and we're at Pashupatinath. The smoke rises from the dead. There are children running around, playing. There are sadhus who pose for photos. There is a dirty, almost waterless river that runs through the temple complex. There are cows in the mounds of grass in the river, monkeys everywhere else. Nepali yuppies wlak past poor, crosslegged countrymen.
We are at temple that has existed in part since the 5th century. We are also at an open air crematorium. The naked, death cold bodies are wrapped in robes of orange (peace) and white (sadness, grief). The firewood is prepared. The body is rested on the wood. The oldest son begins the fire, setting his father's mouth alight. The body burns for three hours. The ashes are swept into the river from the platform. The five Hindu essential elements of fire, water, earth, sky and air are represented in the ceremony. The smoke, being air, rises from the fire into the sky. The fire is made on the platform, being earth. Finally the ashes of the fire are returned to water. There are around seven platforms, some empty, other at the different stages of funeral. An old women is being undressed. The temple is open at all times, all hours, the disposal of the dead is a continuous task. Families surround the platforms. Nobody cries, many talk. The grief, like the cremation, is public. We are invited to take pictures.
From here we walk to Boudha, from the realms of Hinduism into the huge monument space of the Tibetan Buddhist stipa, which is maybe a century older than Pashupatinath, but in honesty, nobody really knows. The size, colour, visible simplicity and ideologically representitive features of this stipa make it a stunning sight. I am moved by both temples as I have not been before. So old.
We eat, return to Freak Street through boringly endless jams and pollution, through continual New Year celebrations and a melting pot of sound and light. As as we ride through the streets clutching onto each moment stubbornly, I am a pinprick on the passage of time, a moment of dust on the expanse of space, and so young, so ignorant, so curious.
Sunday, 5 April 2009
The Smoke To The Snow
After so long plagued with writers block thanks to lack of subject, I've found myself wordless for the exact opposite reasons. How do you put this country into words, a universe within itself? Regarding that, here is a list of things I've been doing in the heaven knows how long.
Amritsar, 22nd March
Following a near 24hour bus journey, a confused selection of State Bus changes and a good 16 hour sleep I awake properly to Amritsar on my second day there.
The pollution is clearly visible, the sky simultaneously blue directly above and an overcast grey on the horizon. Amritsar immediately strikes me as an Industrial city, a working hub for the production of whatever goods can be made the provide jobs. The traffic is worse than Delhi, the character more hardened and private than Rajasthan. However Amritsar immediately is the most visibly religious place par maybe Rishikesh I've been yet. The pilgrimage of thousands of Sikhs per day to the Golden Temple just reinforces the sheer amount of religion here. The endless, multi-shaded oceans of turbans set upon the smoke, small manafacturing establishments, eateries and dirty grapes all serve to emphasise the daily reality of religious activity, as much a part of life as driving around the city's streets, laughing and philosophising with family or working on the huge number of construction sites the city houses.
Walking around the oddly positioned Golden Temple it is obvious how such monuments are always surrounded by such normality. I took off my shoes, crudely covered my head with my scarf, and entered the holy temple looking like an idiot pirate. Gora.
Most of the sightseeing was accompanied with bemused smiles from onlookers, groups of men more interested in a 'snap' with me than of the temple itself, and a brief insight into the manifestations of the Sikh culture.
Much of the same at the Jallianwala Bagh memorial. Here the blood of thousands of Sikhs, Muslims and Hindus was split due to brutality and lack of humanity from the British forces in the 1919 massacre. To walk into this memorial as member of the guilty country in hand was extremely resonant and important. Thousands more of these sights must exist, regards to the colonial obsessed bastards. How many more do, and will exist in Iraq and Afghanistan in 5, 10, 20 years time?
The guilt felt at the Jallianwala Bagh was perverted even more so by the eagerness of the surrounding Indians to have more pictures with us. To feel like a circus animal or clown in the court of your trial is perhaps fitting, I do not know.
In truth the nicest Indians we met were the Punjabi women, whose wholesome, honest smiles and approachable manner was only furthered by the numerous presence and confidence. It was here I met my favourite Indian so far, a large, strong women of perhaps 50 or 60, white haired and the owner of the wittiest eyes and chuckle in the subcontinent. She and around 7 younger friends sat around us, staring, exchanging hellos and handshakes. As they bid farewell the woman, who in my memory spoke no English, gave us all a hearty hug upon leaving, and walked back into life muttering conversational Punjabi. Goodbye the, Amritsar.
Dharamsala, 3rd April
Amritsar, 22nd March
Following a near 24hour bus journey, a confused selection of State Bus changes and a good 16 hour sleep I awake properly to Amritsar on my second day there.
The pollution is clearly visible, the sky simultaneously blue directly above and an overcast grey on the horizon. Amritsar immediately strikes me as an Industrial city, a working hub for the production of whatever goods can be made the provide jobs. The traffic is worse than Delhi, the character more hardened and private than Rajasthan. However Amritsar immediately is the most visibly religious place par maybe Rishikesh I've been yet. The pilgrimage of thousands of Sikhs per day to the Golden Temple just reinforces the sheer amount of religion here. The endless, multi-shaded oceans of turbans set upon the smoke, small manafacturing establishments, eateries and dirty grapes all serve to emphasise the daily reality of religious activity, as much a part of life as driving around the city's streets, laughing and philosophising with family or working on the huge number of construction sites the city houses.
Walking around the oddly positioned Golden Temple it is obvious how such monuments are always surrounded by such normality. I took off my shoes, crudely covered my head with my scarf, and entered the holy temple looking like an idiot pirate. Gora.
Most of the sightseeing was accompanied with bemused smiles from onlookers, groups of men more interested in a 'snap' with me than of the temple itself, and a brief insight into the manifestations of the Sikh culture.
Much of the same at the Jallianwala Bagh memorial. Here the blood of thousands of Sikhs, Muslims and Hindus was split due to brutality and lack of humanity from the British forces in the 1919 massacre. To walk into this memorial as member of the guilty country in hand was extremely resonant and important. Thousands more of these sights must exist, regards to the colonial obsessed bastards. How many more do, and will exist in Iraq and Afghanistan in 5, 10, 20 years time?
The guilt felt at the Jallianwala Bagh was perverted even more so by the eagerness of the surrounding Indians to have more pictures with us. To feel like a circus animal or clown in the court of your trial is perhaps fitting, I do not know.
In truth the nicest Indians we met were the Punjabi women, whose wholesome, honest smiles and approachable manner was only furthered by the numerous presence and confidence. It was here I met my favourite Indian so far, a large, strong women of perhaps 50 or 60, white haired and the owner of the wittiest eyes and chuckle in the subcontinent. She and around 7 younger friends sat around us, staring, exchanging hellos and handshakes. As they bid farewell the woman, who in my memory spoke no English, gave us all a hearty hug upon leaving, and walked back into life muttering conversational Punjabi. Goodbye the, Amritsar.
