...And the answer to how you get from the very northernmost tip of India to the very southernmost when you can't afford to fly is this. A three hour jeep ride back down from the Himalayan mountains to Siliguri. A tuk tuk from Siliguri to the train station at New Jaipalguri. A 10 hour train from New Jaipalguri to Calcutta. And finally... an epic 42 hour, 2 night, 3 day train journey all the way from Calcutta down the Eastern coast of India and then reaching Chennai and cutting across Tamil Nadu to Ernakulum station in Kochin, Kerala. So that's what we did! The Indian train network really is fantastic, you can travel to absolutely anywhere from anywhere in relative comfort, and by our standards, for an absolute steal. It's so huge and extensive in fact that it's actually the world's biggest employer.
We stopped in Calcutta for 2 days, staying in the Sudder Street area, and other than the accommodation in the city being very overpriced (you simply can't get a bed for less than 600 rupees, and that's going to be dodgy) I really liked this friendly city. Calcutta, or Kolkata as it's now officially known, is like a microcosm for the whole of India, in that the gap between rich and poor is in your face like nowhere else. In the city where Mother Theresa taught at St Mary's High School, families with tiny children live on the side of the road and wash themselves from buckets, ragpicking litter to survive and hand-pulled rickshaw wallahs still remain (they're apparently the best way to get around in the monsoon) sleeping under their vehicles. Meanwhile just round the corner are air conditioned stores and restaurants where rich young Bengali's meet for coffee, wear beautiful clothes and speak to each other in English. Watching the streets of Calcutta is more fascinating than any movie.
Soon enough it was time to board the train that would be our home for the next three days. Usually we take 'sleeper' trains which are the cheapest class of Indian train and comprise of 3 rows of beds opposite each other, while the bottom two fold down to seats for daytime use (so if you want to sleep you book the upper berth) so you agree to put the beds up when you're ready to sleep with whoever else is sharing your section. In sleeper class there are no luxuries, the flat 'beds' are blue plastic pads and I usually use a jumper as a pillow and a sarong as a sheet. The windows are barred so natural air flows in (there are fans too) and you get a great view of the surrounding countryside. It's also incredibly noisy. However, as we knew that we would be on the train for SUCH a long time, we decided to book a 3 AC carriage, which means there are still six of you in a section, but the temperature is controlled, it's much quieter and you get a bed roll to sleep on. Most of Indian overnight train journeys don't cost more than £5, and this trip cost us about £18 each. Not bad at all when you consider you're getting 2 nights 'accommodation.'
So we settled in to the ride, reading, sleeping, drinking endless cups of chai tea from the chai-wallahs, buying bananas through the bars, gazing out at the beautiful and changing countryside beyond the window, stretching our legs on the station platforms (and even watching men having a wash on the railway line, oh how jealous I was!) and getting to know the families around us, who, as always were incredibly friendly and interested in our lives and telling us about Indian culture. They also kept us very well fed, giving us biriyanis and endless Indian sweets. The length of the journey didn't seem to phase them at all. It's just simply what you do if you want to get from one place to another. The Indian resilience never fails to impress me. On the whole they have never known privacy, or peace and quiet, so if someone starts talking loudly at 4am it doesn't bother them at all. That's just life.
Another note about Indian trains is that, like in all of India, you can pretty much do what you want. There are no health and safety rules, so if you want to open the train door and sit on the step watching the world rush by with the wind in your hair, waving at the kids playing cricket or living by the side of the tracks, you can. And that was one of my absolute favourite things to do, especially when they saw a white person and screeched at their friends to come and look and they all smiled and waved. In the same way, if the homeless, or young children want to take the train they can hop on and off, as long as they're not taking up anyone's bed or seat. It's a very common theme in India. No one (i.e. the government) seems to be looking out for the people, but no one's stopping them either. If they want to sleep inside the train station, they can. They won't be moved on.
So it was quite a challenge, and one we thought would never end, but of course it did, and actually it was a fascinating experience. Stumbling out onto the platform at Kochin we flagged down a tuk tuk and found a bed in Ernakulum before booking a houseboat trip on Kerala's famous backwaters for the next morning, ordered room service, switched on the TV and collapsed into our first good night's sleep in 3 days.
Wednesday, 14 April 2010
Darjeeling, India...
Yearning for some fresh air and a break from the heat and chaos of Northern India we headed next to the Indian hill station of Darjeeling way up in the Himalayas. After catching an overnight train from Varanasi to the closest train station, New Jaipalguri we were faced with two choices to reach our final destination. 1) The incredibly scenic Himalayan railway or 'Toy train,' which costs 700 rupees and takes 8 hours to chug 88km up into the mountains on the world's narrowest track. Or 2) A bumpy, 3 hour white-knuckle shared jeep journey along narrow, winding, sheer-drop roads for 100 rupees. In desperate need of some sleep and a shower we opted for the jeep (you just listen out for men shouting 'Darjeeling, DarjEELING, DARJEEEEEELING!') and waited an hour or so for it to fill up before we were on our way.
The change that took place in those three hours was staggering. New Jaipalguri was hot, dirty and quintessentially Indian, while up in the mountains the air became cooler and fresher with every passing kilometre. Foreign tourists seemed to be non-existent, and the faces of the people changed entirely from dark skinned and Indian, to the pale and more 'Chinese' features of the Tibetan and Nepalese. Young school girls wore jeans and hoodies, and women threw chunky cardigans over their sarees and salwar suits to keep out the cold. The winding roads were clean and tidy, with pretty and immaculately manicured pastel-coloured houses lining them. Signs of 'We want Gorkhaland' and 'Welcome to Gorkhaland' are everywhere - Nepalese Gurkhas have been campaigning for a separate state of Gorkhaland since the 1980s.
After hiking (there are no tuk tuks up there) through the ridiculously steep, winding streets with our enormous packs, and adjusting to the thin air at such high altitude, all with the help of a very friendly 10 year old schoolboy, we finally found a bed on the sixth try, and enjoyed a hot shower and a nap before heading out. We had dinner at Danfay Munal, a little family run place that served excellent Tibetan momo's (dumplings) and much needed cockle-warming tea.
