Travel Blog

Gallery: India - Rishikesh

eoghancito — Thu, 10 Sep 2009 16:18:00 GMT

India - Rishikesh

Getting to Rishikesh

eoghancito — Wed, 26 Aug 2009 15:39:00 GMT

4 am starts are never fun, but I was very thankful that I had had the foresight to hire a porter to hawk my bag back down to the bus stand for me. The stand was packed and completely incomprehensible as usual but I asked someone who pointed out the right bus. And so the journey began.

It wasn't even semi deluxe – just ordinary, which means a 2 plus 3 layout rather than 2 plus 2. I had a window seat and initially the bus was quite empty so I was able to get a bit of shut eye but soon enough people started piling on and the bus was way beyond its capacity. It's very common for way more than one to a seat so I wasn't surprised to have 3 generations of a family sitting beside me (on one seat) at one point in the journey. The mountain going was pretty but very slow and bumpy. The hours passed and by 11am I was the only one except for the driver who was still there. Even the conductor had changed!

I thought the journey was supposed to take 10 hours but when we pulled up a dirt track sometime near midday I knew we were not going to be in Haridwar by 3pm. The bus reached a type of garage and everyone was asked to get off. During the hour's wait the bus had a new alternator and a front left tyre fitted. Good job too as the bus had only started with a push all morning and the tyre was bald as a coot.

We finally reached Haridwar at about 5pm and I was able to catch my first few glimpses of the Ganges river.

Haridwar is supposed to be one of the oldest cities in the world but I had no desire to stay for more than minutes. It looks like it's ancient, but not in the way Rome or Athens might. Thankfully the bus to Rishikesh left only minutes after I arrived. A short trip crossing back over the Ganges and I was in Rishikesh.

Finally. I had been looking forward to this part of the journey in India since I arrived – Rishikesh was where I would stay at an ashram, in peace and solace and away from the noise and pollution. As such I had been kind of expecting a mellow place, along the lines of Macleod Ganj. I couldn't have been more wrong.

The centre of town is smoggy and smelly, the drivers are even more noisy and aggressive than usual and the rickshaw wallahs overcharge at will. After bargaining one quickly down to half his asking price I made for my hotel. I actually had a reservation this time at the Ishan hotel, overlooking the Ganges at Laksman Jhula. Sadhus and beggars lined the streets with hands outstretched as I made way to the hotel.

I think my tiredness has a massive effect on the first impressions of a place. After a cold shower I had a quick look around and found a slightly magical place. Pilgrims bathing and performing candlelit rights in the river, spanned by an attractive suspension bridge for pedestrians. The sounds of mantras wafting in the warm air.

I felt even better after having eaten. The restaurant underneath the hotel is brilliant. They even had apple crumble and custard. I ate way too much but not even the pain in my stomach could prevent me from sleeping.

I hadn't written the blog since Macleod ganj and was still behind so I wrote that in the morning. After lunch I took a walk across to the other side of the river with its tall temples and bathing ghats.

I plied the streets and finally went down a long track. It didn't lead to the other bridge, as I suspected so I turned back, giving the Sadhus I had ignored on the way down, a second chance to beg for alms.

The whole point of the walk had been to visit an adventure outfit called Red Chili adventures. I wanted to arrange a rafting trip for after I come out of the ashram. I took a more direct route and found them and made some plans.

Rishikesh is a funny old place – on one hand it's clearly a very spiritual place but on the other is the commercial side of spiritualism. There are gazillions of ashrams and it was incredibly difficult to research remotely. There is one “ashram” beside the hotel which is a hotel with a glasshouse on the top – people's yogic and spiritual journeys are made for everyone to see and very much within earshot of the beeping and the touting.

Tomorrow I go into the ashram I have chosen. I hope that I've made a good choice but I have only one way to tell. And I'll write about that when I come out!

Little Lhasa to Little Britain: Shimla

eoghancito — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 22:50:00 GMT

The night bus to Shimla was “semi-deluxe”, which should be read as completely ordinary. It was however uneventful and I managed to snatch a few minutes sleep in between potholes and hairpin bends. It arrived literally at the crack of dawn – just past 5am and the usual slew of touts came to peddle rooms. I was in the market for a porter though. Good old Footprint had suggested that a few rupees to get someone to take your heavy rucksack up the streets to where the hotels are might just be the best money you ever spend in your life.

It was brilliant advice – the alleys are really steep – I was out of breath with only my small bag. My porter took a few breaks along the way and was glad of the water I offered him. I felt a little bad that he was 75 years old (and proud) while this thirty something was letting his wallet do the heavy lifting. But he's a porter – this is what he does and I was happy to help “stimulate the local economy”. Plus he knew the way and I had read the map completely wrong. The streets were still quiet and almost empty, except for a few gamboling monkeys.

After looking at a few hotels that were over my budget I was finally led to Hotel Amar Palace which was clean, well equipped, had great views and was anything between half to a sixth of the price of some of the others. Although it did look a little like they sold out to the mobile phone companies and had made the hotel into a phone mast that you can sleep in!

I woke up later ravenous, and went to feed my hunger back in town. Shimla has an interesting history which helps explain its current make-up. It was a quiet hill town for many years until the British “discovered” it. Its cool mountain air was seen as so beneficial that the entire government used to decamp here from 1865 to 1939. The whole mechanics of the colonial government moved, all ministries and their associated bureaucracies and filing cabinets. And of course the government would need its support and creature comforts - the main street is called the Mall and much of the architecture is in colonial British style. Above the mall is an open area called the Ridge. It's dominated by Christchurch in one corner and has a bandstand and a mock tudor library. You could be in Cardiff (or maybe Edinburgh, it's hillier).

So I walked down towards the ridge and took in the pleasant air and views. It was all very nice but man can't live on air and views alone. I gorged on an excellent paneer tikka masala with rice AND a butter garlic naan before trying to see how to make the next leg of the journey. It seemed callous to be seeking an exit before even having a look around but I needed to get to Rishikesh in time as I was booked in to an ashram a few days later.

The tourist travel shops didn't come up with the goods – the only option was to take a local bus to Haridwar and another from there. I went back down to the bus stand (it really is a long way!) and bought a ticket. My choices were to leave at 5pm and arrive at 3am or leave at 5am and arrive at 3pm. Never liking to arrive somewhere new at night, I went for the early start. I was happy to relax for the evening – especially having travelled all night. The room had a TV which had BBC News and a few movie channels so the evening was spent catching the amazing sunset from the window and watching TV.

I got quite into the Guru TV programme, where a yogi shows a live audience of thousands his stomach rolling and stretching moves. Big celebrity over here. It's in Hindi but I don't think I'd enjoy it any more even if it was in English.

In the morning I went for a small hike to the Hanuman temple, up Jakhu hill which dominates the eastern end of the town. Just a tiny bit of religion: the temple is dedicated to Hanuman, the monkey god. Hanuman helped Shiva out in his efforts to recover his wife Parvati after she was taken hostage. It is most fitting then that Jakhu hill is the home of many many Rhesus monkeys.

At the start of the trek there is a plaque telling people how fit they are based on age and time taken to complete it.

I wasn't going to happy with less than 30 minutes as I was unwiling to accept being lumped into the 30 to 50 year old demographic. Walking sticks are rented out from shops at the bottom, primarily to fend off the monkeys. However the little fellers tend to leave you alone as long as you don't have any food on display. One lady had an ice-cream grabbed off her in a millisecond by one of them – they are cheeky but if you drop and feign picking up and throwing a stone they scarper easily enough.

The walk is quite strenuous but thankfully I made it under my target time, and was befriended by a few local guys on the way. I think they're equally confused and fascinated by a westerner with a seriously unkempt beard who can say my name is Eoghan in Hindi (that's about it but my accent is quite good they say). At the top the temple was surrounded by some lovely peaceful gardens and a pine forest.

The temple itself though was somewhat anticlimactic – I found the monkeys more of a draw than the monkey deity. Lovely views though.

One the way back down I found a collection of monkeys who were just having the craic jumping about 10 metres from a tree into a pool of water on a roof. I wonder how they discovered this game but it certainly made a lot of sense in the heat – the sun had risen and was beating down.

After lunch I walked west out of town, along the mall. I passed the communications tower which for a second made me think we live in a binary solar system.

After a good 3km I made it to the Indian Institute of Advanced Studies. The building which it occupies was originally built as the Viceregal lodge and it still goes by that name. It's an impressive structure built in Victorian style and wouldn't be at all out of place in the Scottish highlands. The grounds are spectacular and there is a guided tour of a few of the rooms still open to the public.

It's amazing to think that for many years one fifth of the population of the world was governed from this building. In fact Shimla has been the capital of India for longer than Calcutta or Delhi. Although the most ostentatious parts (the ballroom and dining room) now have less lofty purposes, having been incorporated into the library, the building remains much as it was originally constructed and decorated with fine teak panelling.

There was also an interesting photo exhibition which gave details on some of the major decisions made there. Ghandi, Nehru and the Vice Roy at the time had conferences to discuss Indian independence and the plans for partition and the creation of the Pakistani state were put into action in the conference room which still has its original carpet and wall fabrics.

After all that exercise I didn't want to venture too far in the evening for dinner so I made for the Lakkar Bazaar which the hotel overlooked. Ignoring the rats scurrying about I had a cheap as chips but seriously tasty thali in a local place and a wander. The people were friendlier than many other places. Maybe there's a correlation between mean temperature and friendliness in India. Time for bed – early start in the morning.

Am I in Tibet or India? Macleod Ganj

eoghancito — Fri, 21 Aug 2009 21:58:00 GMT

As I waited for the train to leave the platform a tall Sikh with a large sword sat opposite me and promptly lay down to sleep. I'm no expert but it didn't look like the deadliest or most ostentatious of swords although, along with his clothes and turban, seemed to be the sum extent of his worldly possessions.

The remainder of the journey, to Pathankot, the closest broad guage rail head to Daramshala, was uneventful. Pathankot seems to be an Air Force town – as I waited in the bus stand a myriad of jets tore up the sky above, ignored by the locals. The three hour bus ride through the foothills of the Himalayas was pleasant – the difference in temperature was noticeable. The last leg of the journey was a steep 30 minute bus ride from Daramshala to Macloed Ganj nestling 500m in the mists above it at 1768m, during which I met Eric and Julie, a friendly couple from France.

Yet again I was reservationless but headed towards the Green Hotel which Footprint has recommended. I checked into a decent room, had a deliciously hot shower before heading back to the reception area.

The friendly Tibetan manager introduced me to Elizabeth, a girl from Walkinstown who had been travelling in the Middle East and Austraila. She was meeting people in a bar later and asked me to join her. Well all this was pretty encouraging I had to say. There were people. There was a bar! (not that I had been craving a beer, more that it was nice to be in a place where there is an established market for socialising!) Elizabeth's friends never showed up but we had an interesting conversation while the band covered Nirvana and the Doors. Elizabeth was about to start a Masters in Conflict Studies but was taking a special interest in the gender aspects of conflict. So far Macleod Ganj had exceeded expectations – there were people, the air was clear and clean and there was a distinct atmosphere that made it feel like a different country. I hadn't even seen it during the day yet!

Macleod Ganj woke up in a cloud, as it often does and I took the opportunity to catch up on the internet in the cafe.

I could even use my laptop as they had wireless! People breezed in and out of the rain and chatted to strangers while having lunch. This felt more like a hostel in South America than anywhere I had seen in India. I had arranged to meet Eric and Julie for dinner so we went back to McLlo's where I had been the previous night. There was no music this time but we made our own entertainment and laughed a lot.

The following day, after two nights in the town I decided it was high time I went out and explored a little. The town was established by the British in the 19^th century (hence the Scottish sounding name) and remained a quiet hill station until the Chinese settlement of Tibet in 1959 during which the Tibetan spiritual leader, Tenzin Gyatso, His Holiness, the fourteenth Dalai Lama fled here and over time established the Tibetan government in exile. Since then the proportion of the Tibetan population has been increasing gradually and changing the general feel of the place as they increase in number.

Obviously there is a visible racial difference but the behaviour of the Tibetans is quite distinct – many, especially the elderly, walk with prayer beads and prayer wheels. There's an air of politeness and respect that is just absent in India at large. People will wait and let you pass sometimes. Monks in their deep red robes solemnly contemplate as they walk by.

I was really starting to like this place and could understand when Footprint said that some people stay for weeks among the prayer flags and wheels.

Although the Dalai Lama was not in town at the time I made the monastery he established, Namgyal, my first port of call. It's a pleasant walk down a narrow street lined with Tibetans selling handicrafts. After a quite strict security check I went into the temple area. Understandably it looked quite new in a sixties kind of way.

Offerings of biscuits were laid out in front of a Buddha image.

All around the temple, prayer wheels.

Around a corner was another temple which didn't have any signs pointing to it but for me was one of the most amazing places I have ever been, Kalachakra Temple Unfortunately photography was not permitted so I can't share the images I still have in my head with you. The temple itself was simple enough, Buddha at one end, a little shrine to the Dalai Lama nearby. What impressed me so much were the mandalas painted, mural style around the altar. I have a rudimentary appreciation of art but have never found anything so intricately impressive as these mandalas. They depict, in the most amazing detail, the various deities of the Buddhist pantheon (I didn't even know there was a Buddhist pantheon!) along with messages of peace and various mantras. Equally impressive to me was the statue of two deities together, Kalachakra and Visvamata. The God (Goddess?) has two heads, each with many terrible, grimacing faces, all with three eyes. From the torso spread out a myriad, perhaps 200 hands, each holding an object of significance – a lotus flower, a sword, a mace. It took me about 10 minutes of staring at it to work out what I was looking at. Another statue, of many faced and headed Avalokiteshvana, the Boddhistva of compassion, completes the collection. Tibetans believe the Dalai Lama is the incarnation of Avalokiteshvana.

The calm atmosphere was punctuated by Indian tourists coming in and noisily taking photos only to be chased around by an elderly monk who looked like he would have preferred to have been assigned another duty.

By the time I had finished my look around the temple I could hear a ruckus downstairs. It sounded like people fighting. Surely not here, of all places! On descending the stairs I discovered, to my surprise, tens of monks shouting, laughing and, to my great surprise, making ninja-style moves as if to make their points.

This is the School of Dialetics, also known as Little Lhasa, where monks come to debate. I'm not sure of the origin of the debating “moves”, or what were the topics but the flourish and clap at the end seems an effectivedebating technique. Plus they looked like they were enjoying themselves. Some had very stylised forms, others more subtle and functional.

Nearby is the Tibetan Museum with some well displayed information on the Chinese invasion and the ensuing struggles. Tibet has been a distinct culture from China through the ages and the systematic destruction of that culture alongside the transplantation of millions of ethnic Chinese into Tibet to reduce the ethnic majority to a minority is disgusting.

Some of the images were unsettling – for a Tibetan family made to dress Chairman Mao style or a Chinese construction worker grinning beside the remains of a recently destroyed temple.

There was also an interesting documentary on the Dalai Lama's receipt of the Nobel Peace Prize in 1989.

People advertise the various yoga/meditation/reiki/cooking classes and anything else which needs participants or volunteers in Macleod Ganj with the use of flyers stuck to a few walls around town.

This was how I found out about LIT, Learning and Ideas for Tibet, a charity which raises awareness of the Tibetan plight, arranges language classes for former prisoners and also puts on movies and food of an evening. So I went to the Tibetan movie and pizza night. The Cry of the Snow Lion was the name of the movie. To set this in context, the Tibetan flag, although you won't find it in an atlas, consists of the famous Mount Kailash before which two mythical beasts, snow lions, fight for a flaming gem.

It was a very well made eye opener on the atrocities of the Chinese and the the steadfastness of the Tibetans, most notably the Dalai Lama. The more I learnt about the Tibetan situation the more I became convinced that this is yet another case of cultural genocide which is being swept underneath the international carpet...

In the morning I wanted to stretch my legs so I made for Bhagsu, a little town a few km along the ridge. It was August 15^th and I had completely forgotten (being in Tibetan frame of mind) that it was Indian independence day. This meant of course that the Indians were out in force, and the obvious consequence ensued – a massive traffic jam blocking the way for trucks, taxis and rickshaws as well as pedestrians.

Happy Independence Day and all that but is it soooo necessary to beep so much and never give way? It took about an hour to walk a kilomoetre, exchanging pleasantries (of frustration) with a monk on the way. It's a strange little town, an Indian resort – big shabby hotels and an open air swimming pool beside the temple.

The main attraction, though is the waterfall. I bumped into the monk again and we walked towards it together. Tashi was his name and he had come to India a few years previously and had become a monk. He was only learning English though so I wasn't quite clear on the details.

No matter though he was nice enough company and compared to the Indians who were whooping and cavorting in the waterfall he was like my BFF.

Once again I was asked to pose in countless photos with strangers...