Dharamsala, 3rd April
Memories * McLeod Ganj
Dharamsala, and more specifically McLeod Ganj, tourist infected area and home of the Tibetan government and culture in exile, was a healing, comfortable and resourceful home for just over a week. It is a symbol of the gorgeous diversity of India, and the simple, infinite hospitality of India. Many Tibetans walked miles through the harsh beautiful terrain of the Himalayas to Dharamsala to exercise freedom of speech, freedom of religion and freedom of Tibetan cultural practices. India, home of 1.17 billion, continues to welcome them in.
The long journey from Amritsar saw me trampled on the floor of a tiny train due to the ridiculous amount of (consistently relaxed) passengers, sick in a train station to the bemused silence of hundreds of onlookers, and finally stunned to a silence of my own by the golden country of Himachal Pradesh and the first sight of the Himalayas. The mountains are alive. They hide in cloud on overcast days, and when their disguises are removed by the movement of wind they announce themselves to Mcleod Ganj with such gigantic, gorgeous severity that one can only stare, and keep on staring.
So we arrived in Dharamsala at night, our only clues to McLeod Ganj being a comparatively small selection of focused lights placed high on the vast landscape. Absolutely robbed of all energy, mugged and beaten of all purpose my body collapsed into bed.
The next few days saw lots of walks, the buying of an incy little guitar, the return of composition, the recovery from illness, the return of illness, new acquatainces, the revival of jumpers and the departure of Katy. Before Katy left we explored half a walk to Dharamkot, the outrageous Engrish of Xcite Bar*, the Pierce Brosnan menu-ed McLlo's bar (lots of Tibetan hipsters sprawled suggestively along tables) and the Buddhist temple complex, in which we stumbled across the lunchtime debate. This saw around 50 monks dressed in the famous maroon-red, paired, exchanging ideas punctuated by long, echoless claps. Unable to understand the language, the spectacle seemed like a marine dance, the inevitable claps similar to a quick turn of a fish's tail. Either that, or the altitude is ruining my brain.
After Katy left, we spent more time with a good humored, down to earth New Zealand couple named respectively Lydia and Duncan. We'd met them on the excruciating 6 hour train ride from Pathankot, and with them we ate, drank, talked of the extremities, beauties and absurdities of India, the experiences of Rajasthan, and also attended a talk with some Tibetan ex-political prisoners.
The talk was humbling thanks to the honest and positivity of those tortured and exiled men, but did not teach me anything I had not imagined, simply reinforcing the importance of the issue. The audience also happened to contain a few of the usual self important types, all to happy to steer the ship of conversation their way, setting sail for cynical Western logic and their views on consumerism and globalisation. Perhaps I was missing the point or am the cynic myself, but in a room full of tourists and English speaking Tibetans, I know who I want to listen too, I'm afraid.
In completely opposite circumstances me and Hari got lost half way up a mountain, attempting to walk to the snow line. Thankyou very much, Himalayan sun, for the neck brace style pinkness I still own below my hairline.
Another recurring feature of Dharamsala was a morose, friendly Kashmiri man named Ali. A shopkeeper, forced to move south from his beloved Kashmir for the tourist beat, he entertained us with his uniquely Indian views on his lovelife, family, Islam, ghosts, business, maternal cooking and the weather. He is a friend.
Finally, I plowed through 'Shantaram' in just over a week, due to it's addictive storytelling and I suspect, my unconscious tendency to skimread. I'm reading 'We' by Yevgeny Zamyatin now.
So in the home of the Dalai Lama, too many of the small events we collectively call living occurred for me to begin recalling even half of them. McLeod Ganj, like most of the India in my heart, is slowly maturing into pure memory.
The long journey from Amritsar saw me trampled on the floor of a tiny train due to the ridiculous amount of (consistently relaxed) passengers, sick in a train station to the bemused silence of hundreds of onlookers, and finally stunned to a silence of my own by the golden country of Himachal Pradesh and the first sight of the Himalayas. The mountains are alive. They hide in cloud on overcast days, and when their disguises are removed by the movement of wind they announce themselves to Mcleod Ganj with such gigantic, gorgeous severity that one can only stare, and keep on staring.
So we arrived in Dharamsala at night, our only clues to McLeod Ganj being a comparatively small selection of focused lights placed high on the vast landscape. Absolutely robbed of all energy, mugged and beaten of all purpose my body collapsed into bed.
The next few days saw lots of walks, the buying of an incy little guitar, the return of composition, the recovery from illness, the return of illness, new acquatainces, the revival of jumpers and the departure of Katy. Before Katy left we explored half a walk to Dharamkot, the outrageous Engrish of Xcite Bar*, the Pierce Brosnan menu-ed McLlo's bar (lots of Tibetan hipsters sprawled suggestively along tables) and the Buddhist temple complex, in which we stumbled across the lunchtime debate. This saw around 50 monks dressed in the famous maroon-red, paired, exchanging ideas punctuated by long, echoless claps. Unable to understand the language, the spectacle seemed like a marine dance, the inevitable claps similar to a quick turn of a fish's tail. Either that, or the altitude is ruining my brain.
After Katy left, we spent more time with a good humored, down to earth New Zealand couple named respectively Lydia and Duncan. We'd met them on the excruciating 6 hour train ride from Pathankot, and with them we ate, drank, talked of the extremities, beauties and absurdities of India, the experiences of Rajasthan, and also attended a talk with some Tibetan ex-political prisoners.
The talk was humbling thanks to the honest and positivity of those tortured and exiled men, but did not teach me anything I had not imagined, simply reinforcing the importance of the issue. The audience also happened to contain a few of the usual self important types, all to happy to steer the ship of conversation their way, setting sail for cynical Western logic and their views on consumerism and globalisation. Perhaps I was missing the point or am the cynic myself, but in a room full of tourists and English speaking Tibetans, I know who I want to listen too, I'm afraid.
In completely opposite circumstances me and Hari got lost half way up a mountain, attempting to walk to the snow line. Thankyou very much, Himalayan sun, for the neck brace style pinkness I still own below my hairline.
Another recurring feature of Dharamsala was a morose, friendly Kashmiri man named Ali. A shopkeeper, forced to move south from his beloved Kashmir for the tourist beat, he entertained us with his uniquely Indian views on his lovelife, family, Islam, ghosts, business, maternal cooking and the weather. He is a friend.
Finally, I plowed through 'Shantaram' in just over a week, due to it's addictive storytelling and I suspect, my unconscious tendency to skimread. I'm reading 'We' by Yevgeny Zamyatin now.
So in the home of the Dalai Lama, too many of the small events we collectively call living occurred for me to begin recalling even half of them. McLeod Ganj, like most of the India in my heart, is slowly maturing into pure memory.
