After a really good nights sleep, so much so that we missed breakfast which was served until 10.00am, we decided to split the rest of the day into checking our email etc and heading for central Bangkok to check the prices of electrical goods. I am seriously thinking about buying a laptop to improve our internet access. It took two hours to check our mail on the hotel's network which was reasonably fast and even longer to find our way downtown thanks to the transport system.
We decided it would be good to catch the river bus and then take the skytrain in to the centre. Our first mistake was trusting a tuk tuk driver to take us to the river. Instead of taking us to the main waterway on our map he dropped us off on a canal which had river boats but not going our way. Whilst jumping up and down cursing him (tuk tuk driver long gone with money) I made my second and by far biggest mistake I allowed another driver to take us to our destination which was now further away than when we set out. This clown had no intention of taking us anywhere other to see Lucky Buddha, only opened once a year (lie!), the Government Jewellery Factory (just to look (lie!) and some stadium to collect his petrol tokens (true). We were told by a Malaysian who lived in London, as we stared at Lucky Buddha, it was actually opened once every month and the driver was working a scan. After another bout of arguing with the driver he promised to take us to the city centre and set off to the factory. After another more heated argument at the factory we agreed, no pressure to buy, to look round quickly and, therefore, get him his petrol coupon. We left him smiling at the door. When we returned ten minutes later empty handed, after being set upon inside by two women who looked like Imelda Marcos and could sell snow to Eskimos, he lost his smile. After the third and most heated exchange we parted company, him no richer than when we met and us lost in Bangkok even further away from our destination than ever. This little episode took over two hours of sitting in the worse congestion I have ever seen and destroyed our itinerary.
Eventually found a taxis driver who took us where we wanted to go. The Siam Paragon makes Meadowhall look like a rundown old fashioned shopping mall. The place was just wall to wall glass, lights and enormous screens. There was a bookshop which had some bookshelves and books but mainly consisted of workstations with monitors positioned at different angles from the roof. It looked more like a super modern internet café than Waterstones. The centre had all the latest stores but only two computer shops selling Apples and Toshiba's and these were no cheaper than in the UK. On checking out more IT shops we were directed to another shopping centre just a few blocks away but this was unwalkable because the area between was a no go area. The next taxis driver thought nothing of taking us the few blocks and sure enough the four story centre consisted of hundreds of IT stores. It was now 8.00pm and the centre was shutting but managed to buy another battery for the camera - the one I bought in Kathmandu doesn't charge up and so is useless - an 8 gig USB drive and a card reader that gives me an electrical shock each time I use it. All in all a pretty useless day. We didn't use the riverbus or the skytrain and the new battery is no better than the last one.
Friday 28 December 2007
Day 51: Monday 12th November: Calcutta - Bangkok
The sombre atmosphere carried on into the morning. For the first time in forty years I couldn't wait to board a plane just to get out of this country and yet it was very upsetting to leave JaennPol after so many good nights shared drinking beers and stories. Even in Iran we shared Islamic non alcoholic drinks and pretended they were the best Belgium beers and in a strange way it helped to get through this period of the journey. Anne, on the other hand, actually liked them saying they tasted like English shandy.
The sign in the car park, as we drove in, said Calcutta International Airport and this conjures up Heathrow or Manchester with bars and duty free etc. Not the case here in Mother India. At this point we were innocent of the fact that this is probably the only alcohol free airport outside the Muslim world and this constitutes a major dilemma for people like Jim and myself who fear flying. Jim started his flight preparation as he played cricket with the lads and a young Indian boy by swigging out of a plastic Fanta bottle laced with half a bottle of Vodka. When we discovered that the only restaurant and presumably bar was situated upstairs in the departure lounge area and we were about to leave this part of the complex through Immigration and Customs he informed to the Jet Airways Flight Manager 'no bar no flight'. We were only allowed to spend our two hour wait in the restaurant because Jim refused point blank to go through Immigration. It was at this point on our way to the restaurant bar that we were informed that Calcutta International Airport is a no alcohol zone. Drinking booze is illegal!