On the way back into town Tashi asked me if I wanted to see his house. He had only arrived in Macleod Ganj three days previously (as had I) and he wanted to show someone his home (he was very proud and kept telling me how much new stuff he had bought for it). Why not I said and he showed me his abode, complete with TV and a nice little shrine made of sea shells surrounded by money. He offered me a coke and we chatted but were a little limited. The questions I was asking about being a monk, about Tibet, about his faith, were too hard for Tashi's English. He was content to discuss the things he wanted to buy (which I thought a little strange for a monk but hey). He asked me of I wanted to move in with him (after asking how much I was paying for my room) I declined, not really in the mood for living with a monk. My little hotel room was just fine. Eventually I made my excuses, but not before Tashi presented me with a small woven mandala, a little battered, and a book by the Dalai Lama. What a nice gesture. In an attempt to reciprocate I invited him to a Sitar concert I was going to in the evening.

After this I went to my first yoga class since New Zealand. It was hatha yoga and a lot more relaxing to the bikram I was used to but enjoyable nonetheless despite my having great difficulty remembering the asanas.

Tashi was dead on time and as a result we were too early for the concert when we got there so we went to the Tibetan beer bar for something to eat. Had I just invited a Tibetan Buddhist monk on a date? Now I had not eaten meat since I was in Mumbai, over a month earlier and was not about to start now. So I ordered a plate of vegetarian momos, Tibetan dumplings and a lemon soda. Tashi ordered a massive plate of chicken on the bone the majority of which he ate with his hands. I ordered some bread which Tashi comandeered. I attempted to engage him in conversation but it wasn't easy as he was stuffing his face most of the time. When he did talk it was mostly about the new consumer goods purchases he wished to make. My expectations of what a Tibetan monk should be (vegetarian, non-materialistic) were quickly being challenged. He told me about a mysterious Canadian man he had met a few years ago who gave him C$10 a month in two bi-annual chunks. I tried to understand why he didn't live at the monastery, like the other monks, or what the daily life of a monk actually was but the language barrier was too great.

Before too long though it was time to get to the concert. It was in a hall with people sitting cross legged on the floor and a lady sang some beautiful (but very long) ghazals accompanied by the tabla first.

I think the tabla is an amazing instrument (two drums of different pitches played only with the hands).The frequent power cuts throughout the concert added greatly to the atmosphere. When the main event was ready to come on stage there was a pause – one of the tablas had broken and another had to be sourced before they could begin. I had been waiting for a long time to hear Sitar music live so I was really looking forward to it when the Jesus like figure started to play his fourteen stringed instrument.

It was very pleasant music but his first song went on for about an hour. By this stage about half the crowd left (some didn't even wait for it to finish), presumably to recover some feeling in their arses. There were only about 10 people left at the end – a shame really as he played two encores and the concert ended a lot better than it had began.

Tashi seemed to enjoy it too but admitted that his bum was sore also. As we walked back up the streets he seemed to not have any more conversation in him and I had run out of questions. I said goodbye without making arrangements to meet him again. It was all a bit strange to perpetuate.

Macleod Ganj is certainly a place where you can lose track of time. Misty days drift into one another in a peaceful, unassuming manner. I kept going to my yoga class, somehow never managing to get up in time for the more dynamic vinyasa class in the morning, preferring hatha at 4pm. I did start to feel that the teacher didn't really correct his class though. I had time to think and walk and relax. Looking at the date one day I realised I had a month left to go before heading home. I started trying to arrange meetings in London for the week I am back. I went back to the monastery for another look at the mandalas and statues. I tried and failed to take photos of the mist rolling in over the streets. I went back to LIT for Tibetan movie and momos night – this time it was Seven years in Tibet, which was much better than I had remembered it. Perhaps I had better context this time round.

I had made friends with a Danish girl, Marie, in the yoga class. One day we took a walk down in the rain to another monastery down on the side of the mountain. It was pretty but as if by magic the clouds lifted while were there. The sky and the view opened up – it felt like a new world – I could see for miles.

There were mountains above us that I didn't even know existed! In the evening I chose a restaurant called Carpe Diem for dinner. It was a bit of a surprise to see Tashi sitting there with a plate of chicken bones and a full beer in front of him. When I had met him before he at least looked a bit like a a monk, with robes on. This time he was wearing jeans and a smart shirt. The enigma grew in my mind. He had been at English class and was practicing reading.

As we were chatting someone I vaguely recognised sat down with a few peolple at the low table beside Tashi. “I'm sorry but is your name Emma”, I asked. “Yes...” came back the reply, very reasonably expecting some sort if explanation for my line of inquiry. I really had not thought about what to say next, so I went for the truth. “I used to have a crush on you when I was in primary school.” The whole restaurant went expectantly quiet, waiting for her response. I hadn't meant to embarrass her but it seems I had. She sat down and had a chat about school – she didn't remember me, but why should she, I think it was an 11 year old crush – one that you maintain from afar rather than act on. We did have, however, a pleasant conversation – she was spending a year in India volunteering and had been living all over the world. A group of Aussies who had been denied entry into the UK turned up soon afterwards and I stayed on with them swapping stories long after Tashi and Emma left. It was the third random small world encounter of the trip – Denise on a horse in Cusco, John in a street food place in Chiang Mai and Emma in Macleod Ganj.

I also did a cooking class. It was on Tibetan momos. I had had some fabulous chocolate momos at LIT and was keen to develop the ability to make these little doughy pockets of happiness myself.

Lhamo, the teacher, was perfect – great fun, a little bit of a perfectionist and happy to answer all questions – related or not to cooking as they were. In fact we learnt the basics of momos – how to make the dough, three different fillings and the way to wrap and decorate the dough so you can tell which is which when you are serving.

We made veg, spinach and cheese and sweet sesame seed but the same basics can be expanded to make them with meat and chocolate. The class was good fun and the momos were really good. I'll be making them when I get home for sure.

After over a week in Macleod Ganj the time started to weigh a bit heavy – I would have to leave at some point or decide to just stay and knit woolly jumpers for a living. So I bought a ticket on the night bus to Shimla. It really had felt like I was in Tibet rather than India – maybe that's why I liked it so much, or perhaps it was because most people I met were quite friendly. Or maybe just because I had actually met people. Whatever the reason, I was a bit sad to be leaving the first place in India I had truly become comfortable. Even the dpgs were more chilled out than usual.

Of course, when we are in our comfort zone we stop learning, so time to move again.

Gallery: India - Macleod Ganj & Shimla

eoghancito — Thu, 13 Aug 2009 17:34:00 GMT

India - Macleod Ganj & Shimla

Gallery: India - Amritsar & Atarri Border

eoghancito — Mon, 10 Aug 2009 22:42:00 GMT

India - Amritsar & Atarri Border

A fight, a family, a delay and a doctor

eoghancito — Mon, 10 Aug 2009 17:41:00 GMT

I knew it was going to an interesting journey when the fight developed as the crowd on the platform pushed forward, preventing those on the train from getting off. Nowhere seems to be immune from this phenomenon. And in India there's no point in waiting - you just have to push through or else you may never get on!

When I found my way to my berth there was a crowd of people noisily hanging around. They started telling me to do this and that which I didn't understand – “I have a ticket for this seat and all I need to do is sit down here”, I said to myself. During all this a tall policeman came along, looked at my ticket and told the crowd to leave me alone. So I could sit!

In fact the noisy group was a sending off party party for a smiley maternal type, her daughter who was studying medicine and had great English and her sister-in-law with new baby in tow. Once I had a translator they were actually good fun but I was relieved when one guy, who had taken a bit too much of a shine to me for my comfort, had to get off before the train departed. Only the ladies of the family were making the trip. It was a very friendly journey – the plump grandmother kept passing around sickly sweet but tasty treats. I took out my Hindi notes from my lesson to finally gather them into a set of notes and dictionary. One of the guys looking over my shoulder helped me out with my grammar.

Eventually I climbed up to the top bunk and read. I was surprised to sleep with the noise of the buskers, hawkers and crying babies but it's always a paranoid sleep on a train. The worst thing about it is you have no way to tell if you are on time or delayed and there is no list of stations. From the top bunk you can't see out the window anyway. The only solution is to get ready at the time your ticket says and if you happen to be on time, good for you!

In the case of this journey it was an hour late arriving into Ambala Cannt. No sweat for me as my connecting train was not for another few hours at 7am. I toyed with the idea of getting a retiring room – a basic room in the station but told myself to stop being such a wuss and deal with it. It always takes a while to find the platform anyway. The only indicator I could find seemed to be mistaken, saying that my train to Amritsar would arrive at 14.00. To my dismay on asking the information desk they confirmed that the train was indeed running seven hours late. SEVEN HOURS! Two hours killing time in a station is ok. Nine is not. Anyone official I asked told me there was nothing I could do apart from wait. There were no retiring rooms left. Any hotels were miles away in a rickshaw. Pissed off with the lack of alternatives I plonked myself down in the dingy waiting room and locked my rucksack to a chair and hoped to maybe get some sleep. Impossible with the usual shouting and the stench from the toilet.

A beggar came over to me, avoiding all the Indians, coming straight for the whitey. He said he was from Tibet. I know there are problems in Tibet but I wasn't about to hand over a wad so I apologised and he went off. A well dressed man opposite me smiled and asked where I was from.

This coverstation starter with (Maj.) Dr. Rahul Arora proved highly instrumental in my ability to get to Amritsar. After exchanging pleasantries he asked an interesting question (I was telling me about my trip). “What are the financial implication of this journey?” “Well”, I replied, “I have a lot less money now than I did a year ago!” He was on the 9.45 train to Amritsar. I wondered if I could get on it somehow and shave off 5 hours of wait time. The grandly titled Chief Ticket Inspector had told me that he had no quota left... Rahul was confident that I could not only get a new ticket for his train but get a full refund as my train was over six hours late. And he was dead right. It took me a good 90 minutes to do so and a whole lot of queuing/jostling in front of various counters but I got a new ticket and a refund.

As we waited on the platform Rahul and I chatted about anything and everything. He had lots of good advice about Amritsar, where he had taken over his father's private hospital after serving in the Indian Army. The new train ticket had been quite a bit more expensive but when the train pulled in I realised why. It was a Shatabdi Express train which means that its all AC, seated (no sleepers), has newspapers and most wondrous of all a little man comes along with a pot of tea and a biscuit. It felt like being on the 07.25 from Paddington to Gloucester. And bliss to have AC for a few hours. After we had been through both the Times of India and the Hindustani Times (which are both decent reads) Rahul and I continued our chat. I told him about my experience with the doctors in Jalgoan. He thought it interesting that I had seen two very real sides of the coin in quick succession. He charges 100 rupees for a consultation in his hospital – rich or poor, foreigner or Indian everyone pays the same. Rahul gave plenty of tips about navigating his city, how to save a few rupees by taking the 'other' exit from the station. And then to cap it all he gave me his mobile number and the address of his hospital. In case anything happened to me I was to call him immediately. What a very nice man. India has such contrasts. But they co-exist, on top of each other somehow, in the same enormous petri dish. Right. To Amritsar!

Rats in the temple, camels in the lab - Bikaner

eoghancito — Sun, 9 Aug 2009 14:45:00 GMT

Many guesthouses in India have telephones but seem rarely to deem it appropriate to answer them. Thus I arrived in Bikaner train station undecided as to where to go because nowhere would pick up the phone. As I was giving the hotel one more chance a guy aproached with a card for a guesthouse. Why not, I said to myself and went with him. After a few seconds walking he said something about having to meet someone else – could I wait at a a tea stand. Sure ... why not I fancied a cold drink anyway. A few minutes later a rickshaw came along and I got in. I was taken through hectic jam at the gate into the old town and through the typical pothole ridden alleys to the house. A neighbour eyed me up while pissing into the gutter. It had all the hallmarks of a house, rather than a guesthouse. An old lady gestured to wait, which I did, for about five minutes during which I decided that it had probably not been the best decision to come here. Finally I was shown the room. It was blatantly someone's bedroom but that fact had been ineffectively concealed. There was still a half full glass of something and what looked like a bowl of pet food on the floor beneath the badly made bed. I thanked the man but declined. Apart from all that he was charging double what I had paid for an ensuite room in Jaisalmer.

The rickshaw wallah took me to the Harasar Havelli hotel on the other side of town near the fort. It was a bit more expensive but clean and looked like sensible people would actually stay there. I had dinner at the rooftop restaurant. But it was eerily empty. Only as I was leaving did a couple come in. It seemed strange for a big hotel.

I had a busy day planned. After an early breakfast I took a packed Jodphur bound bus from Llalgarh bus stand to Deshnoke, a small town 30km to the south of Bikaner. It's famous for its temple, Karni Mata Mandir.

Here mice and rats are fed sweets and milk and revered in the belief that they are reincarnated saints. As I entered I had had a vision of a river of rats coming towards me, pied piper of hamelyn style, but in reality they mostly scurry around the edges, as rats do. A lot of them were either asleep, bloated on the vast amounts of milk they drink, or dead.

Cute was not a word that came to mind.

They do get everywhere though and languish around in a quite chilling way.

It's supposed to be good luck if you see a white rat or one crosses over your foot but I was quite contented to remain unlucky. Especially seeing as I was barefoot. The biulding itself was quite attractive with huge silver gates but 40 minutes or so was plenty.

After lunch in the hotel I had another trip planned, to the Indian national camel research centre on the outskirts of town.

I hired a rickshaw for the trip and we passed through the town which is very attractive by Indian standards with its old fort and open parks.

A man with a beard that put my own to shame showed me around the fascinating centre and was a wealth of useless camel information such as the gestation period (13 months) and the amount of hair that is shaven off one camel in a year (1kg).

They perform genetic research and breed camels suited for their roles. I hadn't known that different camels excel at different things: the dark gugarati ones are good for milk, the light Jaisalmeris are good at running and the army prefer these.

The local Bikaner ones are good at towing carts I had seen a lot of produce on camel carts throughout the day.

We saw the baby ones and the studs which are used for natural and artificial insemination. The moody teenagers who were being broken in were good fun. After a stop at the dairy for a delicious pistachio camel milk iceream I sat down in the shade to eat it. The heat was blistering, it must have been touching 40° C.

Towards twighlight the main working gang of about 200 camels majestically sauntered in from a thirsty day's toil in the desert. It was equally impressive seeing one man control so many beasts and witnessing so many creatures farting and belching in unison. I like camels much more than I thought I would.

That night's dinner was a complete contrast to the previous night's. The whole roof was jammed with groups, large and small and there was a queue of people to get seated. I was put with a guy who was also on his own, Raimundo an articulate, friendly Angolan born Portuguese guy who ran a club in Lisbon. His English was thankfully far superior to my Portuguese and we had a good chat. It proved somewhat challenging to order though and it was close to 11pm when my food came along. By this stage a little tabla band had started up. The high pitched singing reminded me of the gypsies in the Thar desert. Then one got up and started dancing, having great success getting most of the women from the large Spanish group beside us to join in. Raimundo gave a great show himself.

One thing that Raimundo and I had noticed was that India was not a particularly easy place to meet fellow travellers. He usually took his annual month long holiday diving in Indonesia and I think he was revising the decision. He had hired a driver to take him around Rajasthan – a very different approach from mine. Once again though it was a short encounter - he was off in the morning to Jaisalmer and I had decided to push on to Amritsar the next day.

The train wasn't leaving until the afternoon so I had some more time in Bikaner in the morning. I strolled down to the fort and into the busy streets beyond.

A young local struck up a conversation and asked if I wanted to be shown around. He assured me he didnt want money, just to practice his English so I agreed. We went into the old town and walked through the narrow trading alleys. As always they were split into sections with each shop selling identical stuff side by side.

I declined a visit to the Jain temple in favour of going to the spice market. It felt a little but like a scam completely losing my sense of direction as we went through smaller and smaller lanes but eventually we came to the spice street.

I love the atmosphere in these streets, its very orientalism and stares – from and at the unusual outsider. Men carefully weighing out sugar crystals while others chew pan and spit.

I enjoyed the walk but my companion seemed to no longer want to practice his English so I spent most of he journey walking behind him. He finally took me to a little local craft shop so I bought a few postcards to acknowledge his services. Then he asked me for money, the little shit. I didn't give him any.

Gallery: India - Jodphur & Bikaner

eoghancito — Sat, 8 Aug 2009 21:22:00 GMT

India - Jodphur & Bikaner

Jodphur: an unexpected kite festival and an engagement party

eoghancito — Fri, 7 Aug 2009 23:33:00 GMT

Having no hotel booked in Jodphur the rickshaw wallah took me to a place in the back streets. I didn't feel confident that Pushp would be a good place. Why would someone name their guesthouse after a push up?

In fact, Pushp is named for the family that owns it and it was an excellent place to stay – very welcoming and friendly, clean and cheap. Pushp is located in a maze of tiny streets to the north west of the clock tower. After dumping my bags I went up to the roof to have a look around.

My arrival just happened to coincide with a lovely old festival where everyone in town goes up to their roof and flies kites. A recent addition seems to be the blaring of banghra hits. There was a great atmosphere, young and old alike skillfully managing the simple kites made of paper and plastic.

If there was such a festival in Europe I'm sure it would turn into an arms race of superkites – here everyone is happy with the simple, cheap ones. The Pushp family were very friendly and encouraged myself and the other lodgers, 2 Canadian girls and a German fellow, to try our hands at flying the kites but we were all crap. It's deceptively difficult!