Friday, 20 March 2009
The Greatest Light Show On Earth
The Road To Jaisalmer, 17th March
UDAIPUR KEY WORDS
Boat Ride
LAKE
Picturesque
Slight Drought
Gnocchi
ITALIAN RESTAURANTS
Flavour Discoveries
ILLNESS
Unsolid Movements
MOST
Relaxed
Wealthy
Sunsets
Octopussy
Rooftop Showings Every Night At 007pm
Hilaious
Intensive Laughing
LESSONS IN
Dance Music In Hotel Rooms
Ricky Gervais Podcasts
Sitar (Major Scales With Bends)
Indian Government (Random Hotel Room Searches)
PHONE
Credit Disaster
Motorcycle Ride
W i n d i n g S t e e t s
Vodaphone Arguments
GRAFFITI
Colour
"Holy CCTV"
"Holy ATM - Open 24hours"
CITY PALACE
Maharaja
Maharasclut
Gardens
Plush
TAILORS
Scarfs
*
I am sitting alone outside the entrance to the smouldering Jaisalmer Fort old city, with regular interruptions from two or three women who seen to be both salesmen and musicians. For the first time in a great few days I have both the energy and time to write. I have been very tired, the road is starting to work at my legs.
I arrived in Jaisalmer in four days ago, I think. Travelling here was difficult, I lost my seat to a 4am intruder out of my ignorance and kindness, slept on the floor, rode at the front of the coach with the drivers family for a while, and eventually got half on my seat back through knackered assertion of authority which was very nearly lost in translation.
From Jaisalmer we moved deeper into the desert, in which I spent a day and a night. At around 11am of the 18th, I met both my individual camel and guide. My camel was twelve years old, rugged , just darker than the colour of the surrounding sand, sexually frustrated (so I was told), the owner of a tounge not far off the length of my leg, and called Holiedaye. The bulbas tounge reguarly surfaced accompanied by a kind of yelp/burp, of which I was informed was a show of sexual dominance. In contrast to this, my guide was only ten years old, cheerful, and perhaps the son of one of the guides. Collectively, we continually forgot eachother's names, so he quickly decided he was called Johnny, and I was called Alex.
Riding a camel is just like it looks it should be. Partially uncomfortable, incredibly relaxing and addictive. They are beautiful, beautiful animals, of whom I have so much respect. The guides were equal in my respect, as they prepared, lunch, dinner and breakfast for us, a campfire and humble conversation.
We rode only for around 40 minutes at a time, but regualar breaks were useful because of the heat and the camel's welfare. This also allowed us to stop at various tiny villages meet a few curious locals. There was a five minute interval in which we were sat inside one the guide's house, while his family of six sisters and a single younger brother stared at us while giggling.
We made camp at the edge of a long, rolling set of dunes, ate basic food, made chapatis and drank (as per usual) Kingfisher brand beer. I became especially friendly with one of the guides, and he explained his love for the desert, his job and his guests. The massively wide miles of sand, the continuous horizon in sight always, the clutches at life through sand and rock - goats, occasional trees, sparse settlements, this was his home, and he would be nowhere else.
I felt nevous before the trip, the ethics of a white boy from England, dressed in all white, riding an innocent animal into another communities home for my own pleasure. Yet the way the guides enjoyed looking after us and their camels was humbling. While we provided much needed livelihood, we were much more than money in their pocket, but friends immediately.
The stars, also, were something else. Not only have I never seen so many stars in one night sky, but never with such clarity. The contrast between the exploding balls of light and the vast nothing was arresting in it's forfrontalness. As the moon rose around 3am, it was obvious what a shit name "The Milky Way" is for a galaxy.
After returning to Jaisalmer city, I had the most stressful day of travel booking yet, thinking of it now, I'm sure the veins near my temples exploded a few times. For some reason most of the trains in India are jam-packed right now, and this made the already difficult journey to Amritsar into a frightful near imposible one. It tires me to think of the details of the booking saga, let alone record it in words, but the upshot of it all was a coach booked for 4pm today, and a collapsed body at 4pm yesterday.
I can feel India starting to test me now, but the people less so. The haggling ceaseless, the hassle continuous, the hecticness inescapable, but the smiling more so, the generosity more apparant, the hospitality essential and always.
I've just been offered a Chapati by the women who've been interrupting my writing. She's playing a Jew's Harp and smiling, so I might join her.
Boat Ride
LAKE
Picturesque
Slight Drought
Gnocchi
ITALIAN RESTAURANTS
Flavour Discoveries
ILLNESS
Unsolid Movements
MOST
Relaxed
Wealthy
Sunsets
Octopussy
Rooftop Showings Every Night At 007pm
Hilaious
Intensive Laughing
LESSONS IN
Dance Music In Hotel Rooms
Ricky Gervais Podcasts
Sitar (Major Scales With Bends)
Indian Government (Random Hotel Room Searches)
PHONE
Credit Disaster
Motorcycle Ride
W i n d i n g S t e e t s
Vodaphone Arguments
GRAFFITI
Colour
"Holy CCTV"
"Holy ATM - Open 24hours"
CITY PALACE
Maharaja
Maharasclut
Gardens
Plush
TAILORS
Scarfs
*
Jaisalmer, 20th March
I am sitting alone outside the entrance to the smouldering Jaisalmer Fort old city, with regular interruptions from two or three women who seen to be both salesmen and musicians. For the first time in a great few days I have both the energy and time to write. I have been very tired, the road is starting to work at my legs.
I arrived in Jaisalmer in four days ago, I think. Travelling here was difficult, I lost my seat to a 4am intruder out of my ignorance and kindness, slept on the floor, rode at the front of the coach with the drivers family for a while, and eventually got half on my seat back through knackered assertion of authority which was very nearly lost in translation.
From Jaisalmer we moved deeper into the desert, in which I spent a day and a night. At around 11am of the 18th, I met both my individual camel and guide. My camel was twelve years old, rugged , just darker than the colour of the surrounding sand, sexually frustrated (so I was told), the owner of a tounge not far off the length of my leg, and called Holiedaye. The bulbas tounge reguarly surfaced accompanied by a kind of yelp/burp, of which I was informed was a show of sexual dominance. In contrast to this, my guide was only ten years old, cheerful, and perhaps the son of one of the guides. Collectively, we continually forgot eachother's names, so he quickly decided he was called Johnny, and I was called Alex.
Riding a camel is just like it looks it should be. Partially uncomfortable, incredibly relaxing and addictive. They are beautiful, beautiful animals, of whom I have so much respect. The guides were equal in my respect, as they prepared, lunch, dinner and breakfast for us, a campfire and humble conversation.
We rode only for around 40 minutes at a time, but regualar breaks were useful because of the heat and the camel's welfare. This also allowed us to stop at various tiny villages meet a few curious locals. There was a five minute interval in which we were sat inside one the guide's house, while his family of six sisters and a single younger brother stared at us while giggling.