The next morning was the earliest (and possibly the coldest) start we've had in the last six months, but we couldn't miss it. Every morning at 4am jeeps leave for the 11km drive to Tiger Hill, where as the sun rises you can view a spectacular 250km of himalayan mountain range including the mighty Khangchendzonga, whose snowy peak looks over Darjeeling (I believe it's the fourth highest mountain in the world) as well as 20 other mountains including, on a clear day, Everest. Wrapped up in blankets and sipping sweet coffee we watched as the sky turned from pitch black and starry to a beautiful blazing blue offsetting the white peaks. It was so beautiful and felt like such a privilege to see it I even got a little choked up.
The rest of the day was spent checking out the toy train, eating and shopping for Darjeeling tea at 80-year-old family run tea experts Nathmulls (I'm now well versed in plantations, flushes, soil types, brews and flavours) where you can buy the champagne of teas (apparently it's the best tea in the world) for 1400 rupees. As a budget traveller I settled for a 500 rupee package, but it's still the best tea I've ever tasted. Unfortunately the Padmaja Naidu Himalayan Zoo, which houses India's only collection of Siberian tigers, was closed that day, so we set to the task of figuring out one of our biggest challenges yet... Working out how to get from the Himalayas, to our next stop, Kerala, the very Southernmost tip of India...
The change that took place in those three hours was staggering. New Jaipalguri was hot, dirty and quintessentially Indian, while up in the mountains the air became cooler and fresher with every passing kilometre. Foreign tourists seemed to be non-existent, and the faces of the people changed entirely from dark skinned and Indian, to the pale and more 'Chinese' features of the Tibetan and Nepalese. Young school girls wore jeans and hoodies, and women threw chunky cardigans over their sarees and salwar suits to keep out the cold. The winding roads were clean and tidy, with pretty and immaculately manicured pastel-coloured houses lining them. Signs of 'We want Gorkhaland' and 'Welcome to Gorkhaland' are everywhere - Nepalese Gurkhas have been campaigning for a separate state of Gorkhaland since the 1980s.
After hiking (there are no tuk tuks up there) through the ridiculously steep, winding streets with our enormous packs, and adjusting to the thin air at such high altitude, all with the help of a very friendly 10 year old schoolboy, we finally found a bed on the sixth try, and enjoyed a hot shower and a nap before heading out. We had dinner at Danfay Munal, a little family run place that served excellent Tibetan momo's (dumplings) and much needed cockle-warming tea.
The next morning was the earliest (and possibly the coldest) start we've had in the last six months, but we couldn't miss it. Every morning at 4am jeeps leave for the 11km drive to Tiger Hill, where as the sun rises you can view a spectacular 250km of himalayan mountain range including the mighty Khangchendzonga, whose snowy peak looks over Darjeeling (I believe it's the fourth highest mountain in the world) as well as 20 other mountains including, on a clear day, Everest. Wrapped up in blankets and sipping sweet coffee we watched as the sky turned from pitch black and starry to a beautiful blazing blue offsetting the white peaks. It was so beautiful and felt like such a privilege to see it I even got a little choked up.
The rest of the day was spent checking out the toy train, eating and shopping for Darjeeling tea at 80-year-old family run tea experts Nathmulls (I'm now well versed in plantations, flushes, soil types, brews and flavours) where you can buy the champagne of teas (apparently it's the best tea in the world) for 1400 rupees. As a budget traveller I settled for a 500 rupee package, but it's still the best tea I've ever tasted. Unfortunately the Padmaja Naidu Himalayan Zoo, which houses India's only collection of Siberian tigers, was closed that day, so we set to the task of figuring out one of our biggest challenges yet... Working out how to get from the Himalayas, to our next stop, Kerala, the very Southernmost tip of India...
Sunday, 21 March 2010
Haridwar, Rishikesh & Varanasi, India...
From Amritsar we took an overnight train to the holy city of Haridwar, as usual accompanied by the little idiosyncrasies of Indian train journeys - like men sleeping on the floor/end of your bed and beggars at the windows. It's usually at about 5am that you get a visit from the eunuchs. Eunuchs are men who have been castrated (either as a child, so their families can make money) or by their own choice as an adult. They dress up as women in sarees (not very convincing as they're usually sporting stubble) and come round the carriages with their masters clapping very loudly and demanding money to make them go away. They always get it too. In Hinduism eunuchs are very bad luck. They'll often gatecrash weddings, dancing about and making a general nuisance of themselves until the families pay up to get rid of them so as not to curse the new couple. Luckily, they leave us Westerners alone, as they know we don't believe it.
So we pulled up in Haridwar, currently the site of the biggest religious festival in the world, the Kumbh Mela. It happens only every 12 years, when Sadhus (holy men who have abandoned their homes, families, possessions, everything, to wander India on a spiritual quest) descend upon Haridwar, and 3 other cities in India in their millions. It was very strange to see hundreds of similarly dishevelled, bearded men, sometimes naked, but more often in orange robes, wandering the city and its makeshift camps, collecting alms (and in the case of one chap, absolutely out of it on opium. Spiritual indeed).
The same day we pressed on to our final destination, Rishikesh, catching a rickshaw to the nearby bus station and then picking up a bus for the 30km to Rishikesh City, before taking a final rickshaw to Laxman Jhula, a beautiful town in the mountains, known for its hanging bridge and Hindu temples overlooking the beautifully blue Ganges river, which up there in the mountains is sparkling clean. We spent the next few blissful days wandering through the sandalwood incense-scented streets, where meditative Hindu music fills the air, shopping for trinkets in the Tibetan market and lounging at the Ganga beach cafe, sipping ayurvedic tea and gazing out at pilgrims taking dips in the holy waters.
Rishikesh is also known as the Yoga capital of the world, with more ashrams than you can shake an incense stick at, so we took our own pilgrimage to the ashram of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, where the Beatles once stayed and wrote the White Album. The ashram has long since been abandoned (the Maharishi moved to Switzerland before he died). The Beatles eventually became disillusioned with stories of him being a little over-friendly with young devotees (John Lennon later sang 'you made a fool out of all of us,') but it wasn't hard to see the appeal of the place. Set right on the banks of the river, the once grand building with its winding lanes through (now overgrown) gardens and forest, dotted with meditation cells and lecture halls must have been a very peaceful and pleasant place to be.