Desperate measures demand simple solutions. While helping to clean the bus two days ago I had noticed two unopened whiskey bottles rolling round the overhead luggage wrack. Furthermore the bus was still in the car park and JaenPol was aboard and therefore all we had to do was get out, find the booze and then get back in.
Getting past the armed airport guards, both out and back in, was not the most difficult part of the exercise and neither was buying a bottle of orange to go with my half of the whiskey and a Coke for Jim's. The difficulty came as we tried to sit and drink the stuff in the restaurant like ordinary passengers and not desperate men seeking bravery. As we poured and quickly consumed our first very large shot the restaurant manager came over and pointed to the menu in the middle of the table. Jim quickly responded intimating we were still deciding. At this point we decided to mix whole of the whiskey between the orange, coke and my water container. Unfortunately this coincided with the second appearance of the manager. This time to tell us about the law and how we were putting his job and freedom at risk. We apologised, retreated and implemented plan B; drinking the rest of the whiskey care of the Coke Cola Co and my water flask upstairs having smuggled it through customs. The woman at customs told me pointing to the orange that it must be consumed before boarding. I assured her with complete confidence it would be.
By the time we boarded I had consumed half a bottle of whiskey and a few mouthfuls of the vodka and orange Jim had brought into the airport. By the time we were airborne I was dozing and Jim was laying out across three seats covered with a thick blanket. He admitted to me later, as we compared headaches, he always hides under a blanket. I had to confess not being able to understand how a blanket can protect you from a 40,000 foot drop.
By the time we were descending into Bangkok two and half hours later Jim, now able to join me on a seat of our own at the back of the plane, counted out loudly the last 30 seconds of the flight to perfection. I was amazed how the wheels touched the tarmac as he shouted one in triumph. Once on the ground I was so drunk I left my bum bag and camera while waiting for our luggage to arrive. As I went running back to retrieve them a voice over the airport communications system said one leather money bag and camera found. Phew lucky me! From what I remember the airport was modern (designed by Foster or Rodgers), very efficient, friendly and staffed by young attractive women. In practical terms only two and half hours flight away from Calcutta but in reality a world apart. In short very impressive.
After a longish drive from the airport and through some unbelievable congestion we arrived at our home for the next three nights: the New World Lodge Hotel. The hotel was modern, clean, well run and friendly and was surrounded by a vibrant area of outside food stalls selling everything from enormous prawns, squid, fried cockroaches, various types of noodles, fruit, sweets and beer etc.
A big notice in the hotel entrance announced a local religious festival was into its second day and the management apologised for any noise and inconvenience to guests. As we stood on our balcony a lion dance began to the loudest amplified drumming I've ever heard. Without the amplification the noise was audible in Calcutta. With it the walls shook.
Set on a square communal piece of land on the corner of two main food ways was a bamboo tower with a flat platform some thirty feet off the ground. After the lion had danced around the structure the performers made their way up to the platform and began by building a human tower five or six people high. On top were hoisted two young children who stood upright and waved to the crowd, some fifty to sixty feet below, who found it hard to even muster up a clap let alone a cheer. Once this combination had been played with for ten to fifteen minutes a large flag type post some thirty feet high was raised and erected on the platform. Then two men climbed to the top, now some seventy feet from the ground and were joined by two children again who stood upright and after being tied to the men by ropes were flung into the waiting arms of the crew below bungee fashion only to be pulled back at the last minute. This game was played three or four times before the children were released and lowered. Once again these dare devil antics took place to less applause than a traffic warden gets in England when handing out a parking ticket. The finally came with one of the men putting on the long flowing lion head again and dancing and swaying dangerously about at the top of the pole. All of this took place to the frantic head splitting noise of the drummers. This performance took an hour and half in total and although none of the audience left very few clapped or applauded the life threatening antics of the group.