We made camp at the edge of a long, rolling set of dunes, ate basic food, made chapatis and drank (as per usual) Kingfisher brand beer. I became especially friendly with one of the guides, and he explained his love for the desert, his job and his guests. The massively wide miles of sand, the continuous horizon in sight always, the clutches at life through sand and rock - goats, occasional trees, sparse settlements, this was his home, and he would be nowhere else.
I felt nevous before the trip, the ethics of a white boy from England, dressed in all white, riding an innocent animal into another communities home for my own pleasure. Yet the way the guides enjoyed looking after us and their camels was humbling. While we provided much needed livelihood, we were much more than money in their pocket, but friends immediately.
The stars, also, were something else. Not only have I never seen so many stars in one night sky, but never with such clarity. The contrast between the exploding balls of light and the vast nothing was arresting in it's forfrontalness. As the moon rose around 3am, it was obvious what a shit name "The Milky Way" is for a galaxy.
After returning to Jaisalmer city, I had the most stressful day of travel booking yet, thinking of it now, I'm sure the veins near my temples exploded a few times. For some reason most of the trains in India are jam-packed right now, and this made the already difficult journey to Amritsar into a frightful near imposible one. It tires me to think of the details of the booking saga, let alone record it in words, but the upshot of it all was a coach booked for 4pm today, and a collapsed body at 4pm yesterday.
I can feel India starting to test me now, but the people less so. The haggling ceaseless, the hassle continuous, the hecticness inescapable, but the smiling more so, the generosity more apparant, the hospitality essential and always.
I've just been offered a Chapati by the women who've been interrupting my writing. She's playing a Jew's Harp and smiling, so I might join her.
Wednesday, 11 March 2009
Golden Triangle (Parts I, II and III)
I'm in the outskirts of Jaipur as I write this one, been a very quicked paced few days, here are a few disjointed and collected memories.
Delhi, 8th March
The train station was heaving this morning, a slow moving, sloth like crowd which had busy legs and stationary bodies.
* * *
Katy and Joe have both arrived, on consecutive days. Both times I travelled the round trip to the international arrivals department, and on both visits I was driven by the same driver. He was a cool young Delhi born man most probably born in the mid-eighties. He loved Delhi, worn looking jeans and his wife to be. The wedding is today. He was clearly very delighted with this fact (as you would hope) and also very clearly, charmingly, in love. He had not seen her for some time (as far as I understood) and told me that when he thought of his wife, and missed her, he would look at his ring and imagine her face. All very well, but I think what confused me was his own confusion between the pronouns "her" and "him".
The confusion lasted the entirity of the drive. I was surprised by his frankness on matters of sexuality, especially due to the illegality of homosexuality in India. There was then a short amount of time when I believed the wife in hand to be the wife in hands father, but this idea went out of the window when he announced "My wife: he is very beautiful!" with a knowing raise of the eyebrows.
* * *
Just finished a bowl of Dal, glass of limeade. Sitting in the Ajay Cafe, in which yesterday I met a fresh faced 24 year old from Falmouth called Jimmy. Jimmy is a sound engineer who's been travelling for four and a half months recording the audio of India, and is just about to fly home. Us, Jimmy and an Argentinian woman named Sofia spent the evening sharing stories, talking music and drinking on the rooftop into the night.
* * *
I've diverted slightly. Joe and I made our way through the heaving station and outrageous lies about closed ticket offices and booked our tickets to Agra, 11.30am tommorow.
We also went to India Gate, a stunning but boring structure, which was surrounded by persistent postcard-whallas and Harry Enfield-like charactertures of English tourists.
* * *
I'm going to finihs my chapati now.
Agra, 10th March
As I write, I sit on the floor of Agra Cant station, and as I look about my person I see pigeons, STD's (Indian Newsagents), French travellers, insects, bussinessmen, mothers, fathers, friends, children begging, children playing, children begging and playing, children coloured in bright purple-pink paint.
It is Holi in India, and today has been a long day. I awoke 12 hours ago and made my way to the East Gate of the Taj Mahal, merely five minutes from our hotel. 40 minutes, 750 rupees and one sunrise later I saw the coined "teardrop on the face of eternity". The Taj lives up to it's fame not only due not only to it's genius architectural design, it's colossus size and amorous white glow, but also because of it's beautiful grounds, it's pervasion of scale, and it's undeniable power of love (and it's original owner's undeniable love of power). It is the greatest building I have ever witnessed, apart from perhaps the (deceased) pier of Weston-Mare. Yet despite all this, it leaves you when you when you leave it's grounds. The surrounding area of Taj Ganj is so distant in style, life and granduer that the Taj Mahal experience is like remembering a film you have watched, like catching a glance at a celebrity.
After this we ate at the most epic building in Agra, which is only a stone's throw away from the Taj itself. Joney's Place, apparently a travelling institution, made us all very happy, full (marmite on toast was involved) and resentful that we'd spent the walking round that building and not at the cafe.
In the afternoon we visited Agra Fort, a vast Moghul construction, which made Penhow Castle look like Welsh Lego. In all seriousness it is an amazing place, but like at Penhow Castle, I was left feeling a bit bored and dry by it. Saying this, I think there has been too much for my eyes to explore today and they are slightly full up. Our only other day in Agra was preceded by a cinematic train ride from Delhi, a seat in the open door, a playlist full of Debussy and Talking Heads and a selection of friendly and interesting locals.
Arriving in Agra AI got my first sensual attack of the rich, noisy, astonishingly devoted and collectively fascinating world of Islamic India. Calls to prayer, classically Arabic architecture, the celebration of Mohammed's birth and the green dress of young Muslim were intricitly woven alongside the Hindi Holi music and young Hindus everywhere.
Jaipur, 11th March
I have nearly scrubbed all the paint off my face and torso, nearly being the optimum word here. The famous pink city of Jaipur celebrated Holi today, and painted the town a brighter shade of pink.
Surfacing tp disjointed drum patterns and dancers in the garden, we stepped out showered from our door to the sight of our hotel manager smothering aggresively bright pink, purple, red and green paint on our faces.
This particular hotel manager, a carbon copy of the many personality traits of Basil Fawlty, is by far my favourite so far. Last nights arrival from Jaipur train station was greeted by a huddle of Lithuanian tourists, Basil himself, his son (nevous and eager behing the desk) and an extremely angry Londoner claiming he'd been over charged. His particular words being "I don't have to stand here and lie to you for an extra 150 rupees, you said 60!".
AT this point I retreated from my attempt to check in, and when I returned 20 minutes later I saw the Lithuanians conducting a long drawn out conversation with the son regarding visa numbers and the manager pacing up and down the front lawn, right hand on head, temperature rising and anarchically throwing frustrated kicks around every couple of seconds or so. All, as usual, turned out well. He just walked past actually, saying something about a pair of dogs called Bin Laden and Saddam. !