We also visited the Saint Sewa ashram to take yoga lessons, but most enjoyable of all waere the meditation classes. Led by a young Indian man who clearly felt a deep, genuine peacefulness he encouraged us to ask questions at the end of the session and patiently (long after the class had ended) told us all about how Sadhana (the quest for enlightenment through yoga and meditation) had changed his life for the better, explaining that he no longer felt any anger or envy towards others, and that it could be achieved by anyone, without a guru, no matter what religion or age they are, all the while maintaining a normal domestic life and work. And although I'm sure I was having a crazy moment, he seemed to keep answering the questions that I had in my head, just as I was about to ask them! Anyway, I've vowed to practice yoga once a week and make time for 15 minutes of meditation a day, and am reading some books on the subject by a famous Indian spiritual man named Osho. So hopefully a little of our teacher's contentedness will rub off on me.
All too soon it was time to leave the peace of Rishikesh (peacefulness in India is a very, very rare thing) and head for Varanasi, the oldest and holiest city in India. It didn't start off too well, stepping off the train still half asleep we were in the midst of a crowd of rickshaw touts clamouring for our business when I fell off a high curb, twisting my ankle, and my enormous backpack came crashing down on top of me. Then, typically, it took an age to find a bed in the intense heat and tiny, windy backstreets of the old city. But finally we dumped our bags at Eden Halt guesthouse on the banks of the (now very dirty un-blue) Ganges at Raja Ghat.
The room was very basic but fine, apart from the fact that it came with approximately 1 billion mosquitoes. But as we soon found out, there is absolutely no escaping the bugs, flies, mozzies, etc etc in Varanasi. They are everywhere. Probably because of the stillness of the Ganges here and also the many piles of litter and rubbish (and enormous cows and endless stray dogs) that line the old windy alleyways. That night we went to Dharawasmedth ghat to watch the nightly 'puja' ceremony where hundreds of Indian pilgrims place offerings of flowers and candles into the Ganges, along with lots of singing and dancing.
The following morning we rose at 4am to head down to the ghats to take a dawn boat ride, the quintessential Varanasi experience. We soon found a boatman who rowed us on his little boat all along the many ghats, including the main ghats where hundreds upon hundreds of Hindus come to wash, or take a sacred dip in the morning. It's a very, very surreal experience. Watching the women wading into the filthy river (right by the corpse of a dog), praying and then managing to wash themselves in their sarees (bearing in mind a saree is made up of a very tight cropped blouse called a choli, and 6 metres of fabric that is wrapped around them without any fastenings, and that of course they can't at any point be indecent). And the crazy thing is that these women wash this way every morning, and go to the washing ghats to scrub and thrash their clothes against the rocks, and then lay them out to dry on the cracked, dusty land, and yet somehow they always manage to look clean and elegant. It's nothing short of a miracle. Anyway, our boat guide showed us the grand buildings on the banks owned by Maharajas (who will come here to be cremated when they die) and the place where the father of legendary Bollywood star Amitabh Bachchan was recently cremated, as well as Nepali and Shiva temples and more. And then it was time to visit Manikarnika, aka the major 'burning' ghat.
A guide from a 'home' by the ghat where the poor and destitute come to die (hoping to be cremated here and thus released from the endless cycle of resurrections) showed us around the rather spooky set up. (At one point a big puff of ash went into the air and landed in our hair, ugh!) Huge bundles of wood (banyan is the cheapest, and sandalwood the most expensive) are bought by the families, 85kg is enough to burn the average body, and the body is placed within it with all their clothes and most sacred possessions, so that their soul can be released from their body. The only exceptions to this, as our guide and later our boatman explained to us, are children. As their skin is deemed too soft and sacred to be burnt, they are simply wrapped in string and their bodies dropped into the lake. It's the same for lepers, as it is believed they will be reborn without leprosy. Sadhus too, go into the river whole as this is the most holy state. Strangest of all are people who have been bitten by a cobra. For some reason that I couldn't quite fathom, their bodies are placed on banana leaves and floated down the river Ganges.
And still, despite bodies melting into the water right there, a young man was in the water, scrubbing himself clean with soap. I asked our boatman if he ever washed in the water and he said 'Yes of course, and I will drink it sometimes if I get thirsty.' Water that is safe for bathing should have less than 500 faecal coliform bacteria in every one litre of water. Samples from the Ganges have shown 1.5 million, thanks to all the untreated sewage, dogs, bodies and such in the water. Finally, I asked him if he minded swimming when it was so dirty. And I will never forget his reply, 'Oh no, the Ganges is holy! And anyway, someone comes along after puja every night to clean up all the flowers.' Bless.
So we pulled up in Haridwar, currently the site of the biggest religious festival in the world, the Kumbh Mela. It happens only every 12 years, when Sadhus (holy men who have abandoned their homes, families, possessions, everything, to wander India on a spiritual quest) descend upon Haridwar, and 3 other cities in India in their millions. It was very strange to see hundreds of similarly dishevelled, bearded men, sometimes naked, but more often in orange robes, wandering the city and its makeshift camps, collecting alms (and in the case of one chap, absolutely out of it on opium. Spiritual indeed).
The same day we pressed on to our final destination, Rishikesh, catching a rickshaw to the nearby bus station and then picking up a bus for the 30km to Rishikesh City, before taking a final rickshaw to Laxman Jhula, a beautiful town in the mountains, known for its hanging bridge and Hindu temples overlooking the beautifully blue Ganges river, which up there in the mountains is sparkling clean. We spent the next few blissful days wandering through the sandalwood incense-scented streets, where meditative Hindu music fills the air, shopping for trinkets in the Tibetan market and lounging at the Ganga beach cafe, sipping ayurvedic tea and gazing out at pilgrims taking dips in the holy waters.
Rishikesh is also known as the Yoga capital of the world, with more ashrams than you can shake an incense stick at, so we took our own pilgrimage to the ashram of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, where the Beatles once stayed and wrote the White Album. The ashram has long since been abandoned (the Maharishi moved to Switzerland before he died). The Beatles eventually became disillusioned with stories of him being a little over-friendly with young devotees (John Lennon later sang 'you made a fool out of all of us,') but it wasn't hard to see the appeal of the place. Set right on the banks of the river, the once grand building with its winding lanes through (now overgrown) gardens and forest, dotted with meditation cells and lecture halls must have been a very peaceful and pleasant place to be.