As I said earlier this spare piece of ground stood at the confluence of two small roads consisting of food stalls. At one I had six very large clams barbecued on skewers in a sweet honey sauce for 30 bahts or 40 pence. A little later we came across a street stall with a couple of tables where I had six enormous prawns for less than an 100 bahts. As I broke the tail from the head and began to eat it I was reprimanded by the elderly over weight female cook for discarding the other part. She immediately tore the head in two and shoving one of the inner parts into my mouth made sucking noises. She then poured herself a large whiskey and ice, lit a fag and sat by my side to watch me suck the contents of the other five heads. I have to say the prawns were the largest, best and cheapest I've ever had. Next to the stall was a general store that sold everything from beer and spirits to ice cream and ping pong balls. We ended our first night in Thailand in the pleasant company of this little, dumpy, whiskey drinking, chain smoking, grinning lady who derived such pleasure from a foreigner sucking prawn.s heads.
The sign in the car park, as we drove in, said Calcutta International Airport and this conjures up Heathrow or Manchester with bars and duty free etc. Not the case here in Mother India. At this point we were innocent of the fact that this is probably the only alcohol free airport outside the Muslim world and this constitutes a major dilemma for people like Jim and myself who fear flying. Jim started his flight preparation as he played cricket with the lads and a young Indian boy by swigging out of a plastic Fanta bottle laced with half a bottle of Vodka. When we discovered that the only restaurant and presumably bar was situated upstairs in the departure lounge area and we were about to leave this part of the complex through Immigration and Customs he informed to the Jet Airways Flight Manager 'no bar no flight'. We were only allowed to spend our two hour wait in the restaurant because Jim refused point blank to go through Immigration. It was at this point on our way to the restaurant bar that we were informed that Calcutta International Airport is a no alcohol zone. Drinking booze is illegal!
Desperate measures demand simple solutions. While helping to clean the bus two days ago I had noticed two unopened whiskey bottles rolling round the overhead luggage wrack. Furthermore the bus was still in the car park and JaenPol was aboard and therefore all we had to do was get out, find the booze and then get back in.
Getting past the armed airport guards, both out and back in, was not the most difficult part of the exercise and neither was buying a bottle of orange to go with my half of the whiskey and a Coke for Jim's. The difficulty came as we tried to sit and drink the stuff in the restaurant like ordinary passengers and not desperate men seeking bravery. As we poured and quickly consumed our first very large shot the restaurant manager came over and pointed to the menu in the middle of the table. Jim quickly responded intimating we were still deciding. At this point we decided to mix whole of the whiskey between the orange, coke and my water container. Unfortunately this coincided with the second appearance of the manager. This time to tell us about the law and how we were putting his job and freedom at risk. We apologised, retreated and implemented plan B; drinking the rest of the whiskey care of the Coke Cola Co and my water flask upstairs having smuggled it through customs. The woman at customs told me pointing to the orange that it must be consumed before boarding. I assured her with complete confidence it would be.
By the time we boarded I had consumed half a bottle of whiskey and a few mouthfuls of the vodka and orange Jim had brought into the airport. By the time we were airborne I was dozing and Jim was laying out across three seats covered with a thick blanket. He admitted to me later, as we compared headaches, he always hides under a blanket. I had to confess not being able to understand how a blanket can protect you from a 40,000 foot drop.
By the time we were descending into Bangkok two and half hours later Jim, now able to join me on a seat of our own at the back of the plane, counted out loudly the last 30 seconds of the flight to perfection. I was amazed how the wheels touched the tarmac as he shouted one in triumph. Once on the ground I was so drunk I left my bum bag and camera while waiting for our luggage to arrive. As I went running back to retrieve them a voice over the airport communications system said one leather money bag and camera found. Phew lucky me! From what I remember the airport was modern (designed by Foster or Rodgers), very efficient, friendly and staffed by young attractive women. In practical terms only two and half hours flight away from Calcutta but in reality a world apart. In short very impressive.
After a longish drive from the airport and through some unbelievable congestion we arrived at our home for the next three nights: the New World Lodge Hotel. The hotel was modern, clean, well run and friendly and was surrounded by a vibrant area of outside food stalls selling everything from enormous prawns, squid, fried cockroaches, various types of noodles, fruit, sweets and beer etc.