So following our depature from Krishna Palace around 11.00am we were invaribly stopped by the minute, plastered up, hugged, assaulted by gangs of children, water-pistoled, "Happy-Holi"ed and eventually driven to a party at the Pearl Palace hotel (not a plush as the name suggests), in which buckets of water descended from the roof onto paint-covered partiers and a buffet accompanied by rum and Kingfisher.
After this rather succesful gatecrash we made our way back to the hotel, and as mentioned previously, WASHED.
Delhi, 8th March
The train station was heaving this morning, a slow moving, sloth like crowd which had busy legs and stationary bodies.
* * *
Katy and Joe have both arrived, on consecutive days. Both times I travelled the round trip to the international arrivals department, and on both visits I was driven by the same driver. He was a cool young Delhi born man most probably born in the mid-eighties. He loved Delhi, worn looking jeans and his wife to be. The wedding is today. He was clearly very delighted with this fact (as you would hope) and also very clearly, charmingly, in love. He had not seen her for some time (as far as I understood) and told me that when he thought of his wife, and missed her, he would look at his ring and imagine her face. All very well, but I think what confused me was his own confusion between the pronouns "her" and "him".
The confusion lasted the entirity of the drive. I was surprised by his frankness on matters of sexuality, especially due to the illegality of homosexuality in India. There was then a short amount of time when I believed the wife in hand to be the wife in hands father, but this idea went out of the window when he announced "My wife: he is very beautiful!" with a knowing raise of the eyebrows.
* * *
Just finished a bowl of Dal, glass of limeade. Sitting in the Ajay Cafe, in which yesterday I met a fresh faced 24 year old from Falmouth called Jimmy. Jimmy is a sound engineer who's been travelling for four and a half months recording the audio of India, and is just about to fly home. Us, Jimmy and an Argentinian woman named Sofia spent the evening sharing stories, talking music and drinking on the rooftop into the night.
* * *
I've diverted slightly. Joe and I made our way through the heaving station and outrageous lies about closed ticket offices and booked our tickets to Agra, 11.30am tommorow.
We also went to India Gate, a stunning but boring structure, which was surrounded by persistent postcard-whallas and Harry Enfield-like charactertures of English tourists.
* * *
I'm going to finihs my chapati now.
Agra, 10th March
As I write, I sit on the floor of Agra Cant station, and as I look about my person I see pigeons, STD's (Indian Newsagents), French travellers, insects, bussinessmen, mothers, fathers, friends, children begging, children playing, children begging and playing, children coloured in bright purple-pink paint.
It is Holi in India, and today has been a long day. I awoke 12 hours ago and made my way to the East Gate of the Taj Mahal, merely five minutes from our hotel. 40 minutes, 750 rupees and one sunrise later I saw the coined "teardrop on the face of eternity". The Taj lives up to it's fame not only due not only to it's genius architectural design, it's colossus size and amorous white glow, but also because of it's beautiful grounds, it's pervasion of scale, and it's undeniable power of love (and it's original owner's undeniable love of power). It is the greatest building I have ever witnessed, apart from perhaps the (deceased) pier of Weston-Mare. Yet despite all this, it leaves you when you when you leave it's grounds. The surrounding area of Taj Ganj is so distant in style, life and granduer that the Taj Mahal experience is like remembering a film you have watched, like catching a glance at a celebrity.
After this we ate at the most epic building in Agra, which is only a stone's throw away from the Taj itself. Joney's Place, apparently a travelling institution, made us all very happy, full (marmite on toast was involved) and resentful that we'd spent the walking round that building and not at the cafe.
In the afternoon we visited Agra Fort, a vast Moghul construction, which made Penhow Castle look like Welsh Lego. In all seriousness it is an amazing place, but like at Penhow Castle, I was left feeling a bit bored and dry by it. Saying this, I think there has been too much for my eyes to explore today and they are slightly full up. Our only other day in Agra was preceded by a cinematic train ride from Delhi, a seat in the open door, a playlist full of Debussy and Talking Heads and a selection of friendly and interesting locals.
Arriving in Agra AI got my first sensual attack of the rich, noisy, astonishingly devoted and collectively fascinating world of Islamic India. Calls to prayer, classically Arabic architecture, the celebration of Mohammed's birth and the green dress of young Muslim were intricitly woven alongside the Hindi Holi music and young Hindus everywhere.
Jaipur, 11th March
I have nearly scrubbed all the paint off my face and torso, nearly being the optimum word here. The famous pink city of Jaipur celebrated Holi today, and painted the town a brighter shade of pink.
Surfacing tp disjointed drum patterns and dancers in the garden, we stepped out showered from our door to the sight of our hotel manager smothering aggresively bright pink, purple, red and green paint on our faces.
This particular hotel manager, a carbon copy of the many personality traits of Basil Fawlty, is by far my favourite so far. Last nights arrival from Jaipur train station was greeted by a huddle of Lithuanian tourists, Basil himself, his son (nevous and eager behing the desk) and an extremely angry Londoner claiming he'd been over charged. His particular words being "I don't have to stand here and lie to you for an extra 150 rupees, you said 60!".
AT this point I retreated from my attempt to check in, and when I returned 20 minutes later I saw the Lithuanians conducting a long drawn out conversation with the son regarding visa numbers and the manager pacing up and down the front lawn, right hand on head, temperature rising and anarchically throwing frustrated kicks around every couple of seconds or so. All, as usual, turned out well. He just walked past actually, saying something about a pair of dogs called Bin Laden and Saddam. !
So following our depature from Krishna Palace around 11.00am we were invaribly stopped by the minute, plastered up, hugged, assaulted by gangs of children, water-pistoled, "Happy-Holi"ed and eventually driven to a party at the Pearl Palace hotel (not a plush as the name suggests), in which buckets of water descended from the roof onto paint-covered partiers and a buffet accompanied by rum and Kingfisher.
After this rather succesful gatecrash we made our way back to the hotel, and as mentioned previously, WASHED.
Friday, 6 March 2009
We Serve Relationship
Returned to Delhi now, a few memoirs of Rishikesh for yer:
Rishikesh, 3rd March
At 7.00pm tonight there was a religious ceremony on the east bank of the Ganges. Thirty odd children, aged between roughly 8 to 16 years old were organised, legs crossed, around a small fire. Hundreds of other observers gathered around, while huge, soulful mantras rang out distorted from carefully placed PA systems. The children, dressed in orange garments, held looks on their faces I have yet to see any boys hold before. Such intensity, love and maturity spread across so many cheeks, so much devotion in those lips, such concentration in all those eyes. One boy in particular managed to attract my eyeline so often I felt more and more intrigued by him by the minute. He sat in front row of the devotion, left arm to the Ganges, right arm to the collection of tourists and believers. As the strong, subtle, repetitive rhythm of tabla arose from the speakers, all but a few of the numerous bodies failed to clap to it, creating a ramshackle accompaniment. This particular child though, his claps so graceful, his timing all but impecable, his jet black hair at perfect odds with his young skin, this child had god all over his eyes.