Jodphur is often called the blue city after the myriad of blue houses surrounding the massive Meherangahr fort which dominates the entire city. It's a popular myth that the houses are blue because that is the colour associated with the high Brahmin caste who occupy the majority of houses under the shadow of the fort. In fact the town has had a terrible termite problem for years and the addition of copper sulphate to the limestone used to paint the walls creates an attractive baby blue colour.

I went for a wander around the town in the late afternoon, through the charismatic alleyways down to the elegant clock tower and the market which surrounds it.

It was just closing down so there wasn'y the usual hustle and bustle but I got the impression it was a local's market where people wouldn't hassle you to buy stuff like in Jaisalmer. I finally found an ATM and returned to the guesthouse. The kite flying and general festivities really heat up in the early evening when everyone comes out. The wind often gusts to break the string or cat gut that the kites are held with. Great excitement is had when someone manages to catch a kite which had been set free. Like The family on the opposite roof were out too (everyone was) and Mr Pushp came across to us (guests) with an invitation – the daughter of the family had got engaged and they were having a party the following night – would we like to go? Well there is only one answer to that kind of question – “Of course!!” Manual, the German had been planning to leave the followong day but he changed his plans to be able to go. Jodphur had already provided an unexpected festival and an invitation to a party. I liked it already.

I arranged to visit the fort with the Canadian girls, Elise and Julie who were both teachers. They were good company (and yet more French language practice) as we made for the imposing building after breakfast.

The fort was begun in 1459 by Rao Jodha but not before someone sacraficed himself to become part of the foundations as a good omen. Once again I'm not sure exactly where he fits in but he was Muslim.There is a very good audio guide which takes you through the extremely well preserved palace.

Near the spiked main gate there are the handprints of the concubines and wives of the Maharaja Ajit Singh who commited Sati. Sati is the practice of throwing oneself on the funeral pyre of the leader. It was quite common at the time!

Inside the palace were beautiful displays of palanquins and howdahs and the glimpse palace, where the palace ladies in their zenana would look at court proceedings through the jali screens without themselves being seen.

It was all put in context well by the audioguide and the view from the battlements was amazing. Jodphur might be twisty and easy to get lost in at street level but it looks great from above.

Across from the fort is the cremation grounds for the deceased royals, the Jaswant Thada. It had some pleasant gardens but a load of rip off merchant rickshaw wallahs so we ended up strolling back down to town through the windy streets to the clocktower, market in full swing now and we had lunch nearby. The girls took in a Bollywood movie while I went to find the internet and get hopelessly lost returning to Pushp.

When I eventually found my way back the guys were already over at the party. I followed them over and was lead up through ladder like stairs up to the top roof section where a few groups were sat around in the half light. The Pushp family soon joined us and a plate of delicious local delicacies was brought over. Over the shared food we chatted with those around us but it was Mr Pushp's stories of the origins of the Hindu Gods which were most memorable.

All of a sudden we were not asked exactly, more it was implied that we should be leaving... another few groups had arrived and they needed to be fed and watered. They had been having sittings like this all day! Thankfully Manual had sorted out a small gift (chocolate and perfume!) and on the way out we finally got to see the bride-to-be. She looked mortified, poor girl. It must be tough to go through this very public process of meeting the stranger that her parents had selected for her to spend the rest of her life with. Not exactly romantic...

We were told to come back later after the eating for the music so we passed the time on the guesthouse roof chatting about the pros and cons of arranged marriages. Mr Pushp lives in a joint family with his brother and his wife and child. The arrangement, which he was delighted with, essentially created a family with four parents and two children. The synergy makes a lot of sense for them. Family is so much more all pervading here but I can imagine there are many drawbacks to the approach.

The night grew later and there was no sign of any music so people started drifting off to bed. We were all moving on the next day, my new friends south to Udaipur on an early bumpy bus while I would be heading north to Bikaner. I had heartily enjoyed Jodphur but I felt the need to keep trucking. Just as we were saying our goodbyes the musicians started to set up but it was after midnight.

When they did get going I had a front row balcony seat from my window. After an hour or so they saw me filming them and gestured for me to join them but it was late and I was happy to listen to the lilting (but very loud) music from afar. It didn't bother me in the least to lie awake listening.

Gallery: India - Udaipur & Jaisalmer

eoghancito — Thu, 6 Aug 2009 23:17:00 GMT

Camels and gypsies in the Jaisalmer desert

eoghancito — Wed, 5 Aug 2009 21:43:00 GMT

The combination of sleeping aids did their job, much to my surprise, but I found myself waking up in Jaisalmer to the din of hundreds of touts and rickshaw wallahs shouting in through the bus windows. I never enjoy this part of travelling but you just can't stay on the bus! I had booked a room ahead and left my name with the hotel to try and impose some semblance of order but it didnt work. No-one had my name – the one person who had a sign from the hotel told me I was Kevin from France. In the end I went with him anyway – at least he had a sign. Luckily it was the right decision.

Jaisalmer looms out of the desert like a fairytale fort. It's the type of place you expect Ali Baba and his fourty thieves to pillage, with a massive walls and imposing gate leading to a maze of dim alleys blocked with obstinate cows. The hotel, the Desert Haveli inside the fort, near the Jain temple was cheap and clean. The building is 500 years old and the basic air cooled rooms have great views out over the desert. Moona, the hospitable manager told me a little about the place over chai – “not free, complimentary!”

The owner had died suddenly a few months ago, leaving a young wife and son behind. He was very happy that I had arrived, the first of the month. This is a good omen for his business for the month - “You very lucky, sir! Thank you for coming today!” He then told me, with an unnerving smile, that his wife was in hospital having an operation. I made my apologies and I had some breakfast on the roof, looking out at the desert scrub.

After a nap I went for a wander around, first of all getting completely lost in the alleys and lanes of the fort and then doing the same again outside its walls.

Jaisalmer literally oozes atmosphere - the faces of the people on the streets are so different from anywhere else. I found myself in the main market street, Ghandi Chowk, looking for an ATM but they all seemed to be locked shut or empty. After a great dinner overlooking the chowk I returned to the havelli. One of the main things to do in Jaisalmer is go on a camel safari so I wanted to discuss the options with Moona.

Abdul, Moona's busy sidekick reminds me a bit of myself when I lived with my parents. Not that I had it tough by any test but any time anything needed to be gotten from outside the hotel, or in particular when there was chai to be made, “ABDUL!!!!” is shouted, he apprears and duly goes and gets whatever is needed, or makes the chai. Over Abdul's excellent chai Moona took me through how they run the safari and it all sounds good. The ideal scenario for me would have been to join a group doing 2 days and 1 night. It just so happened that an Aussie couple were leaving in the morning so I signed up there and then. An hour or so later Moona knocked on my door with a problem – the couple were honeymooners and didn't want a hairy Irish man crashing their romantic party. So I wouldn't be leaving in the morning after all. Good for me I could have a lie-in!

What started as a lie-in turned into quite a lazy day. After breakfast I wasn't fully in the mood for persuading the vendors that I really did not want to buy anything so I continued catching up on the blog and enjoying the shade in the room. Moona (of course) had been keen for me to go out and try to sell the safari to other tourists but really, that was his job – I would certainly help if needed but I wasn't about to start accosting strangers. In the afternoon I got a knock on the door from Abdul - “Come upstairs”, he said. A French couple were on the roof with Moona and Ramesh, who actually does the camel safari. They were chatting about maybe doing a safari but neither Ranesh or Moona was able to close the sale. I guess they had called me up hoping I could... It was quite clear to me that the French guys, Adrien and Margot had in fact not decided what they wanted to do at all in Jaisalmer so I didn't bother trying to get them to sign up. In fact they were much more concerned about their camera which had just rolled over died on them. I told them I was going for a walk around town I offered to share my photos with them if they wanted to come along and share my camera.

That decided we went out and took some snaps. Some of the old sandstone havelis in Jaislamer are beautiful. Because of the dry desert air the intricate carving work has survived well in many places. Some houses have particularly ornate jalis which allow the air and some light in allowing the house to be cooled naturally.

Less ornate but just as practical were the long column shaped stones kept over the battlements. They were simply rolled over the top to incapacitate anyone trying to scale the walls. We got on well on our wander – it was good to be able to use my French again. I told them that I was going on the camel safari tomorrow (I did after all have a vested interest in having some company) and they decided to come along. They also decided to buy a camera too. Adrien went off to get the camera while Mango (as the hotel guys had started to call her) came back to the hotel to book up.

We were going to all gfo out for dinner but we all seemed tired to we decided to do our own thing. I looked in the guide book for a decent place to eat nearby (the food in the hotel had been great, I just wanted a change of scenery!) I found a place called palace view that was nearby. I found it, very close to the haveli and made my way up to the roof. The waiter seemed to know everything about me – where I was from, when I had arrived, when I was going on safari, down to what I had had for breakfast for the past few days. Suddenly, looking at the menu, identical to the one at the hotel, iot twigged. Palace view does all the catering for Desert Haveli. I might as well have stayed on the roof of my hotel – the orders are given and served over a wall. I loved the coincidence and had some great deep fried bhaji like things called pakora and a chocolate pancake for good behaviour.

Moona banged at my door in the morning saying there was a problem. When I went up to the roof Adrien was there, mangoless. She was sick and they couldn't go. I understood their predicament but I could not wait a third day. I had to go, and beside they were leaving the next day anyway so they wouldn't be able to go either. Moona was annoyed as only 12 hours before he had been ordering extra camels and buying food for us all. He was looking for 50% severance fees which was a bit steep but then again it was very short notice. Adrien paid a bit less and finally I was off on the safari. I suspected it was going to be more introspective than I had hoped for, going alone, but not to worry.

We visited a Jain temple on the way out to meet the camels. It was pleasant, serene and very ornate but I wasn't really in the mood for more temples. I declined the offer to visit the second in favour of meeting the camels.

Ramesh was waiting for me with our steeds, the well-named Johnnie Walker and Rocket. Ramesh had told me about Johnnie Walker at length the previous day, proudly informing me that he and Johnnie had won the camel races at the annual Jaisalmer camel fair. I was to be riding Johnnie Walker.

I got my leg over the high saddle and before I had settled down Johnnie was doing that unusual stand up routine that only camels do. We were off.

Ramesh held the reins for a while and then passed them over to me. Within minutes our speed had increased from a walk to a canter. I didn't even know camels could canter! It wasn't all that dissimilar from horse riding, except that it's a lot higher up. I found myself quite intrigued by these strange animals. I had been expecting tick ridden, smelly, foul breathed creatures but in fact they proved to be strong and elegantly clumsy in an a stoically dopey way. Well their breath does smell quite bad, but they have great expression in their faces. It's as if they want to tell you where to go but are too busy chewing the cud to bother.

The landscape was more like scrubland that desert but it was intensely hot despite some cloud cover. The first trek lasted about 3 hours, during which we were trailed by a mangy dog hoping for some scraps from lunch and passed by some simple obelisks at the top of hills. I thought they might be grave markers but Ramesh corrected me – they were made by local shepherds to kill the boredom.

When we broke for a rest it was as much to allow the camels some time without their heavy saddles and to get some food as for me or Ramesh.

He got straight to making a tasty vegetable byriani, unearthing a tiny scorpion in the process, I collected brushwood for the camp fire.

Afterwards I put on some tunes – Johnny cash seemed very appropriate for this scorching midday heat. He also helped us both nod off.

When we awoke the camels were nowhere to be seen. Ramesh dispatched me to find them while he cleaned up. They were only on the other side of a hill so no biggy. Ramesh retrieved them and out back on their saddles and we were off again. The sun was really beating down now. Camels sweat a sticky black substance and they have their sweat glands just underneath the back of their heads so you can see when they are straining.

The landscape slowly started to change from scrub into the more dune-like images that you would associate with the Sahara. Just on the edge of the dunes we stopped – this was where we would camp for the night, deep nito the Thar Desert only a few km from the Pakistani Border. The journey had been what I expected but I was a bit disappointed to hear Ramesh on his mobile almost constantly thoughout.

Ramesh asked me something funny when I got off the camel – “you like cold drink?” I knew he didn't have a fridge hidden in there so I failed to see the point in the question. Less than 3 minutes after the question a man carrying a heavy box on his shoulders appeared on the horizon. I should have known it was the cold drinks man!

We chatted and I joked that Ramesh kept getting many calls from ladies in the desert. My sense of humour seemed to go over his head and he asked me if I wanted a lady. Instead, I indulged in beers for Ramesh and I and as we sipped I tried to teach him cacho. He didn'.t get it at all but still beat me. He was good company but there was too much time and too few areas of common ground for a decent conversation to develop.

After collecting a lot of firewood Iwandered off into the dunes – it's such an inhospitable environment it's hard to imagine anything living there. But dung beetles were busy pushing poo about the place and of course the camels are more than at home there. It really is an amazingly beautiful and peaceful place though. However it was windy and the sand was getting whipped into my eyes so I headed back to camp.

It was good to have a bit of a change when a few people from the local village turned up. Ramesh had asked me if I wanted to hear some gypsy desert music and see some dancing (for a price). I agreed (for a lower price). They sat and spoke Rajasthani for about an hour while Ramesh prepared the food.

I made a few cursory attempts at communication but Ramesh wasn't gifted with sufficient translation skills to allow a conversation to develop. I had another wander round the dunes, this time keeping my eye on the amazing sunset.

By the time I returned dinner was ready. For some bizarre reason the whole group that had now assembled watched me eat my rice, dhal fry and chappati bread in awe before anyone else would put hand to mouth. I was also the only one eating with a spoon. Everyone else mashed everything up into a pulp and then popped it into their mouths in bitesize chunks. It was great food, simply cooked on a fire and the chappatis made just with flour, salt and water were particularly tasty.

Night fell soon enough and with it emerged many more insects. Beetles were rolling dung all over me so we went over to the sand to get comfortable for the show. The cast were all gypsies from the local village, an older, fatherly gentleman who played a snake charmer flute, his 2 daughters who sang, all joined later by a son who played a drum of sorts. There was an audience of me, Ramesh. Johnnie Walker and Rocket had long since lost interest.

It was hard to see the performers in the half light but the high pitched unusual sound of the flute was made for the desert night. The girls then came in with incredibly high pitched, loud repetive mantra chants. They play a few numbers, traditional desert songs that had been handed down through the generations, after which the younger girl started to dance. It was a bit like belly dancing but not so revealing or erotic. She seemed miffed when I declined to dance with her but I didn't feel bad. No-one, least of all me, would benefit from my dancing plus it all felt just a tiny bit sleazy.

At a certain point the cold drinks man appeared over the dunes carrying 2 beds. Where he brought them from I will never know. I was happy to keep listening to the wonderful, unusual music but the dancing girl kept asking me up to dance and I kept refusing. Eventually I tired of the slightly strange atmosphere and settled down to my rickety metal bed on the dune.

The wind whipped sand cruelly into my face but after I had organised my scarf properly I actually slept really well. I had been expecting to wake up with the sun and look at it rise over the dunes but in fact Ramesh woke me at 7am with a plate of toast and a cup of chai. Breakfast in Bed in the desert – I wouldn't believe it if I wasn't there myself!

Back in the saddle, Johnnie had been misbehaving so he (and I) had to suffer the ignominy of being made to walk behind Rocket and watch him poop prodigiously.

We made for the nearby gypsy village where the singers and musicians had come from. It was quite a depressing place – makeshift lees providing shelter from the wind and sun for a combination of dirty children and dirty goats. When they saw us coming the kids came over in force begging for ruppees and chocolate. I held fast although it was hard to look at their needy wanting faces and say no.

It was another long trek across the scrub until we came to a gorgeous oasis where Ramesh let the camels have a well deserved drink, also I noted taking one himself from the same water.

Nearby we had the tastiest meal so far, a lovely spicy potato curry. Ramesh spotted a friend of his somewhere and went off to chat to him. I had a lot of time to kill here, but Vikram Seth's “A Suitable Boy”, the epic Indian story kept me in good company. It was only at this point that I started to get tired of the whole thing. Riding the camels was not very comfortable but equally not sore. That said I had suddenly started to feel quite stiff.

When Ramesh eventually returned we made a camel stop, swapping Rocket, who had been giving Ramesh trouble, for Hilton who was given over to me. Hilton was a much more malleable beast who seemed to actually care what I did with the reins. Johnnie had tended to follow his own nose. On this last stretch with Hilton I felt I was getting better at this camel riding thing – I could get Hilton to go into a camel sprint without use of the reins and I was sitting better but I couldn't get away from the fact that my arse was now not only killing me but completely caked in sand. I had enjoyed walking in the dunes, seeing the sheep herders and learning about some of the customs (camel milk is supposed to help a lot with cancer while opium is still used to cure diarrhea) but I was glad it finished when it did. On the way back to Jaisalmer the driver picked up another safari group, an Argentinean guy who was doing some research in Delhi and two French girls. They had clearly not enjoyed their safari or each other's company and it was a silent ride home. Maybe it had been better to do it on my own after all.

The shower, despite it being little more than a trickle in the new room, was bliss.