We also visited the Saint Sewa ashram to take yoga lessons, but most enjoyable of all waere the meditation classes. Led by a young Indian man who clearly felt a deep, genuine peacefulness he encouraged us to ask questions at the end of the session and patiently (long after the class had ended) told us all about how Sadhana (the quest for enlightenment through yoga and meditation) had changed his life for the better, explaining that he no longer felt any anger or envy towards others, and that it could be achieved by anyone, without a guru, no matter what religion or age they are, all the while maintaining a normal domestic life and work. And although I'm sure I was having a crazy moment, he seemed to keep answering the questions that I had in my head, just as I was about to ask them! Anyway, I've vowed to practice yoga once a week and make time for 15 minutes of meditation a day, and am reading some books on the subject by a famous Indian spiritual man named Osho. So hopefully a little of our teacher's contentedness will rub off on me.
All too soon it was time to leave the peace of Rishikesh (peacefulness in India is a very, very rare thing) and head for Varanasi, the oldest and holiest city in India. It didn't start off too well, stepping off the train still half asleep we were in the midst of a crowd of rickshaw touts clamouring for our business when I fell off a high curb, twisting my ankle, and my enormous backpack came crashing down on top of me. Then, typically, it took an age to find a bed in the intense heat and tiny, windy backstreets of the old city. But finally we dumped our bags at Eden Halt guesthouse on the banks of the (now very dirty un-blue) Ganges at Raja Ghat.
The room was very basic but fine, apart from the fact that it came with approximately 1 billion mosquitoes. But as we soon found out, there is absolutely no escaping the bugs, flies, mozzies, etc etc in Varanasi. They are everywhere. Probably because of the stillness of the Ganges here and also the many piles of litter and rubbish (and enormous cows and endless stray dogs) that line the old windy alleyways. That night we went to Dharawasmedth ghat to watch the nightly 'puja' ceremony where hundreds of Indian pilgrims place offerings of flowers and candles into the Ganges, along with lots of singing and dancing.
The following morning we rose at 4am to head down to the ghats to take a dawn boat ride, the quintessential Varanasi experience. We soon found a boatman who rowed us on his little boat all along the many ghats, including the main ghats where hundreds upon hundreds of Hindus come to wash, or take a sacred dip in the morning. It's a very, very surreal experience. Watching the women wading into the filthy river (right by the corpse of a dog), praying and then managing to wash themselves in their sarees (bearing in mind a saree is made up of a very tight cropped blouse called a choli, and 6 metres of fabric that is wrapped around them without any fastenings, and that of course they can't at any point be indecent). And the crazy thing is that these women wash this way every morning, and go to the washing ghats to scrub and thrash their clothes against the rocks, and then lay them out to dry on the cracked, dusty land, and yet somehow they always manage to look clean and elegant. It's nothing short of a miracle. Anyway, our boat guide showed us the grand buildings on the banks owned by Maharajas (who will come here to be cremated when they die) and the place where the father of legendary Bollywood star Amitabh Bachchan was recently cremated, as well as Nepali and Shiva temples and more. And then it was time to visit Manikarnika, aka the major 'burning' ghat.
A guide from a 'home' by the ghat where the poor and destitute come to die (hoping to be cremated here and thus released from the endless cycle of resurrections) showed us around the rather spooky set up. (At one point a big puff of ash went into the air and landed in our hair, ugh!) Huge bundles of wood (banyan is the cheapest, and sandalwood the most expensive) are bought by the families, 85kg is enough to burn the average body, and the body is placed within it with all their clothes and most sacred possessions, so that their soul can be released from their body. The only exceptions to this, as our guide and later our boatman explained to us, are children. As their skin is deemed too soft and sacred to be burnt, they are simply wrapped in string and their bodies dropped into the lake. It's the same for lepers, as it is believed they will be reborn without leprosy. Sadhus too, go into the river whole as this is the most holy state. Strangest of all are people who have been bitten by a cobra. For some reason that I couldn't quite fathom, their bodies are placed on banana leaves and floated down the river Ganges.
And still, despite bodies melting into the water right there, a young man was in the water, scrubbing himself clean with soap. I asked our boatman if he ever washed in the water and he said 'Yes of course, and I will drink it sometimes if I get thirsty.' Water that is safe for bathing should have less than 500 faecal coliform bacteria in every one litre of water. Samples from the Ganges have shown 1.5 million, thanks to all the untreated sewage, dogs, bodies and such in the water. Finally, I asked him if he minded swimming when it was so dirty. And I will never forget his reply, 'Oh no, the Ganges is holy! And anyway, someone comes along after puja every night to clean up all the flowers.' Bless.
Monday, 15 March 2010
Delhi, Amritsar & Attari, India...
After the Taj we headed North to spend a few days in Delhi, staying in the scruffy but backpacker-friendly Paharganj area of the city, in Hotel Rak International. Sounds kind of posh... the reality was 10 million gnats living in the bathroom, but other than that not bad! My first impressions of Delhi were that in comparison with Rajasthan and Agra the wide-avenues of the city seemed very clean (and even a little bit green). Our taxi driver said this was because of the upcoming Commonwealth Games. Anyway, Delhi for us was really just a jumping off point to head into the Punjab, but we had a fun few days eating the legendary Delhi food (no, it's not legendary because of Delhi belly) and shopping in Connaught Place, Palika Bazaar and the Tibetan Market on Janpath. I've been really impressed with the religious openness of the Indian people, and we got a great example of that in Delhi. We got chatting to a Hindu optometrist while I was buying contact lenses, and he was thrilled that we were going to visit Amritsar and told us how wonderful and relaxing the (Sikh) Golden Temple is.
Soon it was time to head to Amritsar, very close to the Pakistan border in the Punjab. We took our first 'Chair Car' train seat (instead of an overnight flat bed) for the 7 hour journey, which gave us quite the insight into the scrum it is to get onto an Indian train. This being India, the seat numbers were written above the chairs with marker pen, which in the main had been completely rubbed off and were now illegible, leading to lots of fuss, pushing and shoving and confusion over whose seat was whose. Of course, as soon as everyone was happily seated everyone became their usual delightful, polite, selves. I've been reading a great book about India called Shantaram which describes a very similar situation and he explains it like this, 'I knew the scrambled fighting and the courteous deference following it were both expressions of the one philosophy: What is necessary? That is the unspoken but implied and unavoidable questions everywhere in India.' Which makes sense to me, in a country where daily life can be a struggle that people deal with admirably well. And so we shared our food with the women and children on the train and had pleasant chats in broken English with them until our arrival in the cold, rainy North. We then took a cyclo to the appropriately named Tourist Guesthouse and enjoyed a hot shower and thali before bed.