Being here in Rishikesh has not persuaded an agnostic such as myself any further towards a position of belief, yet it is enough that a gos is here for every inhabitant of Rishikesh. The landscape, which is very clearly conscious, spans the imagination. The ginormous, rolling hills and the purity of the Ganges' flow, the omnipotence of Rishikesh's landscape, it says a lot about the look in that boys eyes.
Humourous is the flip side. Rishikesh is awash with new age spiritualists with 'aims' and 'goals'. My favourite of which we met on the first night, bags on backs. "The aspect I enjoy the most", told a softly spoken American gent "is the yoga". He continued underneath the banner for the 8th International Yoga Festival "I don't so much like my teacher though. Although he is very wise, he seems to confront my innerness". At which point, without a formal farewell, he drifts of into the dusty darkness. I will mention at this point that Rishikesh survives mostly on the tourist revenue from it's many Ashrams.
Another good one was at my first rooftop cafe, that of "Will it be real brown bread, or fake brown bread?".
Psuedo-Spirituality aside, Rishikesh is a very kind, calm place. I only wisj I could learn more, without the tell-tale paranoia of intrusion, which governs a lot of my behaviour here. Tradition has the habit of exclusion, especially when you have an polite English brain plonked above your neck.
Delhi, 6th March
Back in Delhi now, in an exceedingly good mood thanks to a lovely train ride with Hari and the arrival at the Ajay Youth Hostel.
The hostel, tucked away in a sidestreet from the Main Bazaar, Pahar Ganj, is populated by late night pool players, relaxed attitudes, cooling fans out of Apocolypse Now and fairly decent prices.
With Rishikesh behind us, there was a couple of things I neglected to mention:
1. The Evening Recital Of Indian Classical Music
This was a quaint rooftop affair, accompanied by colourful dancers and a quiet, appreciative audience. The event was unofficially centered around a very serious, seriously talented Tabla player, who spent most of the performance with one eye on the mixing desk and the other on the crowd's line of vision.
To his right was a small, disinterested player of drones who looked up maybe once from his relentless, yet important task. To this tabla player's right was a handsome, prodigal looking man with a beautiful ability with his flute, to which his melodies slipped hand in glove with the pure night sky.
Between songs the musicians would quietly request to comprehend the depth and religious nature of the music, this carried out in a sincere, sweet manner, much like the delivery of the whole performance.
2. Green Hotel / "Hotel Work In Progress"
When we arrived here to slightly higher prices than quoted in the Rough Guide we were kindly told that this was due to renovation. To be specific, renovation of the entire hotel. Through a week of raucous drilling and incessant hammering, the iceberg moment was perhaps the loud bang on our door, followed by a quick nod, the hammering of 4 coat hangers to our door, another short nod and then a bewildered, boxer-shorted version on myself left to return to the toilet.
3. Engrish
Simply the fabulous manifestations of the English language, too many to actually meaningfully remember any of them except the slogan on the front of The Madras Cafe menu.
WE SERVE RELATIONSHIP
4. The Money, The Bridge, The Biscuits
Our final experience in Rishikesh, just previous to a taxi ride to Haridwar station, took place on Ramjhula bridge. As we crossed the Ganges, eyed hopefully by both the numerous monkeys and Rickshaw drivers, a blissfully ignorant Hari stopped very briefly to admire the beauty of one of the monkeys. The mistake was to due to the packet of vegecrackers in her right hand. All hell broke loose in an instant. The plastic bag containing the crackers was taken, the humans were left with nothing to do but gape, the monkey victorious. I'm sure the cheeky beauty gave a quick wink when he slid down the side of the bridge, bag in hand. I assure you - television executives and advertising firms would have taken the rest of the day off.
* * *
Apart from that, Delhi seems calmer, the streets less stressful, the people increasingly lovely, the time increasingly valuable, the trip increasingly unfathomable.
Toodle Pip
xx
Rishikesh, 3rd March
At 7.00pm tonight there was a religious ceremony on the east bank of the Ganges. Thirty odd children, aged between roughly 8 to 16 years old were organised, legs crossed, around a small fire. Hundreds of other observers gathered around, while huge, soulful mantras rang out distorted from carefully placed PA systems. The children, dressed in orange garments, held looks on their faces I have yet to see any boys hold before. Such intensity, love and maturity spread across so many cheeks, so much devotion in those lips, such concentration in all those eyes. One boy in particular managed to attract my eyeline so often I felt more and more intrigued by him by the minute. He sat in front row of the devotion, left arm to the Ganges, right arm to the collection of tourists and believers. As the strong, subtle, repetitive rhythm of tabla arose from the speakers, all but a few of the numerous bodies failed to clap to it, creating a ramshackle accompaniment. This particular child though, his claps so graceful, his timing all but impecable, his jet black hair at perfect odds with his young skin, this child had god all over his eyes.
Being here in Rishikesh has not persuaded an agnostic such as myself any further towards a position of belief, yet it is enough that a gos is here for every inhabitant of Rishikesh. The landscape, which is very clearly conscious, spans the imagination. The ginormous, rolling hills and the purity of the Ganges' flow, the omnipotence of Rishikesh's landscape, it says a lot about the look in that boys eyes.
Humourous is the flip side. Rishikesh is awash with new age spiritualists with 'aims' and 'goals'. My favourite of which we met on the first night, bags on backs. "The aspect I enjoy the most", told a softly spoken American gent "is the yoga". He continued underneath the banner for the 8th International Yoga Festival "I don't so much like my teacher though. Although he is very wise, he seems to confront my innerness". At which point, without a formal farewell, he drifts of into the dusty darkness. I will mention at this point that Rishikesh survives mostly on the tourist revenue from it's many Ashrams.
Another good one was at my first rooftop cafe, that of "Will it be real brown bread, or fake brown bread?".
Psuedo-Spirituality aside, Rishikesh is a very kind, calm place. I only wisj I could learn more, without the tell-tale paranoia of intrusion, which governs a lot of my behaviour here. Tradition has the habit of exclusion, especially when you have an polite English brain plonked above your neck.
Delhi, 6th March
Back in Delhi now, in an exceedingly good mood thanks to a lovely train ride with Hari and the arrival at the Ajay Youth Hostel.
The hostel, tucked away in a sidestreet from the Main Bazaar, Pahar Ganj, is populated by late night pool players, relaxed attitudes, cooling fans out of Apocolypse Now and fairly decent prices.
With Rishikesh behind us, there was a couple of things I neglected to mention:
1. The Evening Recital Of Indian Classical Music
This was a quaint rooftop affair, accompanied by colourful dancers and a quiet, appreciative audience. The event was unofficially centered around a very serious, seriously talented Tabla player, who spent most of the performance with one eye on the mixing desk and the other on the crowd's line of vision.
To his right was a small, disinterested player of drones who looked up maybe once from his relentless, yet important task. To this tabla player's right was a handsome, prodigal looking man with a beautiful ability with his flute, to which his melodies slipped hand in glove with the pure night sky.