Afterwards I got the next leg of transport, to Jodphur organised and picked up a few groceries before having a good long skype chat with Claire. It's good to talk. I went back to the Palace view for dinner, just because I thought it was funny and had an early night. Moona was in good form. He had blamed the fact that the hotel was almost full and that 4 of the guests were going on safaris the next day roundly on my good luck. Whatever works for him!

Hinduism, Hindi and meditation guitar: Udaipur

eoghancito — Fri, 31 Jul 2009 00:48:00 GMT

Udaipur is a picturesque city set on a lake where a large part of Octopussy, the James Bond movie, was filmed. I had booked rooms in the Udai Niwas hotel right beside the main temple, in the middle of the old town. Even from the rickshaw ride into town it was obvious that something had changed for the better. It was sunny for starters, and warm and dry. Gone were the nasty smells, replaced by spices and incense. The streets were clean (as clean as can be expected) and the buildings were old, meaningful and looked after.

It felt like arriving in India for the first time. About 300 years ago. Of course as a result there are more tourists and more tourists mean more touts and scams. You can't have it all! The room wasn't ready so Giles and I killed time with breakfast in the rooftop restaurant with spectacular views over the nearby temple, palace further up the hill, the lake with its island palaces and the mysterious forts perching on the hills in the distance.

It was immensely pleasant after the last few days in the mist. After a freshen up we strolled about drinking in the atmosphere.

The ghats, the steps down to the river where people used to and still do wash and bathe, played home to a collection of blissfully lazy cows.

A guy who tried to convince us that we should immediately go to his tailor shop to get suited up told us that we were lucky with our timing. Only two weeks before the lake had been dry and people were getting across to the fancy hotel in jeeps rather than cruisers. Everything here seems to depend so much on the rain, and all I was selfishly asking it to lay off. In common with other old cities, the streets are made up of professions, like saree street.

I had a few chores to do. I would be in India long enough to justify a local sim card and my bag had started to tear so i needed to get them sorted. To get a sim in India you need to provide proof of address in India and a passport photo. I have no understanding of why either are necessary. I got away with a card from the hotel and an old pre-beard photo.

The lady who I asked to fix my bag had never fixed a bag before it seems. She sewed all the wrong bits together and made it worse so I had to start again elsewhere. It was great to have an excuse for going down all these tiny streets, working out how to negotiate the cow in the way, placidly chewing the cud wondering why the strange man is looking at it.

We had a late lunch in another rooftop cafe – you get decent exercise in Udaipur running up and down all the stairs. As we were tucking in some kind of Hindu procession got tangled up with a school bus near the main square. On the way back I wasn't paying attention and nearly got knocked into the gutter by a large elephant.

This was starting to feel more like the India I had imagined.

In the evening it seemed every restaurant was showing Octopussy. I hadn't seen it in years and was looking forward to it. I am a big fan of Bond movies but Roger Moore has never floated my boat. This movie reminded me why with its tired, dated plot, hammy overacting. I asked the guy serving us if he liked it and how many times he had seen it. “16 years I have been working here” he said, “and I hate this film. It is a shit!” I couldn't have put it better – I didn't stay for the finale.

I was in the mood for some cultural exploring the next day so after breakfast I visited the beautiful Jagdish Mandir temple. It has a long set of steps up to it, and then its shape carries on up towards the Gods. I didn't see a sign saying “no photography” in the inner sanctum but a young guy sidled up to me and warned me before the tell-tale flash. He offered to show me around. Usually I turn down these offers but this guy seemed ok so I let him point out the key features. There was a healing stone, smoothened through use, against which people rub the bits of their body that aren't working any more. The roof of the temple had intricate designs indicating the wheel of reincarnation: animals at the bottom, then humans, some dancing, others fighting or in Kama Sutra poses and then deities the further up you go. The flag at the top indicates that it is active.

I can't say that I have taken in much Hindu yet but from what I can gather here are the basics. There is a trinity of Gods, Brahma the creator, Siva the destroyer / restorer and Visnu the preserver. Ganesh, the elephant headed son of Siva and Parvati is quite popular and represent good beginnings and is the remover of obstacles. There are lots and lots of other gods too and they tend to have wives and consorts too. Each has a meaning or representation, such as femininity, desire or protection, an iconography and a following. They also have multiple incarnations just to complicate things for monotheists.

I think a story goes a bit like this (Sorry if I've got it wrong). Parvati, the goodess mother of the earth and wife of Shiva the destoyer was at home, bathing, scrubbing the sand and dirt from her body. The sand formed into a son, who she called Ganesh. She sent Ganesh outside the house to guard her dignity against anyone coming in. “Even if your father Shiva comes do not let him in.” Shiva, meanwhile was out hunting – he sent a man of his to give word to his wife that he would be home soon with food and to prepare the fire. The man tried to carry out his orders but after fighting and losing against Ganesh, returned to Shiva. Furious with this story, Shiva wondered who this boy was and decided to go and kill him himself – whoever he is how dare he behave such at the house of Lord Shiva. They fought long and hard but Shiva eventually won, decapitating Ganesh with a swift flick of his sword. Parvati, on seeing what had happened cried “Shiva, what are you doing? This is our son!” On realising his error Shiva fell to his knees and cried also. When this initial grief passed he saw that Parvati was inconsoleable so he tried to remedy the situation. “The next man or beast to come down the road from the mountain shall give up their own head so Ganesh can live again” Lo and behold, an elephant came down the road and thus Ganesh has to this day the head of an elephant. But Parvati was not placated. The only way she would forgive Shiva for his deed was to make Ganesh the first, the first whom people pray to - before even Shiva. So, Ganesh is worshipped and prayed to for new beginnings of any sort – births, engagements, marriages, new businesses..

The deities were set a task, to go around the whole world and tell everyone about the gods. Each deity chose an animal vehicle, such as a lion or a ram to bear them on their mammoth journey. Ganesh chose a mouse and ran around the abode of Shiva and Visnu once, snappily fulfilling his task. He's a bit of a wiseguy, I think people like hime for that too. As you can see I really don't know what it's all about yet – but it's certainly interesting when I can make something out. Anyway there were a few deities in little temples outside the main one. Shiva and ganesha on either side and Vishnu atop Garuda, his mythical eagle vehicle. Interesting that Indonesia, the world's most populous Muslim country decided on a Hindu name for its national airline.

After the temple and avoiding its slightly perturbing sadhus, wandering ascetics who usually only have a loincloth, a begging bowl and a beard to their name, I made for the city palace.

It was built over the course of successive generations of the Mewar line. The line is still running and they proudly proclaim that they are the longest serving dynasty in the world. The palace is entered by a tripiola gate which opens onto a wide courtyard and garden, complete with humps for mounting elephants, a wall over which they fought (elephants) for sport and a place where the head -wallah (forgive my impertinence - the Maharana) was publicly weighed on an annual basis - his weight in gold would be distributed to the poor and needy. Weight watchers eat your heart out! (ED Just re-read that. So bad I have to leave it in.)

The palace itself is an imposing building with an impressive entrance, overlooking the city on one side and the lake on the other.

Underneath a golden image of the sun (the maharanas are descended directly from the sun) are the steps down from the main doors. They have an elephant sized step and a horse sized step, but none for people Anyone coming out of the main door would be getting on a horse, carriage or elephant.

Although still inhabited by the Royal family is mostly given over to an interesting museum. Much of the museum revolves around the life and times of Maharana Pratap Singh who successfully defended Udaipur against the Mughals and his faithful horse Chetak who he used to dress in a fake elephant trunk to bamboozle the enemy.

It's a luxuriously over the top place with ruby mirrored rooms, decoratively tiled images and exquisite courtyards. It must have been some life to lead here, but too gawdy for my liking.

I met back up with Giles in the afternoon..We had planned to take a boat across to the Lake palace but we had left it too late. He had decided to continue on to Ajmer in the East while I was heading for Jaisalmer in the West. We booked our respective tickets (no train to Kaisalmer so I was on another bus) and bumped into a character on the street. His name is Shariq Parvez and is a talented musician and artist. I quite like, but don't have much, sitar music. Shariq makes his own 'meditation guitar' music using an instrument he invented himself, a cross between a Hawaiian slide guitar and a complicated looking traditional Rajhastani string instrument. He played me his music and it was haunting, very good and then we had a good old chat about music. He offered to give me some of his tunes on MP3 and I went up to get my USB stick and iPod so I could play him some Rodrigo and Gabriela who I thought he would appreciate. He did, very much and wanted to get it off my ipod. I told him of my ipod troubles in Uruguay and he understood the complications. It was great chatting to him and I agreed to call in the next day. It was already dark when I said goodbye.

After a rooftop cheese toastie with Giles we said our farewells and parted company. We had different objectives for our trips to India and we both knew that they would be better achieved flying solo. He had an early train while I was on a dreaded night bus. I had a hindi course booked for the following morning. Footprint had recommended Meenu from Queen Cafe so I packed up and made my way across the bridge to meet her. We sat cross legged overlooking the kitchen/cafe and she took me through the very basics, hello, thank you etc. Hindi is very different from any of the latin based languages I know so it was hard for me to make associations to remember. I needed a few rules rather than just learn the sounds off verbatim. I asked Meenu for some more grammar. Meenu has learnt English from foreigners and her brain does not work through grammar. I think I was a difficult student for her ... questions about subjects and objects and auxuliary verbs!

But she was very patient and we took breaks from language by having little chats and cups of chai which her mother took us from downstairs. After about four hours I had built up a hunger so ordered one of the special curries for which her mother is famous. I chose a good sweet and spicy pumpkin curry. Meenu's raucous kids came home from school while I was still eating.

They were gregarious and good fun but well behaved, taking as many photos with my camera as they could but never quite getting to grips with the focus.

My head as well as my belly was full by now so I called it a day for the lesson. I was going to have to write all the words down in some form of structure if I was to learn anything.

But I wasn't in the mood for that so I relaxed on the hotel roof for a while before trying to find Shariq. He had said that he would be at the mosque that day so could not be sure about time so I wasn't surprised to see his shop closed and went back to the hotel. I tried his shop a few times over the next few hours but eventually the time came for me to catch my bus so I wasn't able to say goodbye. Or give him some music in return. I'm sure there's karma there somewhere.

I was prepared for the worst of journeys. I knew it was going to be a bumpy ride to Jodphur and not much better on the second bus to Jaisalmer. It was, as Mark McMahon, my mate who made his own round the world trip last year, would say, a right arse rattler of an Indian bus.

It wasn't that the road was bad per se, just that about every mile or so there was a massive B-BUMP as the coach rolled over what felt like breeze blocks. After the Vietnam bus experience I had decided to avoid 'sleeper' and had a chair instead. I was ok reading for a while but then it became impossible to hold the book steady so I got out the headphones and hoped the time would pass quickly, which it did. In Jodphur those heading on to Jaisalmer were changed onto another bus, this one equipped with an incredibly loud and lengthy horn, even by Indian standards. I took a Dozile pill, put on the eye mask, ear plugs and pillow hoped to get some sleep in spite of the comedy horn and the man behind me with the curly moustache who kept opening my window and not allowing me to recline.

Gallery: India - Mandu & Indore

eoghancito — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 00:50:00 GMT

India - Mandu & Indore

That's not our train. Is it?

eoghancito — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 00:40:00 GMT

It was an auspicious start to the day. As I ate breakfast there was a beautiful hindu song on the radio with a hypnotic, repetitive mantra. I had been reading “Eat, Pray, Love” by Elizabeth Gilbert. The author had been struggling to concentrate during the mantras chanted during her stay at an Indian ashram. I asked the manager what was the name of the song. It was the very same mantra that yer wan had been having trouble with! I took it to be a positive omen for the comfort, speed and ultimate success of another battle against India to get somewhere.

It started well enough. We were on a direct bus to Indore for a start, and it left on time at 9am. But after two inexplicable 30 minute waits in downtrodden market towns and another shower we found ourselves back in Dhar. Rain or shine, night or day, Dhar bus stand is identically unattractive.

Five hours in the rickety bus, listening to the deafening horns of ever increasing complexity. Why is it necessary to beep a 30 second long 120 decibel off-key melody when there is nothing, not even a lizard, around?? I had lost the optimism of earlier in the day, becoming hard and determined – it was time to return to the train system.

As soon as we arrived Giles saw a new side to my character, which most of my colleagues and certainly Claire, over the course of the trip, would recognise. Highly-motivated-no-time-for-fanny-arsing-around-Eoghan. He tends to get things done. We got a rickshaw to the station. The rickshaw-wallah took us to the bus stand rather than the railway, despite my protestations. I directed him back around and left him no doubt in his mind that he would not be getting an extra 20 Rupees for getting us to the right place on second attempt. Chancer.

In the station the information desk was manned by a blind man who seemed to be giving some sort of stand up comedy performance to a group of grinning locals. So not much information. When we found what looked like a queue (the word does not really do the reality justice) Giles, graciously recognising my humour, offered to mind the bags and let me sort things out. After 30 minutes of fending off queue jumpers I reached the top, only to be informed that I had to go to another building across the street (the ticket office, sensibly enough) in order to get the ticket to Kota and then the transfer to Udaipur.

I strided across the road, Indian style - heedless of the cows, beeps and traffic. I had a large rucksack covered in a bright holy dirty saffron cover – they could see me so they could bloody well stop for me for a change. We got a waitlisted ticket from Kota to Udaipur but ... it was too late to reserve to train to Kota so we had to go back to the station to get an unreserved ticket. Finally we had gotten all the tickets, asked people which platform, gotten snacks, water and a guide to India's train system and were sitting on the platform one whole hour before the departure time. With a rocket in the right place you can get a lot done in an hour or two.

I started to relax again. I leafed through the train book – I had been expecting a sort of pocket size book with a few maps and timetables but the train system is way too complicated for that. It's about the size of a secondary school science book and is a masterpiece in complication. It reminds me a bit of la Guia 'T', Buenos Aires' indisepnsible bus guide but on a far far far grander scale.

The 2^nd class unreserved tickets for the 7 hour journey from Indore to Kota had cost all of 90 rupees each – about a pound. Neither if us had been in unreserved, so we would see what that meant on the train. One was at the platform already. Giles asked a few people if this was the right train and they all said no.. wait for next one. So we did.

There were a lot more characters this end of the train – the usual “which country sir?” merchants but also some pilgrims of some sect or another, complete with a handpowered wheel chair of the like I had not seen for a few weeks at least. They told Giles off for smoking on the platform.

Over chai, we chatted and finally watched the train pull out of the station at 16.20. Our departure time. You can see where this is going. It was our train. We had taken the word of random strangers of good solid platform information. I rifled through the portly Indian Railways at a Glance and confirmed that we had indeed been stupid enough to watch our train and only hope of getting to Udaipur, chuff slowly out of the platform. I was livid with myself, but there was no point crying over spilt milk so we left the platform and made our way back to the ticket office. I admit there was a little less spring in my step this time. On the upside, we found a decent enough hotel not too far away and managed to get reserved tickets for the same journey the next day. This side of Indore was better than we had seen and had more facilities. I never thought this was something there was demand for but I stand illuminated:

I got some spare ear drops and antibiotics (you never know) and found an internet cafe and a place that sold pizza and milkshake, ending up the hotel for a few philosophical beers with Giles. A decent lie-in and after breakfast I did some blogging. Giles found a place to finally cash his traveller's cheques. I arranged some rooms in a hotel in Udaipur. Sharing was fine but sometimes you need your own space. All in all it had been a pleasant and useful stay and we were ready for the trip to Udaipur now. Plus we would avoid the scary mystery of second class unreserved with our shiny sleeper tickets. Helpfully, they now had the train number and name on it and the carriage our names and berths in English and Hindi, making getting on the train foolproof.

Sleeper class is a three tier bunk bed with room for 6 to sit on the lower berth (which is why is good to get upper). A young family going to Kota and an elderly couple doing a pilgrimage joined us. They were friendly and considerate in direct contrast to the family of about 20 who spilled from their berth into our own, their own screaming kids competing with the tinny bhangra music coming out of their shiny mobile phones. I opened my laptop, started typing ignored as best I could the noisy family and the constant stream of urchins cleaning the floor with rags and begging for coins. At one point a one man band came in and gave a great busker show. Many people seem to live on the train going up and down the carriages selling food, water, newspapers, hot meals, anything. It would be quite feasible to spend weeks on a train and not need to get off for anything. Feasible, but not perhaps totally enjoyable the whole time.

After a while things settled down and people started to sleep but I read. I was too paranoid about falling asleep and missing the stop. We pulled into Kota station after midnight and the train to Udaipur was due in an hour. Indian train stations usually smell distinctly badly of shit, despite the constant requests, aural and visual, for patrons not to use the toilets in the station. They also tend to house many of the homeless so the platforms are scattered with rags and the few possessions of skin and bone people who seem to sleep all the time.