The next morning we headed to the Golden Temple of Amritsar, also known as the holiest Sikh shrine in the world. A visit there for Sikhs's is the equivalent of the pilgrimage to Mecca for Muslims. To enter you must remove your shoes and cover your head, and then wash your feet in a shallow trough outside the temple (even the foot water is deemed holy, I saw plenty of Sikh's touching it to their heads and mouths!) all of which is presided over by Khalsa guards in brightly coloured turbans holding spears outside and inside the temple. Glittering in the sunshine, the gold plated Gurdwara, surrounded by a huge tank of water full of coi, with the sounds of priests chanting broadcast from inside the temple, is simply breathtaking, and a heavenly place to quietly wander around, or sit cross legged on the Parkarma watching pilgrims bathing and praying or quietly contemplating. The temple seems to reflect what I've learnt about Sikhs as peaceful, level headed, friendly and generous types. Refreshingly, Sikhism is based on equality, and Guru Nanak's level-headed, practical philosophies such as, 'A person who makes an honest living and shares his earnings with others recognises the way to god,' strike a real chord with me. As we stood outside afterwards a kind old man came over to hand us oranges, and when I tried to give him a few rupees he simply walked away. That's the first person in India who has ever refused our money (understandably), and we were touched by his gesture.
We then bought traditional steel karra bracelets for 10 rupees (they symbolise 'fearlessness,' something you certainly need on those Indian roads) and waited for our previously arranged jeep to pick us up and take us to Attari/Wagah, the site of the India/Pakistan border. We were driven by the wonderful Upal, who also gave us oranges and hugs, teased us mercilessly and wedged four of us into the front seat, with the gearstick between one poor chap's legs.
Every night just before sunset there is an elaborate border-closing ceremony of pure theatre. Lonely Planet calls it, 'a fusion of orderly colonial-style pomp, comical goosestepping (recalling Monty Python's Ministry of Silly Walks sketch) and, considering the two countries' rocky relationship, a stunning demonstration in harmony.' It was fascinating, sitting on the Indian side listening to the frenzied cries from the electric, flag-waving crowd of 'Hindustan! Zindabad!' (Long live India) and looking over to the Pakistani side (where the crowd were noticeably separated into men and women, and wearing much less in the way of bright colours) to watch the guards clad in black stomping their feet and yelling 'Jia Jia Pakistan!' At the end of it all the guards shake hands and slam the gate shut for the night.
Soon it was time to head to Amritsar, very close to the Pakistan border in the Punjab. We took our first 'Chair Car' train seat (instead of an overnight flat bed) for the 7 hour journey, which gave us quite the insight into the scrum it is to get onto an Indian train. This being India, the seat numbers were written above the chairs with marker pen, which in the main had been completely rubbed off and were now illegible, leading to lots of fuss, pushing and shoving and confusion over whose seat was whose. Of course, as soon as everyone was happily seated everyone became their usual delightful, polite, selves. I've been reading a great book about India called Shantaram which describes a very similar situation and he explains it like this, 'I knew the scrambled fighting and the courteous deference following it were both expressions of the one philosophy: What is necessary? That is the unspoken but implied and unavoidable questions everywhere in India.' Which makes sense to me, in a country where daily life can be a struggle that people deal with admirably well. And so we shared our food with the women and children on the train and had pleasant chats in broken English with them until our arrival in the cold, rainy North. We then took a cyclo to the appropriately named Tourist Guesthouse and enjoyed a hot shower and thali before bed.
The next morning we headed to the Golden Temple of Amritsar, also known as the holiest Sikh shrine in the world. A visit there for Sikhs's is the equivalent of the pilgrimage to Mecca for Muslims. To enter you must remove your shoes and cover your head, and then wash your feet in a shallow trough outside the temple (even the foot water is deemed holy, I saw plenty of Sikh's touching it to their heads and mouths!) all of which is presided over by Khalsa guards in brightly coloured turbans holding spears outside and inside the temple. Glittering in the sunshine, the gold plated Gurdwara, surrounded by a huge tank of water full of coi, with the sounds of priests chanting broadcast from inside the temple, is simply breathtaking, and a heavenly place to quietly wander around, or sit cross legged on the Parkarma watching pilgrims bathing and praying or quietly contemplating. The temple seems to reflect what I've learnt about Sikhs as peaceful, level headed, friendly and generous types. Refreshingly, Sikhism is based on equality, and Guru Nanak's level-headed, practical philosophies such as, 'A person who makes an honest living and shares his earnings with others recognises the way to god,' strike a real chord with me. As we stood outside afterwards a kind old man came over to hand us oranges, and when I tried to give him a few rupees he simply walked away. That's the first person in India who has ever refused our money (understandably), and we were touched by his gesture.
We then bought traditional steel karra bracelets for 10 rupees (they symbolise 'fearlessness,' something you certainly need on those Indian roads) and waited for our previously arranged jeep to pick us up and take us to Attari/Wagah, the site of the India/Pakistan border. We were driven by the wonderful Upal, who also gave us oranges and hugs, teased us mercilessly and wedged four of us into the front seat, with the gearstick between one poor chap's legs.
Every night just before sunset there is an elaborate border-closing ceremony of pure theatre. Lonely Planet calls it, 'a fusion of orderly colonial-style pomp, comical goosestepping (recalling Monty Python's Ministry of Silly Walks sketch) and, considering the two countries' rocky relationship, a stunning demonstration in harmony.' It was fascinating, sitting on the Indian side listening to the frenzied cries from the electric, flag-waving crowd of 'Hindustan! Zindabad!' (Long live India) and looking over to the Pakistani side (where the crowd were noticeably separated into men and women, and wearing much less in the way of bright colours) to watch the guards clad in black stomping their feet and yelling 'Jia Jia Pakistan!' At the end of it all the guards shake hands and slam the gate shut for the night.
Saturday, 6 March 2010
Agra, India...
Now where was I? Ah yes, Agra. Despite plenty of reports from fellow travellers that Agra was an awful city, and that a lot of people take a day trip there from Delhi rather than stay, we hopped on the train at Udaipur and headed to Agra. Four hours later, and after a rather confused journey - we bought a 'general' ticket which means you have to stand in what can only be described as chicken coops at the back of the train or pay for an upgrade once you're on board. We decided against paying the 300 rupees, feigning foreign confusion and carriage-hopping for most of the ride - until we rolled up to the Siddartha Hotel in Taj Ganj.