Between songs the musicians would quietly request to comprehend the depth and religious nature of the music, this carried out in a sincere, sweet manner, much like the delivery of the whole performance.
2. Green Hotel / "Hotel Work In Progress"
When we arrived here to slightly higher prices than quoted in the Rough Guide we were kindly told that this was due to renovation. To be specific, renovation of the entire hotel. Through a week of raucous drilling and incessant hammering, the iceberg moment was perhaps the loud bang on our door, followed by a quick nod, the hammering of 4 coat hangers to our door, another short nod and then a bewildered, boxer-shorted version on myself left to return to the toilet.
3. Engrish
Simply the fabulous manifestations of the English language, too many to actually meaningfully remember any of them except the slogan on the front of The Madras Cafe menu.
WE SERVE RELATIONSHIP
4. The Money, The Bridge, The Biscuits
Our final experience in Rishikesh, just previous to a taxi ride to Haridwar station, took place on Ramjhula bridge. As we crossed the Ganges, eyed hopefully by both the numerous monkeys and Rickshaw drivers, a blissfully ignorant Hari stopped very briefly to admire the beauty of one of the monkeys. The mistake was to due to the packet of vegecrackers in her right hand. All hell broke loose in an instant. The plastic bag containing the crackers was taken, the humans were left with nothing to do but gape, the monkey victorious. I'm sure the cheeky beauty gave a quick wink when he slid down the side of the bridge, bag in hand. I assure you - television executives and advertising firms would have taken the rest of the day off.
* * *
Apart from that, Delhi seems calmer, the streets less stressful, the people increasingly lovely, the time increasingly valuable, the trip increasingly unfathomable.
Toodle Pip
xx
Monday, 2 March 2009
First Impressions of Earth
I'm sitting at the window seat of a "cybertime cafe", with a view of the Ganges, attempting to recollect what how I've been operating. From the beginning,
Delhi, 25th February.
Delhi is a numb explosion.
Understanding a rocket bomb is easy, it's physical attributes serving as evidence to it's destruction and form. But a culture, it's labyrinths, flowers and dangers have to be learned. Never have I so much understood the force of freedom that a hometown can give, and has done to me for all of my life up until this very point.
This is a world, more specifically the world, in which I can draw on near to nothing to explain. How to walk, where, how to eat, how to talk, how to avoid talking, when to trust. Just about the only thing I am sure of is when to sleep, and again to wake. Even this proves difficult, as tough air conditioning and full flung blinds block out all natural light, and all natural darkness. From the moment of my departure, I've been kicked onto the other side of the jigsaw of centre and self. Bristol, normality. In London I was nobody. In London I was the most meaningless person in London, in Delhi I am the single most examined specimen in my eyes sight. This, of course, is because I am new.
Minority, the way this word sounds, the way it reads and speaks, makes sense only in Delhi. That is, except for the millions of Indians who live in it's realms.
Delhi, 26th February.
We leave Delhi tomorrow at 3pm, to Haridwar briefly, then swiftly to Rishikesh, which in Ringo Starr's words was "just like Butlins". That piece of information, admittedly, was discovered in my Rough Guide.
Today my head became a working vessel and I began to understand. This was the consequence of a hard days workand a huge, well-needed mwal. This morning saw recieve back 8,500 rupees, (around 100quid) which was robbed blindly from us yesterday with hard persuasion, quick tounges and a GOVT OF INDIA TOURISM sign on the door of the office. It is incredible how well politeness, when served with a cold glance, can aid matters of lying. We were dealt this art yesterday, and used it ourselves today to get our money back from the theiving bastard.
After the great moment of justice I found my way inside New Delhi train station, filled out a numerous number of forms and sucessfully reserved our seats on the 15.20 to Haridwar. We read, then ambled down the main Bazaar past interlocking lanes of Rickshaws, Auto-Rickshaws, children, sleeping dogs, cats, innumerable motorbikes and a beautiful selection of cows.
Sonu Chat House presented us with healthy amounts of Vegetable Thali, with the heat of the spice on the magic cusp of unpleasentness, but actually tasting delicious for the self same reason.
Today is my first day in India, although my body arrived a good 36 hours previous.
Rishikesh, 28 February.
It is morning in rishikesh and the the Swargashram town reveals itself to be a very beautiful place. I open the expensive curtains of our room at the Green Hotel to modest surburban settlements and large Ashrams decorated with intricate simplicity. The background to this is a platter of dense, green mountains. A monkey is loitering on a rooftop as the distant sound of music rolls over this still picture, only interupted by occasional motorcycle horns, indistinguishable voices and the continuous roll of drums.
The journey from new Delhi to Haridwar was an easy one, and the train class we took (CC) was very much like that in England, with the added bonus of the ability to adjust the seat right back into the cigar smoking American football coach position.
While the journey from Haridwar to Rishikesh, I'm sure, nearly lost me my life. Hari, myself, a controlled but lovely Finnish man and a quitely confident, yet quiet Japanese woman from Tokyo with an endearing nervous disposition to smile when spoken to, had met on the train.
We had established the wasiet option was to share a taxi together, and soon enough we found a man eager to drive us, and eager to charge us 700 rupees for doing so. Now this driver had a look so funny that in hindsight it fills me with dread, but nevertheless we had jumped in.
Haridwar was full of light, colour and the smell of roadside nut-cookers. We skirted around it's Friday night traffic and began to realise that we were to be victims to sod's law, namely: pick the driver that all the other taxi drivers hate. Halfway through the centre of Haridwar, our driver stops the car and begins an argument with a motorcycle driver. This is while traffic racks up both behind and infront of us (our car is in the middle of the road) and we begin to recieve piercing looks from the rightly impatient drivers around us. The argument ends, and our driver throws his arms up, and mutters in Hindi as if to say "They should all be made to take their test again."
Outside of Haridwar we are on the long roads to Rishikesh. These are mostly populated by huge multicoloured vans, with neon like triangles above the windscreen and BLOW HORN written in bubble writing on the back. All of the trees are to the side of the road are painted with red and white stripes. Glastonbury comes to mind. Taking the liberty to narrowly avoid colliding with both the trees and the vans, our driver moves a good 20MPH faster than anything else in sight.
There are only two lanes on the road to Rishikesh, the left hand lane (for driving) and the over-taking lane (for near death experiences). As if the last thirty minutes of the Blues Brothers, the chase intensifies, at which moment our Finnish friend looks into the back and shouts "Do they serve double-whiskys at your hotel?!". The woman from Tokyo has been shaking the whole way with her scarf placed over her mouth. To make matters worse the driver, who has now picked up on our concerns, has taken to repeating "no rules, no rules" with a laugh far to similar to that of Ed, the mad hyena from the Lion King. Restbite is given when he drops off for petrol, and eventually we're there. Having already given him 200 ruppes for his petrol, we leave him screaming for more with 550 ruppes in hand at Ramjhula bridge. We then walk our hotel, as I begin to laugh again, through quiet streets and animal filled alleys. Hari cuts my hair, and then we sleep.