A big notice in the hotel entrance announced a local religious festival was into its second day and the management apologised for any noise and inconvenience to guests. As we stood on our balcony a lion dance began to the loudest amplified drumming I've ever heard. Without the amplification the noise was audible in Calcutta. With it the walls shook.
Set on a square communal piece of land on the corner of two main food ways was a bamboo tower with a flat platform some thirty feet off the ground. After the lion had danced around the structure the performers made their way up to the platform and began by building a human tower five or six people high. On top were hoisted two young children who stood upright and waved to the crowd, some fifty to sixty feet below, who found it hard to even muster up a clap let alone a cheer. Once this combination had been played with for ten to fifteen minutes a large flag type post some thirty feet high was raised and erected on the platform. Then two men climbed to the top, now some seventy feet from the ground and were joined by two children again who stood upright and after being tied to the men by ropes were flung into the waiting arms of the crew below bungee fashion only to be pulled back at the last minute. This game was played three or four times before the children were released and lowered. Once again these dare devil antics took place to less applause than a traffic warden gets in England when handing out a parking ticket. The finally came with one of the men putting on the long flowing lion head again and dancing and swaying dangerously about at the top of the pole. All of this took place to the frantic head splitting noise of the drummers. This performance took an hour and half in total and although none of the audience left very few clapped or applauded the life threatening antics of the group.
As I said earlier this spare piece of ground stood at the confluence of two small roads consisting of food stalls. At one I had six very large clams barbecued on skewers in a sweet honey sauce for 30 bahts or 40 pence. A little later we came across a street stall with a couple of tables where I had six enormous prawns for less than an 100 bahts. As I broke the tail from the head and began to eat it I was reprimanded by the elderly over weight female cook for discarding the other part. She immediately tore the head in two and shoving one of the inner parts into my mouth made sucking noises. She then poured herself a large whiskey and ice, lit a fag and sat by my side to watch me suck the contents of the other five heads. I have to say the prawns were the largest, best and cheapest I've ever had. Next to the stall was a general store that sold everything from beer and spirits to ice cream and ping pong balls. We ended our first night in Thailand in the pleasant company of this little, dumpy, whiskey drinking, chain smoking, grinning lady who derived such pleasure from a foreigner sucking prawn.s heads.
Day 50: Sunday 11th November: Malda - Calcutta
The last part of our journey across Northern India started as farcical as yesterdays ended. Breakfast was scheduled for 7.00am but the hotel management insisted on serving it at 8.00am even though some had been sitting in the dining room for over an hour waiting impatiently. Once it started it took over one hour to serve a breakfast of cornflakes and coffee and it only arrived when the Arsenal fan jumped up and stormed into the kitchen shouting 'how fucking long does it take to put cornflakes in a bowl? 'I want them fucking now'. When they did arrive, ten minutes later, there was no milk and no spoons to eat it or sugar.
The management also had the knack of increasing the price of things. My telephone bill went from a few hundred rupees to fourteen hundred and once on the bus we couldn't get out of the grounds until everyone were forced to disembark and have our breakfast bills checked again. By this time poor old Leighton was pulling his hair out and shouting 'get me out of India'. This of course was a three star hotel.
The last bit of the long trek across this poor wretched country was no better with every conceivable obstacle: rickshaws, pot holes deep enough to destroy suspensions, diversions, a total lack of signs and just to make the journey longer a massive traffic jam created by a procession to celebrate the last night of Divali and an opportunist demonstration by the communist party and trade unions as we entered the outskirts of Calcutta.