Taj Ganj has no luxury hotels, so is packed with fellow budget travellers and locals, and despite not being the prettiest place in the world, it's a good spot for enjoying a banana lassi at one of many rooftop bars and restaurants, and watching the sun go down behind the Taj, which was just a one-minute walk away from our front door. There's also an added benefit of staying so close to the building itself. Since the Taj got a beauty treatment in 2002 (it was cleansed with a traditional Indian beauty wash of soil, cereal milk and lime to clear away pollution), no polluting vehicles, or even cigarettes, have been allowed within 100 metres of it, making the air just that little bit cleaner than we've become used to in India.
And so we dragged ourselves up at 5am the next morning to head to the Taj for sunrise, and before the train-loads of tourists arrive from the 4-hour Taj Express train from Delhi. The milky white, turreted building, which Rudyard Kipling once described as 'the embodiment of all things pure,' looked just like a painting; and bathed in the misty morning light, really is just as breathtaking as you imagine it to be. The Taj was built by Shan Jahan in 1631 as a memorial to his wife Mumtaz Mahal who died during the birth of her 14th child, but shortly after it's completion Shan was overthrown by his son Aurangzeb and imprisoned in Agra Fort where he remained until he died, able only to look out the window at his beloved Taj. Nice son!
Anyway, we spent a lovely reflective hour wandering around the immaculate grounds and watching the colours and shadows on the beautiful marble building change as the sun rose, meanwhile Danny made friends with an Indian university professor who kindly invited us to lunch with him and his family. It wasn't the first or the last time. We've found the Indian people to be entirely friendly and fascinated by us, and apart from the intense staring (which you come to realise has no malice in it and is just their way of expressing intrigue) it's rather nice. Everywhere we go we're greeted with smiles and waves (it's a little bit like being a celebrity, which obviously we know all about) and asked by children, old men, shy groups of mothers in sarees and internet-cafe owning couples, 'What is your country?' and 'What do you think of India?' and it usually escalates into a long chat about where we are going, where we've been, the differences between Indian and English culture, and plenty of shocked faces when we tell them we're not married!
After our quiet, meditative morning we changed into old clothes to head into Agra for anything but. Holi is the Hindu's most exuberant annual festival, when the streets are alive with pounding Hindu music and dancing, and awash with bright coloured powder dyes, thrown everywhere and at everyone who dares to venture out on the streets. During our day out we learnt the Holi etiquette: that you either bomb unsuspecting people in the street (which happened to me three times during a 30 minute cycle rickshaw journey and left me blowing pink snot out of my nose) or the more civilised option of asking if your companion would 'like to play Holi,' and then wiping rainbow colours along their forehead, nose and cheeks before hugging three times, and wishing eachother 'Happy Holi!' It's a lovely day that brings everyone together, we had hugs from old policemen to sweet school kids in the street and everyone in between... And then some drunken youth bombs you right in the eye and forces three sweaty hugs upon you. (Hindu's aren't normally permitted to drink or smoke cannabis or 'bhang' so they can get a wee bit overexcited). Still, you can't have it all!
It was while we were chatting to our friendly and dry-humoured guesthouse owner that he mentioned the Indian national news channel 'The Voice of India' would be filming on the hotel rooftop that morning (as it overlooks the Taj) and asked if we wanted to be on it. Seeing as we're already rather famous in India, we thought, why the hell not, and found ourselves an hour later on the roof in front of a film crew, being interviewed, dancing, shouting 'Happy Holi!' and throwing coloured powder at an American couple. We caught ourselves on TV later that day as one of the headlines... What can I say? A-list!
Tuesday, 2 March 2010
Jaipur, Jodphur & Udaipur, India...
After all our fame and frolicks in Mumbai it was time to head North to a place I've always wanted to visit (well, ever since Liz Hurley married Arun Nayar there in a big pink palace) so we caught a 22 hour train to the Pink City of Jaipur, the capital of Rajasthan, a.k.a. the land of the Rajput kings. Now Mumbai is congested but Jaipur is something else, with rampaging rickshaws, eye watering pollution and streets littered with cows and lots and lots of lots of rubbish. It's a shame because it detracts from the beautiful architecture in the city. Built around 1730 and painted entirely pink in 1876 by Maharaja Ram Singh to welcome the Prince of Wales, it's now a decadently decaying maze of bazaars, palaces, observatories and temples, topped off by Nahargarh, or Tiger Fort.
We spent our first night showering and sleeping off our train lag at the Krishna Palace hotel, before meeting up with a good friend of Danny's the next morning who has been travelling for the past three years. So after a reunion lunch over thali and sweet lassi the three of us set out to explore the city and it's bazaars - all packed with sparkling jewellery and saris, jootis, trinkets, perfumes and shawls, and stopping for frequent chai tea breaks when the hustle and bustle got too much. We watched the sunrise from the peace and quiet Tiger Fort, high above the city walls and pink rooftops, before heading to the Peacock Rooftop restaurant for more thali and Kingfisher beer. Little did I know India was going to make me fat, I've been here three weeks now and I just can't get enough of the food. And not even a hint of Delhi belly as yet... touch wood. TOUCH WOOD.
After Jaipur we took a white-knuckle bus journey to another Rajasthani landmark, the blue city of Jodphur (founded in 1439 by a Rajput chief), which by comparison made Jaipur look relaxed... Taking an autorickshaw up the tiny windy alleyways to the Navchokiya district is akin to a kamikaze mission, but the tangle of lanes which make up the beautiful old city of crumbling Brahmin-blue houses is worth every moment. Rather than battle our way back down to the central bazaars around the Clock Tower we whiled away the days wandering the medieval alleys and sitting on the roof terrace at the Cosy Guest House (we had 6 power cuts in two days and this was the only place with candles) drinking chai tea and gazing out at mighty Mehrangarh fort which towers over the city.
Our final stop in Rajasthan was the easy, laid back city of Udaipur (which had a lot more Western tourists than Jodphur), and is known as India's most romantic city. Framed by the Aravalli hills, Udaipur is dominated by the white City Palace which lines Lake Pichola, along with ghats where a rainbow of sparkly sari-clad women wash their clothes in the sunshine. Again, we spent a lot of our time on rooftops, drinking chai and watching the world go by, and it was on one of these days that we met an amazing tiny little and very well-groomed 75 year old lady who became a bit like my surrogate grandmother for a few days! She was from Toulouse in France, but living in Yemen (for some unexplained reason) and we had fascinating chats with her about her life and travels. She was travelling alone in India for two months. She even invited us to stay with her in Yemen. I said, 'I'm not sure we'd be safe in Yemen, would you look after us?' and she replied quite matter-of-factly 'No. But I think you'd be ok.' I don't think we'll take her up on that offer, but we have vowed to remain penpals from now on.