A trustafarian from Oregon, the first westerner we'd seen in a long while, came up to us. He had an unreserved ticket to Delhi but wasn't sure of the platform. Giles and I nodded wisely, recounted our tale and told him to make sure he knew the train number so he could make sure to be on it. Giles chatted away to him while I read. He didn't heed our advice though and his train left with him looking on, as we had one day before. Ours however was only a half an hour late. We had a better class thus time, back to 2AC. It was silent, dark and cool in the carriage and not long after putting my torch out I was out for a surprisingly good sleep. Barring catastrophe I would be in Udaipur in the morning, and hopefully out of the Monsoon!

Why Mandu?

eoghancito — Mon, 27 Jul 2009 00:19:00 GMT

The unmistakable stench of a combination of human excrement and decaying rubbush hit me as soon as I alighted the train. It was only a three hour train ride. My first, in Sleeper class was just fine but not quite as well equipped as AC class. Khandwa was on the map but not mentioned in the guide book. How hard could it be to get to Mandu?

Khandwa was not in the guide book for a reason – it consisted of a train station, a few bedraggled stalls selling random stuff and a bus station filled with philosophical cows sitting in their own pats. No-one had a word of English (not that they should, of course) but I did get the message that there were no direct buses to Mandu. One shop seller told me I had to go to Dhar and catch one from there. That would leave at 1.30. It was 9.30am. I took a seat, bought some somosas and bhajis and started to read. Or try to read.

People often approach you in India, sometimes out of genuine curiosity, others to sell something or scam you. One man who, wearing a finely stitched silken beige outfit, much better dressed than anyone else in town, took a particular shine to me. He kept urging me to go to Indore instead as that was where all the connections were (I gathered through hand signals and gestures). I asked around and the opinions were about 50/50. Footprint had said that Indore was the place where to get connections to Mandu in the first place. Eventually preferring to be on a moving bus than sitting in Khandwa, like an alien, I succumbed to the dedicated follower of Hindustani fashion's gestures and hopped on.

Much to my surprise a whitey sat beside me on the bus. Giles, a teacher from Plymouth. Small world coincidence, he knows Calstock. He was the first tourist I had seen in days and the first I had actually spoken to since arriving in India. We were both glad of the company - the bus ride was long, bumpy, uncomfortable but made bearable by the conversation and ridiculously cheap cost for a 5 hour ride. Giles was making for Mandu too and had had the misfortune to get stranded in Khandwa the previous night. He was even happier to be leaving the place than I was. Giles needed to cash some travellers cheques so we agreed to meet at Indore's Gangwal bus stand to make the trip together. It was 5 o clock in the evening and we needed to make tracks if we would get there by nightfall. Indore, the centre of India's automotive industry is an aggressive city choked with traffic jams and beeping. Everyone beeps all the time. Everyone tries to scam you for extra cash as your are white. Open sewers abound. Cows sit in the middle of dual carriage ways (although I liked this aspect). I did not want to stay here any longer than necessary and certainly not a night.

As I only to visit an ATM I was there before Giles. Just as I pulled in, a group shouting “Mandu Mandu!!” descended on me, urging me to get on a jam packed standing room only bus. On the last bus lots of punters stood the whole way. I declined. Anyway I had said I would wait for Giles and what kind of person would I be if I pulled up the ladder like that. When Giles turned up we swapped stories. We had missed what was the last bus to Mandu. Giles had not been able to cash his cheques despite having spoken to the manager of the bank by phone earlier. We had not done very well. There was a bus to Dhar though so we took that in the hope of getting a connection to Mandu. It was on this second ride that the rain, which had been patchy all day, started to take itself seriously. The going was bumpy, slow and packed once again - my rucksack was too big to fit anywhere. I jealously eyed Giles' tiny backpack and remembered that he had six weeks and I had a year so it was ok. All the while we passed by saffron wearing men making pilgrimage, some in bare foot. We had been in buses for hours – I shudder to think how long it takes them.

Dhar bus stand is incomprehensible. There are tons of buses randomly sitting around surrounded by goats and banana wallahs. Destinations, times. A ticket office? Ha! Platform is not part of the vocabulary. Someone pointed the right bus for Mandu and we got on, my rucksack on my knees. It was an empty twenty seater bus that within 10 minutes had at least 40 people crammed on. We were lucky – we had seats. The cold rain dripped freely on top of me from a leak in the ceiling. It was pitch black now and no reservations had been made. One hotel, the Roopmati sounded decent enough. I saw the sign loom in and out of view and then another for a different hotel. I hurriedly stopped the bus and we stepped out into the full force of the monsoon. The wind whipped the rain into our faces, blinding us as we ran for the shelter of the first hotel. No rooms. Another wet sprint to the Roopmati.

They had no rooms either, but did for the next day. We booked it and asked for help finding a place. Footprint mentioned another place, Maharaja, but the phone was disconnected - not a great sign but it was our last chance.

We took a taxi and arrived at the most run down sorry excuse for a hostel I have ever come across. It was run by children, the oldest of whom was a filthy but smart 15 year old trying hard to grow his first moustache. They had one room left. It was seriously dirty, stained and had one double bed which came equipped with bedsheets printed with Indian martians.

Not ideal to have to share a bed with a relative stranger the same day you meet them but such is travelling. After 15 damp bumpy hours on the road I would have bunked with satan.

It wasn't raining in the room. We had bought a few beers and had the tunes so it wasn't all bad. The boy-manager walked in to the room (no knocking here!) and pretty much told us to go with him to eat. It was a short walk through the weather to follow him for food. It wasn't really raining any more, more that we were in the centre of the cloud where everything is damp, even the air as you breathe it. So much for keeping my ears dry.

The restaurant, if it can be called such was a barn with one lightbulb, a table caked with old food and god knows what and a few plastic chairs. Dinner consisted of limp chapatis and cold dhal. We had waited for 10 minutes for one of the younger ones to heat it up but the meaning of the word heat was lost on him. It was actually ok, but I wouldn't order it again...

(thats the mist in the restaurant!)

It was Giles' turn to look on jealously as I wrapped myself in my silk liner while he had to make contact with the bed sheet aliens and whatever secret baddies that inhabited them.

Neither Giles or I had any qualms about skipping breakfast with the boys the following morning. It was a bit brighter and the rain held off as we walked into the town past the mosque and battlements the town is famous for.

I was hungry but Giles had been dealing with a touch of Delhi belly so he watched on as I had rice, naan and veg curry – my new staple diet. Then a quick taxi ride back to the Roopmati to check in. It was a delight compared to the last place. There was a shower which even had hot water. There were two beds and a balcony with a view over the valley (when the cloud allowed a view). It was clean!

Much more relaxed with things, and with the weather seeming to behave, we left the hotel and rented some bikes. We made for the palace of Baz Bahadur, a few km to the south of the township.

Cycling in India is an experience. You have to be simultaneously polite, determined, inconsiderate and rude if you want to get anywhere without causing offence. The going got a lot tougher when the rain started.

This happened to coincide with our getting to the traffic jam. Buses, trucks, cars, jeeps, motorbike, bikes, cows goats and people, all trying to go in opposite direction through the mud track which was probably built to handle nothing more than a cart. The bike became pointless as walking through was the only way.

After almost an hour of struggling through the jam we almost gave up but eventually came across the source: an abandoned bright orange truck on the middle of the road at the crest of the hill. Nothing bigger than a bike could make it past it. I felt sorry for the poor local sightseers who had driven maybe three hours to get here, spent an hour at whatever the attraction is and then spend hours looking at a cow's arse..

After that we were able to freewheel down to the entrance to the fort. We made first for Roopmati's pavillion, the home of a musician prince way back when. After making our way to the top of the fort, past the hawkers selling pakora and cucumbers, a fabulous view over the plain below was opened up and the clouds parted for a few minutes.

Within minutes of getting to the top we were beset by mob after mob of curious, boisterous teenage boys, each trying to outdo the other's audacity and general rudeness towards Giles and me. The incessant 'which country' 'what your name' was very tedious.

There was a rickety ladder which everyone climbed up to the roof and a permanent jostling crowd to take steep steps back down.

It was a trampling waiting to happen but I wouldn't have minded if the people were in any way pleasant. I never thought I'd say this but there's a lot to be said for a queue!

On the way over to the next palace I got some cucumber wedges with a salty powder – very tasty and simple and expertly served in a big banana leaf by a smiley woman and her young son.

One of the more persistent kids tried to steal a few of my wedges to impress his mates. Although he ended up with nothing it strangely reminded me of being in school with bullies whose testosterone levels far outstripped their intellect. It was a pretty enough palace but we didn't stay too long – besides it was starting to rain. Luckily the jam had dissipated a little by the time we were heading back.

The hot shower, my first in India was bliss. A few hundred extra rupees goes a long way here! I was looking forward to a lovely thick curry for dinner so I ordered Ghobi Tikka. What I got was baked cauliflower with a tasty powder on top. Very dry but just right. Giles' stomach still wasn't the best so he stuck to chinese. I taught him cacho afterwards. Just after the game he jumped up from the table, ran out to the garden and chundered marvelously all over the flowers in the garden. Bolivian dice games sometimes have that effect on people! The rain washed away the sick in minutes.

These events unlocked a decision in my mind. I was not going to go stay inland and go to Bundi, another “timeless backpacker village in beautiful setting”. The monsoon was starting to really piss me off. I was going to go straight to the desert as quickly as possible. Battered and bruised Giles was of the same mind. Mandu would, I'm sure, be a very agreeable place to stay under many circumstances. It just so happened that our arrival did not coincide with any of them.

Tomorrow: Udaipur or bust!

Sometimes one doctor just isn't enough: Jalgoan

eoghancito — Sat, 25 Jul 2009 00:13:00 GMT

The Plaza Hotel on Station Road, Jalgoan was so clean I felt I could have eaten my dinner off the bedroom floor. In India that's really saying something. The manager explained that they are Jain people so cleanliness is very important to them. I silently wished that the Jain faith was more popular.

Within five minutes of my checking in to the little oasis of spotlessness, complete with BBC news, HBO and a mossie screen, the manager had told me the best places to eat both veg and non veg, where to get a beer and a choice between a GP and an Ear Nose and Throat doctor. Not be melodramatic I took the GP's address and proceed directly to the smoky bar the manager had directed me to for a special veg club sandwich, finger fries and a Kingfisher.

Thankfully I got what I was hoping for – a decent sandwich, chips and a beer. If you want to stay at the hotel, and I highly recommend it you cn contact them on hotelplaza_jal@yahoo.com.

After a fitful bite free slumber I had a banana for breakfast on the way to the Raisoni hospital. My ear was now quite sore so I was hoping for as decisive a treatment as I had received in Cambodia. At least I could hear though.

Jalgoan is a pleasant town with a country town bustling atmosphere but which gets the odd tourist passing through. After a short wait in a room filled with catheter holding patients (seem to need a lot of those in India) Dr. Shekar Raisoni MS, FICS (USA), FAIS listened to me from behind his desk littered with papers and boxes of tablets. I gave him my ears' potted history, including the incident in Mumbai and, putting a fresh battery in his instrument, had a look. Reassuredly he said he should be able to solve the problem. Just some light cleaning and some antibiotics. Which he could do now. Just needed to prepare the treatment room. No problem. He wrote me out a prescription and when I asked how much he said 500Rps for the consultation and same again for the treatment. 12 quid, a far cry from the more than 200 the Angkor Royal Hospital charged.

A few minutes later I was lead to an operating theatre with lots of machinery from the 50's. I lay down on the bed and to my great surprise, had a heart rate monitor attached to my toe. I had been expecting some short of suction device, like last time but the doctor had some cotton wool attached to a skinny plyers. He gently placed it in my ear and swabbed and started to go further in.

My heart rate increased as I realised that this was not going to solve the problem. Just as I had that premonition I felt the thing in my ear be pushed further in. I could feel the passage literally block up and my hearing stop. I told the doctor what had happened and said “No no look I am cleaning it” – pointing at the swab marked with a little waxy stuff that paled into insignificance in comparison with what felt like a blob of blue tack far into my ear.

The beeping continued to increase in pace. He peered into my ear and said “Maybe right”, mostly under his breath. He then insisted that he had cleared the problem. We both knew he hadn't. Asking me how I had managed to let a man in Mumbai stick something in my ear he started syringing saline solution into my ear.

I wasn't happy – I had lost my confidence. in him, he was now berating my misfortune and this spray-water-in-and-let-gravity-help-it-fall-out technique was not going to work. I told him as much and asked him to stop, removing the toe clip, expressing my displeasure. Agog, the doctor was lost for words – I imagine his patients are usually more reverent and trusting.

I asked for the address of the ENT specialist and walked out of the theatre. He asked me to come into his office and he offered me a seat. I was definitely pissed off – but more so because he would not listen to me than anything he had done. Unprovoked, he started to defend his qualifications, saying that he had trained in Chicago and had treated many tourists. He said we were having a misunderstanding. I told him that I understood exactly what had happened: I had come looking for help and he had made it worse – I was now quite deaf in one ear – ten minutes beforehand I could hear. Could he understand that? He stayed silent but began to pen a letter. It was a referral to Dr Gupta, the ENT specialist. I felt like saying that that was a bit of a cop out – I am the one who decided I needed to go to him, not you! But I bit my tongue. He asked me to come back afterwards so he could improve and I said I would.

Luckily the ENT hosptital was 100m up the same street. As I waited for Dr. Gupta MS (ENT) DOR (BOM), MB, FAIS, FICS, FICA (USA) the crazy thoughts that you have in these situations flashed before my mind's eye. Would I have to go to Delhi to get this sorted. Back home? I cursed the strange man in Mumbai who had caused this.

Dr Gupta sat behind his orderly desk and listened as I explained what had happened. He read my Cambodian treatment sheet closely and then said that Dr Raisoni was a very good doctor but that he could not do the things he himself could. Dr. Raisoni had called to warn Dr. Gupta. He took a look (in both ears this time). He said it was caused by fungus and was very common in India during Monsoon. India's pollution problem literally comes back to haunt people with the rains. He said he would remove it, very easily in less than five minutes and it would be just fine. He had a great bedside manner and I was much more comfortable this time. I did however have a few misgivings to sort out. “How will you remove it, Dr.? “By suction.”

And he did, in less than 5 minutes. That familiar sensation in the ear, an irrational concern that my brain would get sucked out during the procedure, but it was fine. My hearing came straight back. The doctor gave me an array of tablets and ear drops, all samples and then said that as a guest in his country I would receive the treatment free of charge. I was dumbfounded in gratitude – what a lovely man. “Enjoy your travels in India! Be careful!” he said as I left, thanking him profusely. “And keep your ears dry even when it's not raining!” I wouldn't have to make an emergency exit after all – I was delighted.

The final chat with Dr. Raisoni was not that comfortable for eiter of us. He had brought a well dressed Indian lady with excellent English in to the meeting and it started with a defence of what he did, added to by the lady with references to the satisfied foreigners who had received treatment. She seemed lawyer-like somehow. I told him that I had been right, there was fungus in my ear (it seems the strange man was at least not the main culprit). Now it had been removed, I had the medicine I needed so I was happy. At that point he got a call – Dr. Gupta calling him back. They seemed to exchange a joke and the call finished.

One more time Dr. Raisoni started to make excuses and call it a misunderstanding. Whatever he wanted to call it I didn't care. “You asked me to come back so you could improve”, I said. I asked him to be honest with his patients – all he needed to do was admit that he couldn't do it (and I did thank him for trying) and refer me to someone who could. I think his usual Indian patients would submit to his superior education while I am a bit more willing to follow my own understanding. We shook hands and parted not amicably but I hope with some greater understanding of each other.

After a great dhal fry lunch I made a reservation for a ticket out of Jalgoan. I had planned to make for Indore and from there make for Mandu, a little backpacker town in the hills. The manager of the Plaza advised to go to Khandwa instead and take a direct train from there. With no reason not to believe him I got myself on the waiting list for a 6am train. After this I retired to the room, feeling a little alone.

As if by magic one of my favourite feel good movies, Jerry Maguire was on HBO so I had a very chilled afternoon. The evening was spent eating even better vegetarian curry with some light internet and packing. I had enjoyed Jalgoan with it's laid back atmosphere and good food and hotel. And it had given me a solution to my ear problems which was the main goal. Time to move on!

Captain Caveman and the mini Taj Mahal

eoghancito — Thu, 23 Jul 2009 23:20:00 GMT

Expecting the unexpected and prepared for anything I was in Mumbai's hectic CST station a full two hours before the train was scheduled to leave. I plonked my conspicuous rucksack down in the middle of the station and sat on it, joining the crowds laughing and joking as they sat on the floor and kept an eye on the station indicator. I watched the world go by, still too different to properly take in or understand.

A half an hour before the departure the platform was annouced so I made may way up it, passing a waiting room for passengers with reservations. So that was where I was supposed to wait. Learning all the time! The trains are huge in every sense, long, this one had 30 or more carriages and about 4m wide, enough for a 6ft sleeping person, a corridor and a seat across. I found my carriage and my berth and was quite impressed. 2 AC is bunkbed style with sheets and covers, AC, a reading light and is relatively clean. All good.

Unsure what to do with my rucksack (I couldn't be expected to bunk with it surely!) I slung it under the lower bunk and climbed up to mine.