Strangely enough the procession and demo made our entrance into this famous city more interesting with music, lights and placards demanding better pay etc. Things took a turn for the worse once we turned of the main central area of shops, lights and affluence and entered the seediest of areas and our last hotel before leaving India probably for good. Few on the bus have expressed a desire to return even those who went to Goa had a good time. The Hotel Himalaya was the worse hotel yet with no bar, an alcohol ban and unpleasant seedy rooms with tatty linen, cockroaches in the bathrooms and at least one big fat rat that chased the lads down our corridor. Not only did the hotel not have beer but this area had no bars or restaurants and once outside you could see why. Calcutta must have some of the cheapest hotels in the world and our friends back in London booked us into probably the cheapest in the city. What made this final administrative insult even worse was it totally ruined the groups plan to have a final big party with JaenPol and Marcus who were heading back tomorrow with the bus. This was the most upset I have seen John Paul and I felt embarrassed and ashamed that such an individual effort should be rewarded like this. I and the others were now forced to say thanks and goodbye to the man who had driven us single handily 17,000 kilometres in the car park at the airport. This was without doubt the lowest point of the whole trip and one I will remember for its sadness and injustice. I can safely say that most people are now pissed off with Ozbus, some vowing not to use it any further.
The management also had the knack of increasing the price of things. My telephone bill went from a few hundred rupees to fourteen hundred and once on the bus we couldn't get out of the grounds until everyone were forced to disembark and have our breakfast bills checked again. By this time poor old Leighton was pulling his hair out and shouting 'get me out of India'. This of course was a three star hotel.
The last bit of the long trek across this poor wretched country was no better with every conceivable obstacle: rickshaws, pot holes deep enough to destroy suspensions, diversions, a total lack of signs and just to make the journey longer a massive traffic jam created by a procession to celebrate the last night of Divali and an opportunist demonstration by the communist party and trade unions as we entered the outskirts of Calcutta.
Strangely enough the procession and demo made our entrance into this famous city more interesting with music, lights and placards demanding better pay etc. Things took a turn for the worse once we turned of the main central area of shops, lights and affluence and entered the seediest of areas and our last hotel before leaving India probably for good. Few on the bus have expressed a desire to return even those who went to Goa had a good time. The Hotel Himalaya was the worse hotel yet with no bar, an alcohol ban and unpleasant seedy rooms with tatty linen, cockroaches in the bathrooms and at least one big fat rat that chased the lads down our corridor. Not only did the hotel not have beer but this area had no bars or restaurants and once outside you could see why. Calcutta must have some of the cheapest hotels in the world and our friends back in London booked us into probably the cheapest in the city. What made this final administrative insult even worse was it totally ruined the groups plan to have a final big party with JaenPol and Marcus who were heading back tomorrow with the bus. This was the most upset I have seen John Paul and I felt embarrassed and ashamed that such an individual effort should be rewarded like this. I and the others were now forced to say thanks and goodbye to the man who had driven us single handily 17,000 kilometres in the car park at the airport. This was without doubt the lowest point of the whole trip and one I will remember for its sadness and injustice. I can safely say that most people are now pissed off with Ozbus, some vowing not to use it any further.
Day 49 : Saturday 10th November: Darjeeling - Malda
Once again another very early start because of the length and nature of the journey. Left at 6.00am but unfortunately did not rise in time for breakfast. The journey back down to the plain 8,000 feet below was breathtaking. The road follows the narrow gauge railway line criss crossing every few hundred yards. The first part from Darjeeling up to Ghoom was quite busy for the time of the day with four wheel drive Tatras providing transportation for everything from people, animals, products and materials. The more modern vehicle looks like a cheap version of the Landrover Discovery. From Ghoom the road cleared and we made steady progress down. The 80 or so kilometres took three and half hours and at times the bus was very close to the edge of the road and drops of two to three thousand feet straight down into the tea plantations. Accidents must be common and the local governments way of dealing with it is novel. Every few hundred yards, usually at a bend or a precarious point a series of road signs were placed to invoke the consequences of dangerous driving. These are the few I remember:
'If you're married divorce speed',
'Enjoy these beautiful hills at low speed'
'For survival make late arrival' and my favourite
'Give blood to the bloodbank not the hillside'
I have to say although it was a long way to drive to spend one day in Darjeeling the scenery coming back down made it all worthwhile. This is a spectacular part of the world and makes you realise, and even more angry, what we are missing by not going to Everest and Laos. I can't wait to talk to Mas and Mac about their experiences since leaving the bus.