After that we headed to Agra in Uttar Pradesh to celebrate Holi festival and visit the Taj Mahal, and become even more famous, and I shall tell you all about that another day when I'm not in such an incredibly warm internet cafe... this is my only clean t-shirt. Until then!
We spent our first night showering and sleeping off our train lag at the Krishna Palace hotel, before meeting up with a good friend of Danny's the next morning who has been travelling for the past three years. So after a reunion lunch over thali and sweet lassi the three of us set out to explore the city and it's bazaars - all packed with sparkling jewellery and saris, jootis, trinkets, perfumes and shawls, and stopping for frequent chai tea breaks when the hustle and bustle got too much. We watched the sunrise from the peace and quiet Tiger Fort, high above the city walls and pink rooftops, before heading to the Peacock Rooftop restaurant for more thali and Kingfisher beer. Little did I know India was going to make me fat, I've been here three weeks now and I just can't get enough of the food. And not even a hint of Delhi belly as yet... touch wood. TOUCH WOOD.
After Jaipur we took a white-knuckle bus journey to another Rajasthani landmark, the blue city of Jodphur (founded in 1439 by a Rajput chief), which by comparison made Jaipur look relaxed... Taking an autorickshaw up the tiny windy alleyways to the Navchokiya district is akin to a kamikaze mission, but the tangle of lanes which make up the beautiful old city of crumbling Brahmin-blue houses is worth every moment. Rather than battle our way back down to the central bazaars around the Clock Tower we whiled away the days wandering the medieval alleys and sitting on the roof terrace at the Cosy Guest House (we had 6 power cuts in two days and this was the only place with candles) drinking chai tea and gazing out at mighty Mehrangarh fort which towers over the city.
Our final stop in Rajasthan was the easy, laid back city of Udaipur (which had a lot more Western tourists than Jodphur), and is known as India's most romantic city. Framed by the Aravalli hills, Udaipur is dominated by the white City Palace which lines Lake Pichola, along with ghats where a rainbow of sparkly sari-clad women wash their clothes in the sunshine. Again, we spent a lot of our time on rooftops, drinking chai and watching the world go by, and it was on one of these days that we met an amazing tiny little and very well-groomed 75 year old lady who became a bit like my surrogate grandmother for a few days! She was from Toulouse in France, but living in Yemen (for some unexplained reason) and we had fascinating chats with her about her life and travels. She was travelling alone in India for two months. She even invited us to stay with her in Yemen. I said, 'I'm not sure we'd be safe in Yemen, would you look after us?' and she replied quite matter-of-factly 'No. But I think you'd be ok.' I don't think we'll take her up on that offer, but we have vowed to remain penpals from now on.
After that we headed to Agra in Uttar Pradesh to celebrate Holi festival and visit the Taj Mahal, and become even more famous, and I shall tell you all about that another day when I'm not in such an incredibly warm internet cafe... this is my only clean t-shirt. Until then!
Thursday, 25 February 2010
Singapore & Mumbai, India...
Hello from India!
Our journey here was epic in length. We left Bangkok in the early morning, flying into Singapore, and then had an eight hour wait on our hands until our connecting flight. Luckily I found shoe shops, perfume (I haven't smelt any for 5 months, I was spritzing like a mad thing) and a cinema screening Twilight, and Danny found a rooftop bar and a wide screen sports TV, so we were happy as Larry. So Larry-esque in fact that we forgot all about our flight and had to run to the gate (which of course was the one 18 miles away from where we were) while it was closing. But we made it in time to fly out of Singapore and see the night sky lit up by hundreds of tiny weeny fireworks all over the city to celebrate Chinese New Year. It's the year of the Tiger now.
After a couple of hours of disturbed sleep we arrived in Mumbai at 3am, which for our body clocks was actually 5am, and as usual without an idea of where we would stay or what to expect (and arriving India is challenging enough when you're fresh). Still, we had a little nap in the airport until it started to get light and then caught a taxi to the Colaba area of the city where after a few tries we eventually found an overpriced twin room and collapsed, exhausted into the one bed in the room that had clean sheets.
We spent the next day exploring the city and getting used to the sights, smells and sounds of India. Read: Non-stop, relentless horns, out-of-control rickshaws and heady mix of exhaust fumes, urine, spices, incense, coconut oil, sweets, curry and jasmine. Despite it all I found exhilarated by the city; with its beautiful grand old British architecture, swaying palm trees and a balmy climate. We did the whole sightseeing circuit, checking out the huge Gateway of India, from where the British left the country in 1947, the Oval Maiden (where even on a Tuesday afternoon hundreds of Indians were playing their favourite sport, cricket, they are obsessive about it), Mumbai University, CST station and the sea front along Marine drive.
After lunch at the famous Leopold's cafe, we were walking along Colaba Causeway when we bumped into Imran Giles, a casting agent for Bollywood, who asked if we would like to be extras in a big Bollywood movie called Housefull film being made tomorrow. Being cynics (who know of far too many traveller scams) we were reluctant at first, and had plans to travel to Rajasthan the next day. But Imran was persuasive, and after checking him and the movie out on the web and reading about the experience in Lonely Planet we decided to give it a go.
At 7am the next morning we, and around 40 other western travellers (they like to include a few white faces in the movies to give them an international touch) were picked up from Colaba and driven to the film studios on the outskirts of the city near the airport. After a quick breakfast and some chai tea we dove straight into wardrobe. The first outfit I was given was a tiny scrap of a white lycra skirt what can only be described as a bondage-esque metallic blue bra top. Not quite the attire of a fashionista/Bollywood star, so I budged the Indian men (who were suggesting outfits and adjusting them to fit) out the way and selected a not-entirely-horrendous black and white dress and lace up heels. We were then lined up and looked over by the wardrobe girl who kept telling us scruffy travellers to 'Neaten your hair! No put on some heels, think SEXY, think GLAMOUR!' My pushiness paid off when she went down the line repeating 'fine, fine, change your top, fine, no, fine,' then got to me, paused (which made me panic) but then flashed me a massive smile and gave me a thumbs up. 'Perfect.' A Bollywood career beckons, methinks.