I started to prepare the bed the other people in the section arrived. I politely greeted them with Namaste and was grunted at in return by a mustachioed man with a pot belly across from me. The Sikh below me at least smiled as he reverently removed his turban and placed it carefully on the middle shelf. The train departed on time and everyone fell asleep within minutes. Except for me, of course. I was happy to read but eventually got tired and gave it a go.

It was initially the noises and constant toing and froing which kept me awake. Ear plugs to the rescue. Then it was a general paranoia about my rucksack below. I reasoned that it is such a hefty beast I would surely hear if someone tried to grab it. Then paranoia about missing my stop – they don't make announcements (that would be annoying all night) and you can't see out from the upper berth. But again I reasoned that the train was not going to be early so as long as I set my alarm it would be ok. But finally the thing that kept me awake was the ear shattering snoring of my unfriendly mustachioed companion accompanied by his thunderous sleeping farts. I didn't think people could fart that loud at all, never mind asleep. The only way I know he was asleep is because the snoring didn't pause for the farts. I gave up and read again till 4am when we arrived at Aurangabad.

I had a booking at the Shree Maya hotel and although it was close to the station had asked for a pick up when I booked. A man identified me quickly enough (being the only gora or whitey) and took me to the hotel. The staff were all asleep on the floor of reception when I got there. After the usual passport shenanigans I was shown to my room which was once again not very clean but I was too tired to care.

I slept through the longest solar eclipse of the century. I didn't feel bad because it wasn't visible in Aurangabad and even if it was the persistent rain would have ruined it anyway. I did catch the best of it on the TV though. Including the poor kids who had been buried up to their necks in sand by their parents hoping that doing so during the eclipse would cure their ailments. Poor kids looked not only miserable but embarrassed – I could imagine them thinking “Wow the lads are really going to take the mick out of me in school tomorrow”. But of course, they probably don't go to school.

I had some breakfast and chai and then went back to my room. I wasn't going to leave until I had some sort of plan. It wasn't too bad at all actually - I took a thematic approach and it soon became clear that everything I wanted to do was up North. The Goan beach or backwaters of Kerala didn't appeal very much in this weather so Goa and Kerala would not be on the list.

Content with this I could go straight to execution. I had given myself a few days to have a look around Aurangabad itself and take in the Elora and Ajanta cave systems. I didn't want to get too hectic on such little sleep so settled for a city tour during the day. The hotel manager arranged a giude/rickshaw driver to take me. He introduced me to Nazir, a friendly, heavy set guy with a ready smile and we were off in the auto rickshaw.

No new MOT here I'm afraid – it's identical to a tuk-tuk. The rains had ceased for now, a good sign.

First up was Pan Chaki an attractive set of medieval buildings and a mosque centred around a water mill which allowed gravity to do some of the work giving the peons a rest.

Kids sheltered from the rain under an enormous 500 year old Banyan tree. Aurangabad was originally a walled town named after the last great Mughal, Aurangzeb who built his citadel here.

The rain started again on the way up to Aurangabad caves in the hills overlooking the city. I've been quite surpised at the temperature since I got here – more often than not I'm actually regretting wearing shorts as the wind whips the rain into the back of Nazir's rickshaw and into my face.

The caves themselves date mostly from the fourth century AD and consist of various decorated and pillared rooms cut into the stone where people came to worship. Images of the Buddha are prominent although Hindu deities feature in the later one. For the most part they're surrounded by austere little meditation chambers where the devout and monks lived and hopefully found whatever they were looking for. They are interesting and provide a great view of the city below but when it started raining and waterfalls started sprouting from the cliff face I had no trouble leaving.

Nazir took me on a drive back into the old party city. A rickshaw drive is a great way to see a place, up close and personal. Traffic jams caused by cows chewing the cud in the middle of the street. Mysterious Muslim ladies in purdah doing their shopping.

Shops with every conceivable shape and size of guady bangle. Beef shops proudly displaying their wares in the shop window. The amount of flies freely getting involved with the meat was all I needed to see to convince me that vegetarianism was the way to go in India.

We stopped at the city chowk, a warren like maze of streets and the commercial heart of the city. It was great to wander around and soak up the atmosphere (and some more rain). The streets are organised by trade, so you'll have a street full of fabrics beside one of metalware and a third of jewellery. Gaudy jewellery has a big market here – some shops somehow specialise in imitation jewellery. How honest of them.

I wanted a light sheet to use as an all purpose cloth/bedsheet/towel so I found myself of cloth street perusing the shops. A gregarious group of men asked me a few questions, which country etc. and we ended up talking about Ireland recent prowess in cricket, the national sport (not that I know anything about it I might add!). I bought a sheet and they offered me some chai. We kept chatting and more and more people joined the group to stare and listen. It was quite fun – they were a friendly bunch. One of them wanted some Irish coins but all I had to offer was a Singapore Dollar. He seemed quite happy the alternative and in order to reciprocate, gave me a handkerchief. It was new by the way, it's not as if he gave me the snotty rag out of his pocket!

Afterwards we made for Bibi ka Maqbara which is a bit like a poor man's Taj Mahal. It was modelled on the more famous mausoleum in Agra but is only half the size, widely agreed not to be not as beautiful and completed for, it's said one three hundredth the price.

It's the mausoleum of Aurangzeb's wife and is set in a series of interconnected gardens. I'm sure a stroll around would be delightful in the dry season but the heavy rain put a bit of a dampener of things. When you get up close you can see that marble was used only for the bottom of the building and the top parts are grubby and in need of repair. But seeing as I will be saving Agra for another trip, it had to do.

The rain was starting to not only get to me but also worry me. If it stayed like this for the whole trip I would struggle to keep important things like my laptop and guidebook dry. I asked Nazir if it would be possible to buy zip lock bags in the city. Of course, he took me to plastic ware street where a shop specialised specifically in zip lock bags. I love it! He dropped me off at a good veggie restaurant near the hotel. I returned there for some chai and blogging. I didn't finish the second cup as it smelt unmistakably of human excrement. You really have to watch things in India.

Mosquitos prevented me from getting a decent night's sleep but I had arranged for Nazir to pick me up at 8. It was pissing rain again – even more miserable than the previous day. A dank fog lay across the whole town and as we drove out of it and to higher ground it got worse. The first stop of the tour was the Deogiri fort in Daulatabad. It's a huge imposing structure surrounded by multiple rings of defences. It was built in the twelfth century and in its hey day served as the capital of a wide area. Despite the history (which I was fast discovering that I knew less than nothing about) it was totally miserable wandering about in the fog. There wasn't a sinner anywhere and it's enormous. A cloud hung over what I suspected what was the main fort itself but I wasn't sure so I kept approaching whatever the cloud was hiding. A victory tower loomed into sight and I suspect I was on the right track. More battlements and bridges and a moat. The defences of the palace are impressive. The moat was once home to crocodiles and other nasties who would happily gobble up any attackers who fell in.

When I got into the fort itself a man with a torch offered to take me through the dark entry tunnel with a flaming torch. Anything to get out of the rain! The passage, the only way into the fort is set with all sorts of traps to befuddle and then maim or kill the unaware. At one point the passage splits in two then joins back together, a simple way to get attackers to kill each other. All the while the ground is very uneven making it tough going even with a torch.

I kept marching upwards into the mist, thinking that there must be something at the top.

An octagonal palace.

Further above a grave and finally an old cannon, some chipmunks and the odd frog.

I made a silent request to the weather to do me a favour and lay off for a while at the top. Miraculously, it did and there were great views on the way down.

I was feeling better for it too – not so chilly! The better weather seemed to have brought more visitors (Indian) and residents (monkey) to the entrance.

After a pitstop for some petrol poured through a funnel we made for Ellora caves, the main reason I was in town. On the way Nazir was free with information about his culture and society and his life. He has 4 children, his eldest girl having just been married. I congratulated him but it seemed a mixed blessing for him. He had to sell his rickshaw for the dowry. This aspect of Indian society is quite alien to me. I asked him if he was religious.. he replied “Yes sir, I am communist!” He goes to the mosque, to the Hindu temple and to party meetings, covering all his bases. Very smart.

The Ellora caves are very impressive. But there are over thirty indiviual caves so I had my work cut out.

I started at number one, the oldest, Buddhist cave and worked my way up through more and more ornate caves.

Then the Hindu ones begin and the imagery changes to their deities although Buddha features strongly thoughout. I have to admit that Hinduism, along with Indian history is completely new to me so I can't say that I understood what I was looking at.

The Jewel in the crown is cave 16, a hindu temple carved straight from the cliff. They started at the top and worked their way down over what must have been centuries to complete a mammoth ornately carved temple which is suppsoed to represent Mount Kailasa, the home of Siva, the oxymoronic God of creation and destruction. My amateur photography does no justice to the sight itself.

The rain had been on and off but it really started to come down in sheets when I had finished with “cave” 16. 5 hours of temples in the rain had taken its toll so when I looked at the last few later caves, this time of the Jain faith (not sure what that is yet exactly but hey) my heart wasn't in it. What had been a trickle when I started the visit had become a cascading torrent, flooding the area below. It was time to move on.

On the way back to town we made some interesting stops. The first was at a very ancient and important Hindu temple. I entered and in order to go in to the shrine I had to take off my top. I looked on, bare-chested as devotees poured coconut milk into a brass cup which then overflowed onto offerings of flowers and rice. Not an iota of a clue as to what all this meant but I was delighted to get my first bindi, the distinctive mark on the forehead. Mine wasn't a red dot as I had expected, more of an orangey smudge.

After lunch we went into Rauza so I could visit Aurangzeb's tomb. Nazir warned me not to give anyone any money and only to visit the main tomb, not the others. It was a very simple affair, unlike anything he had built but a blind guy started hassling me for baksheesh (a backhander/tip) so I feigned an inability to understand English and scarpered. Being Argentinean can have its uses!

The last stop was at Himroo Sarees a famous factory shop where they make what Nazir told me were they use handlooms to make the best sarees in India. It was a shame that there was no-one working at the time but the looms were quite impressive to behold even when silent.

Some of the sarees are inlaid with gold and silver, takes months and even years to make and can cost up to 50,000 rupees, about the same price as a good second hand rickshaw. They were beautiful but the salesman was quite pushy and I didn't really warm to the place. I'm not target market of course.

My original plan had been to get a bus up to Ajanta that evening for the other set of caves. After 2 days of caves, forts, more caves and temples I wasn't enamoured with that prospect. I felt like Captain Caveman. For a few days now I had been starting to get that familiar itchy feeling in my ear – the sign of an infection coming on. I hadn't really slept that much either. I needed a rest and for someone to look in my ear. I changed the plan – I would skip Ajanta and make for Jalgoan which was the closest rail connection from where I could start heading north. And I could see about a doctor.

I had become friends with Nazir and I was sad to say goodbye to him. It felt as though he was Prabaker to my Shantaram, explaining what I was seeing, being generous with his humour and knowledge. He took me to the bus station, found a seat for me and even found a place for my rucksack which was not on the roof I was glad to see. It wouldn't have mattered the skies cleared on the four hour trip. I saw the sun for the first time in India. It seemed like weeks since I had seen a sunset.

The my first Indian local bus ride was quite pleasant ... the road wasn't bumpy and the traffic seemed to behave. It was good to see a few characters on the bus with me. The elderly man sat beside me had a catheter which, once he had filled up proceeded to empty it out the window. He did wait till we were stopped at the bus station though which was very considerate of those passenger with open windows behind. I was glad to get off four hours later. I jumped in a rickshaw and it took me to the only hotel in the book. I was definitely off the tourist trail now – kids pointed and stared as I struggled to get my bag on to enter the hotel. I hoped it was clean, quiet and mosquito free. A lot to expect in India but I had my fingers and toes crossed.

Mind your ears it's Mumbai!

eoghancito — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 23:06:00 GMT

The sound of heavy rain on plastic woke me up. I was disoriented at first, wondering first where Claire was and second where I was. Then it clicked. London (or quite possibly in a holding pattern around the M25). Mumbai. I looked out the window to see a small brown flood outside the hotel. It was horrible weather, I felt like I was breathing in steam. I contemplated going back to bed but willed myself into the mildew covered shower for a cold sprinkling of water of questionable origin.

As it had been quite cold through the night (I even switched off the fan!) I downgrarded to a cheaper, non AC room. I moved my stuff to the new room and paranoid, locked my big bag secure and locked that to the bed. Not sure what was the lesser of two evils – rain or theft, I took all the important or valuable stuff with me in my small bag. Claire had given me her umbrella.

A taxi driver was lying in wait for me outside the hotel. I wanted to go to the renowned Leopold's in Colaba but had no idea how much that should cost. He said 90 rupees, I said put it on the meter. He said it was broken. I was getting wet now so I jumped in. The traffic was quite crazy, reminiscent of Vietnam but this time with cars, bikes, mopeds and pedestrians all vying for supremacy, no-one giving an inch. There seems to be a loose convention of driving on the left but it's only loose. People don't tend to use the path to walk on, favouring the street itself. Horns honk all the time warning whatever smaller to get out of the way of the bigger thing coming behind. Amazingly and in common with Vietnam, it all somehow works.

The taxi dropped me off at a street that looked just like any other and the driver pointed down it. I followed the gesture but couldn't find the restaurant. All I wanted was to do was sit down, look at the guidebook and have a think over some breakfast. It was too wet to look at the map in the book so I went for a wander around the streets looking for somewhere to park myself and make some plans. I had done no research on India, not even on Mumbai apart from a cursory look at the map of Mumbai when I booked the hotel. This is not my natural style. I don't need a plan to stick to it, rather to have something to deviate from. Not having a plan was quite unnerving. I didn't know what I wanted to see in Mumbai, or India. I didn't even know if I should go North or South.

I found the whole walking about experience quite overwhelming. People were shouting things at me from all directions, none of which I understood or cared enough about to stay and find out. Eventually I chanced upon the Gateway to India, an elegant arch constructed by the sea in 1911 to welcome George V and Queen Mary when they visited India, presumably for a bit of a jolly in the jewel of the empire.

It was windy, wet, miserable and quite cold yet large gangs of people were milling about, seemingly enjoying themselves. Massive waves broke over the sea wall, soaking one group after another, causing raucous laughter each time.

As I took all this in I must have looked like I was new in town because I was quickly approached by a tout. He told me that Elephanta Island was closed. I thanked him, glad that I hadn't been intending on paying a visit anyway. Then he started on about a city tour. Against my better judgement I listened to his spiel, mostly to hear what the places to visit were but also because I had nothing better to do. He named off all the places and I asked him how much. 1600 rupees. 20 quid. I scoffed and walked away. He followed and asked what I wanted to pay. I said I was to hungry to think but that was way over my budget. “I take you to cheap place to eat and you think”. Bingo. I could at least eat now.

As I ate the omelette and toast and drank my first cup of chai the tout sat opposite, eyeing me up as he drank his own chai. I was not comfortable in Mumbai and wanted to leave as soon as possible. Tomorrow. However, I had also decided that, seeing as I had nothing better to do today and wouldn't mind seeing at least a bit of Mumbai before getting the hell out of here a tour might be a good idea. I got him down to 1000 Rupees, still a total rip off I'm sure but I wasn't in much of a mood to bargain hard.

I was introduced to the guide/driver and we set off to the first “attraction”, something called washing laundry. It was a short drive from Colaba, through the higgeldy piggeldy streets. Stopping and starting as people, or cows , or goats decided to cross the road or just stop in the middle of it for a think (this applied to people as much as cows or goats). A gap between some buildings opened out into a concrete maze of water filled baths, many filled with clothes and manned by a wiry armed chap mangling the clothes with physical power.

If you get some laundry done in Mumbai, chances are it comes here to be washed by hand. There was some evidence of industrialisation. A massive home made washing machine had been constructed as had a lethal looking gas powered dryer but the majority of work was still done by hand. Pile after pile of clothes lay about.

I have no idea how they could tell which piece of clothing belonged to which batch and most likely never will. Thankfully the rain had stopped for a while.

Next we drove along Mumbai's famous Marine Drive with its odd shaped storm defences and heavily polluted, practically deserted Chowpatty beach.

Onwards towards Malabar Hill where I had a few barefoot minutes in a beautifully decorated Jain temple.

The heavens opened as I left and we made for the Hanging Gardens, so called because they are built on top of the city's main resevoirs. I am sure the topiary and flowers make it a relaxing place to chill out on a sunny day but the lashing rain prevented me from staying very long.

We drove back towards the centre of Mumbai past the Towers of Silence. Tourists are not allowed in but I was able to sneak a glimpse from the road. Mumbai is the Parsi word for temple. The Parsi believe that corpses are inherently unlcean and that the elements of Earth, Fire and Water should never be polluted by them. As such they lay out the dead on the top of the towers for vultures to pick clean. The reduction in the vulture population is a cause for concern. The Parsi have long played an important economic role in the city. Notable adherents are the Tata family who own a huge Indian conglomerate which makes and sells everything from trucks to mobile phones and even has a consulting wing that was rumoured, to buy out Deloitte Consulting while I worked there. I didn't know about the vultures then but I was glad the deal fell through.