Once back down onto the hot plain again we set off for our penultimate hotel in India at the nondescript Malda. The rest of the journey was uneventful, just a long weary slog along more appalling roads.
We pulled into the grounds of the hotel well before I expected: no asking the way at every junction. The hotel Park was modern (three years old) and looked impressive and the food in the bar restaurant was good and even more important, for John Paul, the beer was ice cold and only 80 rupees. The good points were far outweighed by the total incompetence and attitude of the management who just insisted on refusing to take any money and placed everything on your room tag. Later when everyone went to bed, not early after midnight, the staff came banging on room doors insisting on sorting out each bill. This did not go down well with many people who refused to open their doors shouting in the best cockney fuck off I'm in bed' when of course she was watching Arsenal.
'If you're married divorce speed',
'Enjoy these beautiful hills at low speed'
'For survival make late arrival' and my favourite
'Give blood to the bloodbank not the hillside'
I have to say although it was a long way to drive to spend one day in Darjeeling the scenery coming back down made it all worthwhile. This is a spectacular part of the world and makes you realise, and even more angry, what we are missing by not going to Everest and Laos. I can't wait to talk to Mas and Mac about their experiences since leaving the bus.
Once back down onto the hot plain again we set off for our penultimate hotel in India at the nondescript Malda. The rest of the journey was uneventful, just a long weary slog along more appalling roads.
We pulled into the grounds of the hotel well before I expected: no asking the way at every junction. The hotel Park was modern (three years old) and looked impressive and the food in the bar restaurant was good and even more important, for John Paul, the beer was ice cold and only 80 rupees. The good points were far outweighed by the total incompetence and attitude of the management who just insisted on refusing to take any money and placed everything on your room tag. Later when everyone went to bed, not early after midnight, the staff came banging on room doors insisting on sorting out each bill. This did not go down well with many people who refused to open their doors shouting in the best cockney fuck off I'm in bed' when of course she was watching Arsenal.
Day 48 : Friday 9th November: Darjeeling
We awoke with some difficulty still very tired from the night journey up the foothills. Breakfast was served late and was a treat with cornflakes and cold milk, nan breads with a very tasty, mild, vegetable curry, scrambled eggs and to finish off a banana. Instead of coffee, which I have favoured mainly because of the milky, sweat and sickly tea they serve in India, I had tea. I couldn't sit in the heart of Darjeeling and not have tea. In fact it was so good I had a second cup.
After breakfast we set off to the market which was spread out all around our hotel and the area we were staying in. Unfortunately it was raining, the streets were muddy and the whole place was rundown. We set off to explore with JaenPol who very quickly went off to find a bar selling cold beer. We finished up in the local museum which was very run down and old fashioned but interesting in a strange antique type of way. All the exhibits were falling to bits and faded but nevertheless had a quaint appeal.
An hour later we bumped into JaenPol walking down the hillside and who had found a pleasant little bar overlooking the tea plantations. He was content to take us back to the bar and we spent a very pleasant hour talking to the waiter about the views down the hillside to the refugee camp, monastery and signed wall photos of John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, Bob Dylan, BB King and Janis Joplin. According to the waiter all had visited Darjeeling at sometime but had not signed the photos.
We left JaenPol, who went back to the hotel to sleep, and made our way down the hillside to visit the refugee Camp, tea plantation and the Tibetan Refugee Camp. We somehow failed to find the tea plantation which gave us more time at the refugee camp. The refugees had fled Tibet when China took over and were made welcome by the Indian Govt who gave them the piece of land below Darjeeling. The camp consists of a nursery, school and workshops providing the inhabitants with education, skills and self respect.
On leaving the camp and making our way back up the hillside to Darjeeling we met a group of women from Australia, New Zealand and Scotland making their way slowly back up the very steep hillside. The woman from Scotland was in her 60s and teaching for three months in the town. It had cost her a lot of money to get there and pay for her own accommodation and she even told me she had gone out last week and bought new chairs for the kids to sit on in the classroom because the facilities were so bad. She admitted the young kids were very antagonistic but as they got older they recognised the importance of education and were a pleasure to work with.