Soon it was time for us all to go on set, which was a lavish nightclub, with a 'bar' (Danny was the barman, in a black shirt and trousers with his hair slicked back), huge chandeliers, booths and a dancefloor. Unfortunately the bar props were filled with water rather than spirits (probably a good thing, my dancing may have got a little sloppy otherwise), and our 'glasses of wine' were in fact apple juice, but the kindly crew kept us hydrated with bottles of water and chai breaks.
From then on it was a case of being directed by the crew. Dancing, chatting or walking around in the background while the choreographers and professional dancers (many of whom were English or Australian girls our age who live in Mumbai working on Bollywood moves) danced their straight-out-of-an-MTV-music-video routines over and over again for the demanding, shouty, scary director. 'What is that girl doing? All I can see is her flicking her hair. Get rid of her!' More than a little mortifying in front of 200 people. The big stars, including Indian Miss World, the too-beautiful-to-look-directly-at-her Deepika Padukone and India's King of Comedy, did their thing with the help of their assistants... One of whom's job it was to put their jacket on, another to scurry after them holding their peanuts, another to immediately hold a mirror up for them the second the director yelled cut, while another sprayed oil in their hair and another coiffed their already gleaming barnets into perfection. Brilliant!
It was an incredibly long 16 hour day (for the meagre sum of 500 rupees each) but we got a great lunch, bucketfulls of chai and the most amazing insight into the Bollywood movie industry. House Full is out in about four months (May 2010), and I think we're in the trailer too, so keep your eyes peeled for our Bollywood debut.
Our journey here was epic in length. We left Bangkok in the early morning, flying into Singapore, and then had an eight hour wait on our hands until our connecting flight. Luckily I found shoe shops, perfume (I haven't smelt any for 5 months, I was spritzing like a mad thing) and a cinema screening Twilight, and Danny found a rooftop bar and a wide screen sports TV, so we were happy as Larry. So Larry-esque in fact that we forgot all about our flight and had to run to the gate (which of course was the one 18 miles away from where we were) while it was closing. But we made it in time to fly out of Singapore and see the night sky lit up by hundreds of tiny weeny fireworks all over the city to celebrate Chinese New Year. It's the year of the Tiger now.
After a couple of hours of disturbed sleep we arrived in Mumbai at 3am, which for our body clocks was actually 5am, and as usual without an idea of where we would stay or what to expect (and arriving India is challenging enough when you're fresh). Still, we had a little nap in the airport until it started to get light and then caught a taxi to the Colaba area of the city where after a few tries we eventually found an overpriced twin room and collapsed, exhausted into the one bed in the room that had clean sheets.
We spent the next day exploring the city and getting used to the sights, smells and sounds of India. Read: Non-stop, relentless horns, out-of-control rickshaws and heady mix of exhaust fumes, urine, spices, incense, coconut oil, sweets, curry and jasmine. Despite it all I found exhilarated by the city; with its beautiful grand old British architecture, swaying palm trees and a balmy climate. We did the whole sightseeing circuit, checking out the huge Gateway of India, from where the British left the country in 1947, the Oval Maiden (where even on a Tuesday afternoon hundreds of Indians were playing their favourite sport, cricket, they are obsessive about it), Mumbai University, CST station and the sea front along Marine drive.
After lunch at the famous Leopold's cafe, we were walking along Colaba Causeway when we bumped into Imran Giles, a casting agent for Bollywood, who asked if we would like to be extras in a big Bollywood movie called Housefull film being made tomorrow. Being cynics (who know of far too many traveller scams) we were reluctant at first, and had plans to travel to Rajasthan the next day. But Imran was persuasive, and after checking him and the movie out on the web and reading about the experience in Lonely Planet we decided to give it a go.
At 7am the next morning we, and around 40 other western travellers (they like to include a few white faces in the movies to give them an international touch) were picked up from Colaba and driven to the film studios on the outskirts of the city near the airport. After a quick breakfast and some chai tea we dove straight into wardrobe. The first outfit I was given was a tiny scrap of a white lycra skirt what can only be described as a bondage-esque metallic blue bra top. Not quite the attire of a fashionista/Bollywood star, so I budged the Indian men (who were suggesting outfits and adjusting them to fit) out the way and selected a not-entirely-horrendous black and white dress and lace up heels. We were then lined up and looked over by the wardrobe girl who kept telling us scruffy travellers to 'Neaten your hair! No put on some heels, think SEXY, think GLAMOUR!' My pushiness paid off when she went down the line repeating 'fine, fine, change your top, fine, no, fine,' then got to me, paused (which made me panic) but then flashed me a massive smile and gave me a thumbs up. 'Perfect.' A Bollywood career beckons, methinks.
Soon it was time for us all to go on set, which was a lavish nightclub, with a 'bar' (Danny was the barman, in a black shirt and trousers with his hair slicked back), huge chandeliers, booths and a dancefloor. Unfortunately the bar props were filled with water rather than spirits (probably a good thing, my dancing may have got a little sloppy otherwise), and our 'glasses of wine' were in fact apple juice, but the kindly crew kept us hydrated with bottles of water and chai breaks.
From then on it was a case of being directed by the crew. Dancing, chatting or walking around in the background while the choreographers and professional dancers (many of whom were English or Australian girls our age who live in Mumbai working on Bollywood moves) danced their straight-out-of-an-MTV-music-video routines over and over again for the demanding, shouty, scary director. 'What is that girl doing? All I can see is her flicking her hair. Get rid of her!' More than a little mortifying in front of 200 people. The big stars, including Indian Miss World, the too-beautiful-to-look-directly-at-her Deepika Padukone and India's King of Comedy, did their thing with the help of their assistants... One of whom's job it was to put their jacket on, another to scurry after them holding their peanuts, another to immediately hold a mirror up for them the second the director yelled cut, while another sprayed oil in their hair and another coiffed their already gleaming barnets into perfection. Brilliant!
It was an incredibly long 16 hour day (for the meagre sum of 500 rupees each) but we got a great lunch, bucketfulls of chai and the most amazing insight into the Bollywood movie industry. House Full is out in about four months (May 2010), and I think we're in the trailer too, so keep your eyes peeled for our Bollywood debut.
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