Mahatma Gandi is probably the most famous Indian of modern times. He lived in Mumbai for a number of years and his residence has been maintained as a museum and research centre. It also provides welcome relief to damp tourists in the rainy season. I didn't know much about the man and it was fascinating to be walked through the principal events of his life through the medium of diorama. I'd never been a fan before but they managed to get the emotion and gravitas of his life and times across.

There were also some interesting letters to and from him including one to Hitler requesting that he avert the planet from WWII. The man correctly had a global impact and appeal, many countries, even Ireland, commemorating his life and death with stamps.

Ciaran, I'm not sure if you're still a member of the Irish Philatelic Society but that one was for you.

Three hours after it had begun the tour ended back where it had begun in Colaba. I had actually enjoyed it (ok the parts where I wasn't in the rain) and was glad to have seen some of Mumbai. Now I could leave quickly in good conscience.

But not before going to Leopold's. This establishment plays a pivotal role in Shantaram, Greg Roberts book about Mumbai and India. I had to at least see it. When I found it I was a bit disappointed – it was almost empty and a pretty shabby place. The prices were very high too.

I sipped a diet coke, looked for somewhere more Indian to eat, took a snap and went down the road for my first authentic Indian curry. I didn't know what I was ordering but it was a superb mutton kadai which came with slices of boiled eggs in the curry. Claire would have barfed. I also had some great naan bread. It was only as I was smacking my lips in enjoyment afterwards that I realised I was supposed to be vegetarian in India. I would have to start that later. My bill came with these lovely aniseed flavoured seeds (maybe they'reaniseeds?) which aid digestion.

After the meal I took the the time to read my guidebook a little. While I didn't have the time or inclination to make a big plan I did manage to decide where to aim for after Mumbai. Neither North nor South but inland to Aurangabad. With that decided I had a renewed energy. I went back down to Gateway looking for a tourist office but couldn't find it. The giudebook said there was one in the Taj hotel. I went through the incredibly tight security (Hilary Clinton was staying) to find that the bomb blast last year had wiped out the older section of the hotel, the tourist office along with it.

There was nothing left to be done but make for the main tourist office, over by Churchgate station. As I was agreeing a price with the taxi driver, a well spoken, turbaned, bearded man approached me saying something about my ear. I instinctively ignored him and carried on with the taxi driver. The ear man persisted, preventing me from reaching agreement on the price. He then said “Sir, please if you just give me a moment I will show you”. Before I knew what was happening he had deftly rolled a piece of cotton wool around a long, thin pointed instrument which looked medical in nature and stuck it in my ear. I yelled “Get the fuck away from my ear you crazy bastard” at the top of my voice and pulled away from him. At this he calmly showed me some white gloopy gelatinous stuff that he had allegedly removed from my ear. Then he had the gaul to stick his hand out at me expecting some kind of payment for services rendered. I jumped in the taxi and told the driver to go. I said to him, “That was bullshit right?”. He waggled his head from side to side, in the way only an Indian can and replied “Yes sir, this is definitely bullshit!”

I found the tourist office with some difficult. It would occur to no-one that a tourist looking for a tourist office would by definition not no where to go. Not a sign anywhere on the building and up some unmarked stairs (opposite Churchgate station – follow signs for the computerised reservations office). The lady was sort of helpful. I would have thought that I was a tourist information officers wet dream. I have 2 months to spend in your country. I like the following things. Can you tell me where to go I have no plan. She drip fed me some information about a few places and gave me some maps and badly copied information sheets about a few towns. She did offer me a piece of cake though and did ask if I drank alcohol. I said yes and she put an all India liquor permit stamp in my passport. I was now legally permitted to be in possession of alcohol anywhere in India. Not that I wanted this dubious honour but there you go.

Nearby was the railway reservation centre. I wanted to get to Aurangabad the next day. For those unfamiliar with the Indian railway system (which according to different sources seems to alternate with the NHS as the world's biggest employer), it's not as simple as just walking up to the counter and buying a ticket. For starters the route map is so complicated that you can't just look to see if a train goes from A to B. It may or may not, depending on a myriad of factors too complex for me to evcen begin understanding. If you do happen to find out that a train goes between A and B, you need the train name and number. Then you can fill out a form with your name and address and passport details (along with those of the train) and fight your way to the front of a counter. (The Indian definition of queueing is, somewhat different to that of the English shall I say). Then a clerk will tell you what is available – there are 6 classes of reserved ticket and 2 of unreserved. There are also special quotas on all trains for different types of people: tourists, government officials, military etc. If there are no tickets left in the chosen class or quota you can go on a wait list, whereby unallocated reservations from all quotas are released the morning of the journey. You may or may not get a ticket.. In summation its bewilderingly complicated. I was blessed to be in and out in 15 minutes with a reserved tickets in 2AC class for Aurangabad from CST at 9pm the following day. Success!

It had been a pretty full on first day in India – I had done a tour, made a bit of a plan, had a curry, been scammed, run away, negotiated the train system and bought a ticket the hell out of Mumbai, a place I just could not warm to. I was glad to go back to the relative comfort of the hotel and be able to discuss the days events with Claire who had by now arrived in London. It was only afterwards, as I was mooching about the internet that I realised that my day had unwittingly tracked the terrorist attacks that blighted Mumbai almost one year to the day before. Leopolds, The Taj hotel, CST were all invaded by gunmen, killing locals and tourists alike.

I spent the whole of the following day in the hotel and I have no shame in saying it. I was horribly behind on the blog and would have to make a mammoth effort if I ever wanted to catch up. I also needed to reply to a lot of unanswered emails. Most of all though, I wanted to leave Mumbai for somewhere a little less... like Mumbai so that I could feel at ease, do some research in a quiet place and make a plan. I knew that I was essentially running away from a city that deserved more. There was a lot I still wanted to see in Mumbai, such as the Dabbawalahs in action delivering tiffin boxes to hungry husbands all over the city. But all that was secondary to feeling happy in my own skin. Maybe next time.

Gallery: India - Mumbai & Maharashtra

eoghancito — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 22:15:00 GMT

India - Mumbai & Maharashtra

Gallery: Singapore

eoghancito — Sun, 19 Jul 2009 19:47:00 GMT

Singapore

India begins with I

eoghancito — Sun, 19 Jul 2009 18:23:00 GMT

India was always going to be an experience of sensory overload, but not just for the usual culture shock-related reasons – the key to the beginning of my Indian travels is contrast. I was coming from Singapore, a model of modernity, order and efficiency, to India which in many ways is still a medieval country. I had left the most modern airport in the world in the most modern plane I had ever been in for Bombay International, just a tad less efficient than Changi. We had been in a dry heat for months and it was the rainy season in Mumbai. Most importantly Claire and I had been inseparably travelling for 10 months, in each others company for 23.5 hours a day. I was now going to be on my own. Just me and my thoughts. The we had become an I. Even writing 'I' in the blog is strange ... being so used to 'we'. That's a lot to contemplate on a flight of only 5 hours.

It was 11pm and the monsoon rain whipped across the runway as we landed. There I go again. As the plane landed. Mumbai airport looked totally chaotic – it was as though planes had been left anywhere there was a free parking spot. Lots of airlines I didn't recognise. I had managed to change my remaining Singapore dollars for rupees in Changi so I reckoned I would have enough cash to get me to the hotel, provided I wasn't duped into one of the renowned airport taxi scams all the guide books talk about.

As instructed I pre-paid my taxi and was told to go outside by the gruff man at the counter. Taxi number 64 would be bringing me into town. The airport was quiet as I walked through it, I had expected crowds. I found the exit and walked out into a throng of hundreds of exotically shabbily dressed people shouting and waving signs. So I'd found the crowd, now for the taxi. I followed a sign which lead me to a stand where there were hundreds of identical bashed up black and yellow cabs that had probably been built in the fifties. Of course none of them had any numbers on them. I waved my ticket around and eventually someone in a uniform guided me towards a cab, just a little bit more rickety than the others. The cabbie hadn't a word of English and my hindi was non-existent. Expecting this, I had chosen my hotel (Sealord) specifically so that it was close to somewhere everyone should know: Mumbai's main train station, CST, formerly Victoria Terminus.

On leaving the airport it was immediately obvious that India is far poorer than any other country I have visited. Dark, sad faces gave thousand yard stares from beneath cardboard boxes and makeshift houses as we passed shanty after shanty, slum after slum, naked children playing in the mud well after midnight. After an hour or more of trying to understand what the driver was on about he turned on the radio. Ironically David Gray was playing. “What on earth is going on in my head?” The rain kept pouring down.

The driver got us to CST but was stumped after that. I wasn't prepared to start wandering the streets. He wasn't a very resourceful chap so I got him to stop at a shop and shouted out the window for directions. A crowd gathered and eventually admitted that we were on the right street but needed to go a few km further. I thanked them and gestured to carry on to the driver. We passed by more makeshift housing and some really interesting (bad) smells before the dim sign of Hotel Sealord came into view.

Mumbai accommodation is expensive, no bones about it. As I was arriving late I needed as reservation and this was the cheapest place I could find which took bookings and was close to anywhere. When I grabbed my bag out of the taxi boot the driver stood there, hand out, expecting a hefty tip for his services. As he had not even managed to get me to the hotel without my help I brushed him off. I could hear him swearing Hindi insults at me as I left.

The hotel was filthy and the man behind reception ignored me for a full 15 minutes before I caught his attention. He spent an age looking for my booking and finally found it, only then asking for my passport. He perused every page disapprovingly before wordlessly throwing it back at me and pushing the register towards me to complete. Welcome to India indeed!

The room was dank, smelly and hadn't been cleaned in some time. The bathroom was farcically dirty although the bedsheets did seem ok. The guy who showed me to the room was pushy ... eager for me to drink beer. Just to get rid of him I ordered one. It was well after midnight and I was wide awake and on edge.

After a beer and a flick through the 100% Hindi TV channels I went downstairs – I had spied a wifi router on the wall and was hopeful of connectivity. Reception had changed shift and the much friendlier night crew had started. I got the wifi password from them and sat down in front of my laptop. Privacy is definitely not the norm in India. The porters immediately sat behind me and looked at what I was doing over my shoulder, asking questions about my age, family, profession, marital status, you name it. They also made various offers to buy the laptop. They were a friendly bunch though and I was glad of a little company. They then started asking to download bhangra music to their virus ridden phones which they connected to my laptop. The virus scan kicked in and I hastily put a stop to all that. I would deal with India tomorrow. Time for bed. Just me...

Slings, sleaze and au revoir in Singapore

eoghancito — Sun, 19 Jul 2009 13:17:00 GMT

It was long before dawn when the nicest coach in the world crossed the bridge over to the island state of Singapore.When we saw the customs complex it was immediately clear that this would be a lot more organised than anywhere else in SE asia. It was massive, with seperate sections for cars, minibuses, coaches and trucks. As it was such an ungodly hour there were no queues and our bags, and our passports were scrutinised meticulously. My bag was identified for opening. I thought it was for the pack of illicit chewing gum I was smuggling in but not so. Whatever it was, was ok by the customs official.

As a treat for the final section of Claire's journey we had splashed out on a 4 star hotel, The Furama City Centre, in Chinatown. We arrived at the unusually shaped building at about 5am, hopeful of a room being ready. As they were full would have to wait. We sleepily traipsed around the local area looking for somewhere for breakfast that wasn't noodle based (not easy in Chinatown). Finally we found somewhere nondescript serving nondescript food that wasn't noodles. We stayed as long as we could, to give the hotel time but alas they still had no rooms ready when we got back. We took a seat in the quite posh (compared to what we were used to) lobby and waited, like only backpackers can in a 4 star hotel. They found a room soon enough after Claire and I sprawled out on a leather sofa while Japanese business men and pilots were checking out.

I'd like to think the hotel manager took one look at us and said “get them out of my lobby – I don't care how!” because we had landed an executive room. At the price we paid we should definitely have been in standard. Despite the nice room it was shocking to see how much they charged for broadband and minibar stuff. To think that no so long ago I had thought nothing of paying such crazy sums for being able to send a few emails when working away on a project. Now though there was no way I was spending our normal accommodation daily budget on the an hour's Internet access.

Yet again the arrival in a new city had the Olympus theme. After a sleep and a late lunch we made for the office, a few MRT stops away. The MRT is Singapore's highly efficient metro system.

Colm, my oldest brother had once described Singapore as Asia-Light. We had sort of felt that about KL in that it was quite organised and efficient but Singapore seemed to us to be devoid of any Asian feel at all. It looked more like Boston than anything Asian. Once we found the Olympus office and dropped off the camera we called it a day, having an early night preceeded by the decadence of takeaway McDonalds in front of the TV. We had to get into the non Asian spirit of things you see!

Out and about for our first proper day in Sing we wandered around Chinatown, only to discover most things closed and no-one around. We gave up and made for Little India instead. A few shops selling saris, gold and tat. Not so appealing. We passed by an English pub and, at a loss, had an overpriced but cheeky pint. Singapore was not blowing up our proverbial skirts so far ... but perhaps we were looking in the wrong places. A swim at the hotel pool and a quick Jacuzzi quickly got us back in the right frame of mind. We went out for a walk around the city, checking out the skyscrapers oddly juxtaposed with the elegant cathedral.

Raffles hotel is a world renowned Singapore institution since (arguably more exciting) colonial times. We had a look around the building and visited the compact, interesting museum. You have to be impressed by a hotel that has its own museum, about itself!

Across the road is an unpronounceable entertainment complexed called Chijmes with a trendy bar called Insomnia just off the main courtyard. We took a seat outside and had ourselves some Singapore Slings. They had been invented in Raffles, who decline do a 2 for 1 happy hour. Iit was an economically lead but tasty decision.

After a while a guy with an acoustic guitar, a great voice and a repertoire that came straight from my ipod came out and kept us singing along for the rest of the evening. Riza, a friendly Philippino girl sat down beside us and we got talking. She confirmed that the principal pastime in Sing was shopping. We had done plenty of mall crawling in KL and our retail bags were full.

Keen to try and get out of the city we visited Pulau Ubin, a small island off the east coast of Singapore proper, near Changi Airport. We somehow managed to persuade Riza to take an impromptu Friday off her accountancy duties and join us for the day. We met her at an MRT station and she showed us the way and a good job she did too as we would have ended up in altogether the wrong place.

Pulau Ubin is supposedly what Singapore used to be like in the 1950s. We took a small boat across the channel and were greeted by strip of shops renting out sub-standard mountain bikes. We chose our three steeds for the day and disregarding the free map we were given, went off to get lost.

Riza had been here before but hadn't veered off the beaten track too much. We did a little, down a muddy one way path only to return. Riza's whiter than white trainers, which I suspect had never been used outside, were ruined, covered in mud but she took it in good spirits. Later we came across a wildlife observation path built out onto some of the remaining coral on the island. He path then weaves through some beautiful mangroves with tiny fiddler crabs boisterously fiddling away in the mud below. Tantalisingly close, across the channel was Indonesia.

There was a wooden tower to climb where you could check out the local bird life but it seemed most (ok I admit it I) was more keen on looking at the planes come in to land in Changi Airport. Never did catch an A380 but I suspect it was the wrong time of day. It was a lovely afternoon, spent cycling around the woods and tracks ... such a far cry from the strangely muted hustle of the city.

We indulged in another swim in the hotel and did some outrageously expensive laundry before the evening was upon us.Vietnamese Casino Heist Nick had just come back to Singapore. He and our new friend Riza came over to the hotel for a few beers.

The Singapore food festival was on so afterwards we walked down to nearby Read Bridge, the epicentre of the festival. It had been marketed as restaurant food at hawker prices but in fact the inverse was true. Perhaps we were a touch too late but it did not impress. The people at the stalls were bored, the food was stodgy and there was a crazy system of buying tokens in order to buy food and drinks. We moved on.

After a stroll along the quays with its seated bungy jumps, we ended up in Chijmes. We hit a few bars, testing Nick's ability to get cheap, airline staff drink discounts even though he doesn't have a job. He did surprisingly well, even when we ended up back at Insomnia where Riza was mates with one of the managers. The Singapore Slings flowed and a good time was had by all. Nick, with a grin, suggested another place, Orchard Tower for a last drink. Claire and I were game but Riza declined when she found out where he was taking us. Shopping mall by day, multi-storey all purpose sex emporium by night, Nick referred to it as the Four Floors of Whores. It was just that ... seedy, neon, brash, in your face, but not scary or pity inducing. It was quite strange getting an escalator up while a giggling group of lady boys fluttered their eyelids at us going down ... We had our last drink in one of the slightly less seedy bars, finished it quickly and called it a night. We had to start packing up in the morning.

Needless to say we weren't operating at 100% the next day when we had to go back to Olympus to collect the camera. It's a simple journey. One MRT stop from Chinatown, change to the only other line and then one more stop. When we got out at the other end nothing looked at all familiar. We had somehow sleepwalked, assuming the other was keeping an eye on where we were going. In one change and stops we were not only in the wrong station but in the wrong end of town. The second attempy, by taxi was more successful and we got another example of native Singaporean disaffectedness. The driver bitched and moaned about taxes, the government, the crazy laws and the lack of personal freedom. We could have been in London but for the Chinese accent and the genuine smile.