Delhi, 25th February.
Delhi is a numb explosion.
Understanding a rocket bomb is easy, it's physical attributes serving as evidence to it's destruction and form. But a culture, it's labyrinths, flowers and dangers have to be learned. Never have I so much understood the force of freedom that a hometown can give, and has done to me for all of my life up until this very point.
This is a world, more specifically the world, in which I can draw on near to nothing to explain. How to walk, where, how to eat, how to talk, how to avoid talking, when to trust. Just about the only thing I am sure of is when to sleep, and again to wake. Even this proves difficult, as tough air conditioning and full flung blinds block out all natural light, and all natural darkness. From the moment of my departure, I've been kicked onto the other side of the jigsaw of centre and self. Bristol, normality. In London I was nobody. In London I was the most meaningless person in London, in Delhi I am the single most examined specimen in my eyes sight. This, of course, is because I am new.
Minority, the way this word sounds, the way it reads and speaks, makes sense only in Delhi. That is, except for the millions of Indians who live in it's realms.
Delhi, 26th February.
We leave Delhi tomorrow at 3pm, to Haridwar briefly, then swiftly to Rishikesh, which in Ringo Starr's words was "just like Butlins". That piece of information, admittedly, was discovered in my Rough Guide.
Today my head became a working vessel and I began to understand. This was the consequence of a hard days workand a huge, well-needed mwal. This morning saw recieve back 8,500 rupees, (around 100quid) which was robbed blindly from us yesterday with hard persuasion, quick tounges and a GOVT OF INDIA TOURISM sign on the door of the office. It is incredible how well politeness, when served with a cold glance, can aid matters of lying. We were dealt this art yesterday, and used it ourselves today to get our money back from the theiving bastard.
After the great moment of justice I found my way inside New Delhi train station, filled out a numerous number of forms and sucessfully reserved our seats on the 15.20 to Haridwar. We read, then ambled down the main Bazaar past interlocking lanes of Rickshaws, Auto-Rickshaws, children, sleeping dogs, cats, innumerable motorbikes and a beautiful selection of cows.
Sonu Chat House presented us with healthy amounts of Vegetable Thali, with the heat of the spice on the magic cusp of unpleasentness, but actually tasting delicious for the self same reason.
Today is my first day in India, although my body arrived a good 36 hours previous.
Rishikesh, 28 February.
It is morning in rishikesh and the the Swargashram town reveals itself to be a very beautiful place. I open the expensive curtains of our room at the Green Hotel to modest surburban settlements and large Ashrams decorated with intricate simplicity. The background to this is a platter of dense, green mountains. A monkey is loitering on a rooftop as the distant sound of music rolls over this still picture, only interupted by occasional motorcycle horns, indistinguishable voices and the continuous roll of drums.
The journey from new Delhi to Haridwar was an easy one, and the train class we took (CC) was very much like that in England, with the added bonus of the ability to adjust the seat right back into the cigar smoking American football coach position.
While the journey from Haridwar to Rishikesh, I'm sure, nearly lost me my life. Hari, myself, a controlled but lovely Finnish man and a quitely confident, yet quiet Japanese woman from Tokyo with an endearing nervous disposition to smile when spoken to, had met on the train.
We had established the wasiet option was to share a taxi together, and soon enough we found a man eager to drive us, and eager to charge us 700 rupees for doing so. Now this driver had a look so funny that in hindsight it fills me with dread, but nevertheless we had jumped in.
Haridwar was full of light, colour and the smell of roadside nut-cookers. We skirted around it's Friday night traffic and began to realise that we were to be victims to sod's law, namely: pick the driver that all the other taxi drivers hate. Halfway through the centre of Haridwar, our driver stops the car and begins an argument with a motorcycle driver. This is while traffic racks up both behind and infront of us (our car is in the middle of the road) and we begin to recieve piercing looks from the rightly impatient drivers around us. The argument ends, and our driver throws his arms up, and mutters in Hindi as if to say "They should all be made to take their test again."
Outside of Haridwar we are on the long roads to Rishikesh. These are mostly populated by huge multicoloured vans, with neon like triangles above the windscreen and BLOW HORN written in bubble writing on the back. All of the trees are to the side of the road are painted with red and white stripes. Glastonbury comes to mind. Taking the liberty to narrowly avoid colliding with both the trees and the vans, our driver moves a good 20MPH faster than anything else in sight.
There are only two lanes on the road to Rishikesh, the left hand lane (for driving) and the over-taking lane (for near death experiences). As if the last thirty minutes of the Blues Brothers, the chase intensifies, at which moment our Finnish friend looks into the back and shouts "Do they serve double-whiskys at your hotel?!". The woman from Tokyo has been shaking the whole way with her scarf placed over her mouth. To make matters worse the driver, who has now picked up on our concerns, has taken to repeating "no rules, no rules" with a laugh far to similar to that of Ed, the mad hyena from the Lion King. Restbite is given when he drops off for petrol, and eventually we're there. Having already given him 200 ruppes for his petrol, we leave him screaming for more with 550 ruppes in hand at Ramjhula bridge. We then walk our hotel, as I begin to laugh again, through quiet streets and animal filled alleys. Hari cuts my hair, and then we sleep.
* * *
Rishikesh is an amazing, relaxed and kind place. The last few days here have been like the sort of holiday in which when asked what you have done, you might reply that you finished your book.
The food is beautiful, as are the people. It is such a pleasure to be in a vegetarian country where the menus are endless, the streets full of extraordinary animals of such calmness and the sky dotted with rare, but authoritive birds.
I'll right again before I travel back to Delhi.
Rishikesh is an amazing, relaxed and kind place. The last few days here have been like the sort of holiday in which when asked what you have done, you might reply that you finished your book.
The food is beautiful, as are the people. It is such a pleasure to be in a vegetarian country where the menus are endless, the streets full of extraordinary animals of such calmness and the sky dotted with rare, but authoritive birds.
I'll right again before I travel back to Delhi.
Tuesday, 24 February 2009
Cheddar Cheese, Pianos and London Bridge
I'm in London, bags packed, passport plagued with fingerprints from numerous checks and re-checks, full of baked potato, humous and cheddar cheese, missing the ebony and ivory.
Leaving Bristol helps excitement fester, I'm off tommorow, must remind British Airways that I won't eat meat, no such problem on the subcontinent. Soon enough I'll have more to say than the movements of foodstuffs.
Take care now, I'm chipping off.
Declan
xxx
Leaving Bristol helps excitement fester, I'm off tommorow, must remind British Airways that I won't eat meat, no such problem on the subcontinent. Soon enough I'll have more to say than the movements of foodstuffs.
Take care now, I'm chipping off.
Declan
xxx
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