Olympus, without saying why had deigned it necessary to change the circuit board of my camera. With the work done in KL and Singapore the little camera had now had the equivalent of a multiple organ transplant. On testing it seemed as though the colours had come back and it felt better so we took off.

Once again, I am ashamed to say we indulged in some fast hangover food. This time BK was the beneficiary. The staff were amused at my insistence on a BK hat.

We wandered around, eventually taking the MRT (correctly this time) back to Chinatown. As we were walking back into the hotel we passed by a little shop which had a massage sign outside. We went in and had the most painful chinese style pummeling we had ever had. There were a few small similarities with the Thai massage style we had learnt in Chiang Mai but it was mostly elbows and knees in painful places in our backs. Afterwards all we were fit for was a nap – in fact it was a struggle to make it through the few steps and a lift to the room.

It took a freezing cold swim and jacuzzi to wake us up for the evening. It was our last evening in Singapore, our last evening together (for just a while) and essentially the last evening of Claire's trip. Understandably there was a melancholy air to it. We put on our finest attire (ill fitting Bolivian jeans and a shirt for me, the twice repaired El Bolson dress for Claire) and made for the Long Bar in Raffles, ... dahling. We had to give this institution its due – visiting the museum was not enough. We ordered a pair of outrageously expensive Slings and sipped away, savouring the opulent sights and sounds, a little disappointed that they had been prepared using a mix and not fresh as we expected for the price. We used the time to write notes for the blog which was now ludicrously out of date. We ran through part of Thailand before covering the whole of Malaysia and finally Singapore. It was fitting that we returned to Insomnia one more time for a bite to eat before retiring.

The original plan had been to visit the Singapore Flyer, Singapore's taller answer to the London Eye on the morning of our last day. Nick had also invited us out to his apartment near the airport for some lunch. When we had packed up though we didn't really have time for either and the desire to be sociable wasn't great either. We settled on a long walk through the sultry city, through the maze of subterranean malls and passages, making the most of each other's company.

We had a tasty asian lunch and marched on further until we reached the destination, the Chocolate Research Facility. It's essentially a shop selling lots of types of chocolate but oh the chocolate. There are heaps to choose from, all superbly packaged and marketed. Claire settled on Champagne while I went for Chilli Pepper flavour. They tasted great (with a price tag to match) but it didn't take the edge off the facts. We needed to bade each other farewell, albeit temporarily.

It was a quick but emotional goodbye. My flight to Mumbai was early evening and Claire's back home nearer midnight. We had decided to not draw things out any more than necessary so I took the MRT and Claire stayed in the hotel until she could check in for her flight. While I made the journey with my newly svelte bag, Claire had acquired a whole new bag. Inside were some souvenirs but mostly of my heaviest belongings which I wouldn't be needing in India. Like a dive watch or PADI course books. I can only imagine the sight of her on the MRT to Changi. A red-eyed English girl with a big rucksack, a small rucksack and a cargo bag, all full to bursting and sporting the Kathmandu logo.

Changi Airport is renowned for its comfort and efficiency but it was all a little wasted on me in my somewhat forlorn humour. I went into the lounge priority pass lounge only to be told that my card was expired. I paid anyway, not in the mood for retail therapy. When the flight was called I made for the gate and finally caught a glimpse of the Singapore Airlines A380 which has fascinated me since I hear about it. But only a photo for me this time. Jet Airways don't have any A380s.

I was however incredibly impressed with the A330 they provided for the flight (despite the unnerving recent tendency to inexplicably fall out of the sky). It was very new, months old at most and the service was impeccable. I managed to keep my melancholy thoughts at bay by catching up some of the blog and catching a movie on the surprisingly large screen. At the back of my mind, a persistent yet unanswerable question: What would India hold in store for me? In a few short hours I would find out.

Deep thoughts and tall towers in KL

eoghancito — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 00:43:00 GMT

We turned up back at the Mayview Glory in KL well before 6am. They were full so we couldn't check in till someone else checked out. Too tired to be imaginative and overwhelmed by the menu in the expansive cafe next door we guiltily settled for a dirty McBreakfast around the corner to keep us awake after the night journey. It wasn't too long a wait before we got a room and some decent sleep. Somewhat like groundhog day, the return to KL once again revolved around my passport, an Indian Visa and technology problems.

As soon as we had a rest we were up and at em, down in the Indian Visa office, handing over the passport, now that I had received clearance from who or where ever these things come from. We'd skipped lunch due to our nap. By now hungry we stumbled across a decent Indian restaurant in the Arab quarter which served dishes on a big banana leaf instead of a plate. Not sure if that's what happens in India but it was very tasty nonetheless.

The next mission was to get my camera seen to. What a pain that it had actively disliked snorkelling despite supposedly being waterproof to 10m. Grrrr. The Olympus repair centre was in a place off the little Rough Guide city map and people we asked said we needed to get a taxi. So we did. A guy near the Indian restaurant said he would go there for 30RM. The metered ride from the bus station to the hotel had cost 10RM. I was skeptical but he said he would pay the tolls. I thought “Well if there are tolls it must be a fair trek” and we jumped in. He was very jolly on the way pointing out this and that, including the Indian Consulate, where you get your visa, he said. I corrected him and we arrived after a 15 minute journey.

It was only after explaining the problems with my camera to the smiley receptionist that I realised I had forgotten the bloody thing. What an idiot! They were closing in an hour so we had to make a return journey in the start of rush hour to make it. The return (metered) ride in much heavier traffic only cost 20RM. The other fella had literally and figuratively taken us for a ride. Note of caution to anyone taking a cab in KL – insist on the meter running!

The Olympus receptionist had a massive grin on her face as we walked back into the office. I'm sure I was a source of much amusement for her and her colleagues. They were very good though and said they would get to fixing the disobedient camera as soon as they could, but they needed at least until after the weekend. We both liked what we had seen (very little) of KL thus far so were happy to spend a day or two extra.

There was a bazaar/market downstairs which we had a wander around but it wasn't great. This was the posh end of town and the prices and range of wares said as much. We hailed another cab back to town. This one said he didn't have enough gas to get us there but we jumped in anyway, agreeing that he could put on the meter once he refuelled. A full tank of LPG cost 7.60RM, just over a pound. These taxi drivers were making a fortune!

It was too early to call it a day so we got dropped off at our favourite mall, Berjaya Times Square and paid Kenny Rogers another visit. Not as good this time but still tasty, healthy and cheap. Although we were tired by then, it was still too early to hit the hay so, seeing as the cinema was right beside us we caught Ice Age 3. Funny but I preferred the previous incarnations.

It was finally time for some proper touristy sightseeing and buying of random stuff. We were on our way down to Chinatown when we passed by a place which provoked curiosity. It was called Mydin Wholesale Emporium and appeared to be a big solid windowless block of concrete.

Entering, we had to put our bags in a locker and there was pretty tight security. It was an emporium of cheap tat. This was where people selling stuff on market stalls must come to get it. Brilliant! It's not just tat though - you can buy anything in this shop at ridiculously cheap prices. Claire's watch had been about to fall apart since Thailand. We got her a new Casio (which is a very fetching pink and has 2 alarms, a stopwatch and a world time function!). I got a watch for India, needing something more discrete than my oversized altimer/compass/barometer action man watch which had attracted strangers' attentions more than a few times. In fact we saw the aforementioned action man watch for half the price I had paid for it on ebay a few years back. We later saw a plastic strap version of Claire's watch for twice the price hers was.

There are floors and floors of stuff – appliances, IT gear, clothes, shoes, toilietries, food. Thanks to the lizards Claire's flip flops were about to bite the dust. Tick.

I needed another memory card and a rain poncho. Check. Conditioner, Yes! Moisturiser (non-whitening – very hard to come across in SE Asia) of course. Sun tan lotion. Why not. It's a great shop. As my mom would say we saved a lot of money there. Although as my father would say in response, we spent a fair bit too!

A few hours later, when we finally made it down to the myriad of stalls and pushy touts of Chinatown we discovered that it was all the same stuff, way more expensive than we had just seen it. Plus you had to haggle them right down by about 50% to get the same price! We tired of the pushiness and general touting quite quickly and had lunch.

Afterwards we made for the old KL train station which, according to the Rough Guide, was supposed to be a striking example of colonial architecture and one of the most memorable buildings in SE Asia. After many wrong turns and incorrect assumptions we got there eventually. It was now the HQ of Malaysian rail and although a very nice building, not quite as fab as we had been lead to believe.

Decadent pizza and beers in the hotel room for the evening.

One of the best discoveries of KL for us was Aji Cafe, the place right beside the Cafe. Its open 24 hours and has free wifi, but that wasn't the draw for us. In fact KL has a great free wireless system (KLwireless) which has near cityside coverage and that anyone can sign up for. Aji's attraction was breakfast. Malaysia has fabulous rotis, or pancake like warm flatbread, served with curry dips. They eat them a lot. Roti Telur, we discovered was roti with egg. Claire hates egg and she loved them. Plus they did the best fruit salad we had had in months, perhaps ever. Once we had had one breakfast there we never went anywhere else. Go.

Saturday was a bit of a rest day but we did venture out in the evening to Menara KL, or the KL tower which KL proudly states is the fourth tallest telecommunications tower in the world. (For curious nerds like me, that's after the ones in Toronto, Moscow, Beijing and, according to Wikipedia, Tehran, making KL fifth but hey!)

It's a very impressive building which, along with the Petronas Towers, dominate the KL skyline. Needing to stretch our legs, we walked up from the hotel but were halted at the bottom for the free minibus – they don't seem to like people walking up through the park. Slightly bizarrely they give you KL tower shaped water before you go up in the high speed lift.

The view from the top really is breathtaking. KL is a very modern city with lots of skyscrapers so it's great to see them all lit up. Across the city, Petronas Towers, the worlds tallest building for a while, is the big photo opp.

And Of course there are lots of chances to buy tat. But we declined, knowing full well where to get it cheaper! Its a great place for the comedy building photos though.

Along with the entry fee you get into what they dubbed a wildlife park. We soon discovered it was a pathetic and horribly cruel collection of caged animals. A zoo of sorts. It was so sad to see some quite beautiful creatures clearly going stir crazy (or getting fat) in tiny cages.

We left very soon after entering. Along with your ticket you also get into some sort of Formula 1 experience, presumably promoting the Malaysian Grand Prix. We missed the final entry but it looked for all the world like a PC driving game on a flatscreen monitor all inside a cardboard cut out of an F1 car. I won't even bother talking about the free pony ride. The tower is great. Skip the free stuff.

Continuing with the theme of tall buildings we made for the Petronas Towers early the next morning. The only way up, other than submitting your CV to Petronas (Malaysia's state oil company), is to bag one of 1600 daily tickets to walk across the Skybridge.

They open the basement ticket office at 9am and we got there soon after 8. It was mayhem. There was a large orderly queue in a cordoned off section. Outside this there was a load of people milling around, everyone asking the poor security lady manning the cordon the same questions. “Will we get a ticket??”

A secondary, queue-to-get-into-the-queue formed, which we were near the front of. It snaked around the area until it started to block the down escalator. Someone sensible made the call to ask all the people in the second queue to come back later. We complied and went to get some brekkie. Most didn't. When we came back an hour later there were still a big second queue but the first was almost finished. There was a bit of argy bargy about queue jumping but we eventually got a ticket to go up in the late afternoon. Great!

We had been wanting to visit the National Mosque and Islamic Museum anyway so this afforded us the time to do so. It's a large imposing structure near the old train station.

I wore shorts and a t-shirt but Claire, who wasn't wearing anything racier, had to put on a crazy purple wizard's robe. I was sooo jealous.

We had a look around, peeking into the mosque proper (non muslims are not allowed actually inside.

A lady was explaining the features and practices to a bored looking Indian couple. She invited us to join them. The Indian bloke's phone rang seconds after we joined. He said it was his mother and left, looking relieved. We now had the lady's full attention and she ours. Her name was Fatima and she spends every Sunday at the mosque, part of an organisation called Muslim Outreach, explaining aspects of Islam to the tourists who chance by. What a great idea.

We were both very curious about the Islamic faith and Fatima was an enthusiastic teacher. She took us through the basics and was happy to answer my questions and challenges along the way. We found out, amongst lots of other good stuff, why women have to pray upstairs (so there are no distractions to or by either sex from communing with Allah), who Mohammed was (long story), the relationship between Judaism, Christianity and Islam (even longer) and what all those people do in Mecca (complicated). It was a fascinating, illuminating conversation, shedding light on the deficiencies I have in understanding the Islamic belief system. It sparked a desire to learn more but not in order to convert, just to further my understanding.

While Fatima dealt very well with my science based questions about Darwinian evolution, quantum mechanics, big bang theory etc., she had a dogmatic approach, not allowing room for alternative theories. She firmly believes the holy Qu'aran has all the answers anyone had ever or will ever need. It was just that we hadn't read it. She also made a few statements, such as “everyone is born muslim” which I felt she could have phrased better.

I am positive she meant well in her own way but I was left with a familiar feeling :ultimately Islam is a faith based religion. At the end of the day you have to believe. It's not a matter of deciding to believe - you just have to have this thing called faith. It took me a lot longer than an afternoon to decide the same about Catholicism. It looked like Islam would not be tipping my agnostic see-saw in either direction. Claire wasn't convinced either. There seems to be a lot of gender based inequality built in.

We thanked Fatima sincerely for her time and patience – she had spent well over an hour with us and presented us with a lot of pamphlets and a copy of the Qu'aran which I will try to read. But she refused to shake our hands, leaving them dangling there like ... unshaken hands. That, I found somewhat rude but presumably it was for religious reasons. Or maybe the swine flu epidemic. Apologies to anyone who I may have offended in the last few paragraphs with my observations. I would actually love to continue the debate and the chat with someone else another some time.

In the time remaining we wouldn't have been able to do the Islamic museum justice (and had enough Islam for one day) but still had more time to kill. Back to KLCC to delve into one of the other great religions in Malaysia: retail. While they were building the Petronas towers they decided that a very glitzy shopping centre in between the two would be a good idea.

Times Square has a rollercoaster, a bowling alley and a lot of shops, some tatty, others aimed at teeneagers. The KLCC mall has Rolex, Hermes, Gucci and even an M&S. It was somehow comforting looking at the price of Percy Pigs and Breakfast Tea. We ate at Nando's. We could have been in Bluewater or Liffey valley. In one shop I got a head massage from a really weird machine and we both got mechanised calf rubs. We would have taken photos only cameras aren't allowed – it was fun.

Suddenly the time for our skybridge trip was upon us. Claire didn't get a chance to pee before we were ushered into a small auditorium for a 3D Petronas production on themselves and the construction of the tower. It was good but a little staid and the 3D slightly pointless.

After a security check we were put in the high speed lift to floor 40. Claire was about to pee her pants when we arrived but the neaest public toilets was back beside the Bally Shoes shop on basement 1. She was literally about to have an accident when she asked a security guard and was accompanied (almost) every step of the way to a non-public toilet. I admit I found the whole thing quite humorous. The view, needless to say, was amazing and it really is a fabulous feat of architecture and engineering.

You only get 15 minutes to have a look around before the next group arrive and take their snaps. At the bottom there is an interesting interactive exhibition with puzzles and displays about tall buildings.

Seeing as it was kind of on the way back to the hotel we stopped by Times Square to get Claire some pink shades to match her watch and pick up some more Doxicycline, our antimalarial of choice (thanks Emma!). We'd eaten out so much all we wanted was pot noodles for dinner so we grabbed a few of them too.

When I called Olympus to see how the camera patient was doing they said it was fixed so that became the primary objective for our last full day in KL. After we picked it up and were trying it out in the taxi it felt a bit strange, like a new camera. The colours were washed out and the images lacked clarity. But we had run out of time so we had to deal with it. The taxi dropped us off at KL's main local market, a vast array of stalls selling spices, fruit, veg, meat and fish of questionable origin, all enveloped in a potent stinky odour. It wasn't so much fun – we left quickly and had a quiet evening, eating at Aji's.

Finally the time had come for us to check out. We were off to Singapore on the 11pm Royal Class express Bus. We had a final wander around the city during the day, visiting the Masjid mosque, much older and picturesque than the National mosque.

Then off to the Malaysian National Planetarium. Unfortunately a lot of the sections were closed as they were updating their exhibitions but the area about space flight was really interesting. I never knew that Malaysia had put a man in space. There were lots of interesting things to do including sit on a space toilet which was amusing.

After a late lunch back at the Indian restaurant we hung about in the hotel and then in Starbucks before the super nice bus pulled up. It literally said the words “super nice bus” along the side of it and it was by far the most luxurious bus either of us had ever even heard of. Every passenger gets their own TV with choice of on demand movies plus (this was the most fun) a hydraulically operated seat!

Malaysia had treated us well and although it lacked the vibrancy and distinctiveness of other SE Asian countries we would certainly go back and I would have no qualms recommending KL and the Perentians as places to spend some time.

Gallery: Malaysia

eoghancito — Sat, 11 Jul 2009 19:31:00 GMT

KL and the Perenthian Islands