Once back in the town our walking partners showed us to a jewellery shop in the square with the most amazing collection of stock. This was a cross between an antique shop and a specialist jewellers. The shop which wasn't that big was a sea of hanging bracelets, necklaces, cases full of rings, brooches, lucky charms, all made of silver or gold and all unusual, different, novel as the lady from Scotland said. We spent a good £60 - 70 once again on our daughters. As we left the night was drawing in and preparations seemed to be a foot for Davali the Festival of Light. I asked the owner of the jewellery shop what would taking place later and he replied nothing it is only the first night and he was right.
We had a meal in the hotel and very good it was just like the breakfast. As the meal finished Ozbus members slowly made their way outside into the street where young kids were setting off fireworks. They were lighting and dancing round Catherine Wheels like Scots performing reels. The kids were amazing setting of cherry bombs, Catherine wheels and various fountains and all the time enticing the younger element of the bus into the antics. The whole series of events culminated in Marcus asking one of the youngsters if he had a firework he could handle and the lad gave him a cherry bomb which exploded seriously burning his hand. The rest of the evening was spent trying to quell the pain in Marcus's hand which puffed up in great blisters under the called water tap in the hotel. This was abandoned when the the hotel staff complained about the amount of water which was being used. It seems that Darjeeling are constantly suffering from a water shortage.
We made our way upstairs back to our room. Once again we had been given a room that did not really endear itself to us. It smelt fusty and was damp. It did have plenty of room with an anti room consisting of a sofa, telly and chairs but was not very warm or inviting and was in an annex section two doors up the street from the main hotel which had good reviews from those staying in it and the Lonely Planet guide.
After breakfast we set off to the market which was spread out all around our hotel and the area we were staying in. Unfortunately it was raining, the streets were muddy and the whole place was rundown. We set off to explore with JaenPol who very quickly went off to find a bar selling cold beer. We finished up in the local museum which was very run down and old fashioned but interesting in a strange antique type of way. All the exhibits were falling to bits and faded but nevertheless had a quaint appeal.
An hour later we bumped into JaenPol walking down the hillside and who had found a pleasant little bar overlooking the tea plantations. He was content to take us back to the bar and we spent a very pleasant hour talking to the waiter about the views down the hillside to the refugee camp, monastery and signed wall photos of John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, Bob Dylan, BB King and Janis Joplin. According to the waiter all had visited Darjeeling at sometime but had not signed the photos.
We left JaenPol, who went back to the hotel to sleep, and made our way down the hillside to visit the refugee Camp, tea plantation and the Tibetan Refugee Camp. We somehow failed to find the tea plantation which gave us more time at the refugee camp. The refugees had fled Tibet when China took over and were made welcome by the Indian Govt who gave them the piece of land below Darjeeling. The camp consists of a nursery, school and workshops providing the inhabitants with education, skills and self respect.
On leaving the camp and making our way back up the hillside to Darjeeling we met a group of women from Australia, New Zealand and Scotland making their way slowly back up the very steep hillside. The woman from Scotland was in her 60s and teaching for three months in the town. It had cost her a lot of money to get there and pay for her own accommodation and she even told me she had gone out last week and bought new chairs for the kids to sit on in the classroom because the facilities were so bad. She admitted the young kids were very antagonistic but as they got older they recognised the importance of education and were a pleasure to work with.
Once back in the town our walking partners showed us to a jewellery shop in the square with the most amazing collection of stock. This was a cross between an antique shop and a specialist jewellers. The shop which wasn't that big was a sea of hanging bracelets, necklaces, cases full of rings, brooches, lucky charms, all made of silver or gold and all unusual, different, novel as the lady from Scotland said. We spent a good £60 - 70 once again on our daughters. As we left the night was drawing in and preparations seemed to be a foot for Davali the Festival of Light. I asked the owner of the jewellery shop what would taking place later and he replied nothing it is only the first night and he was right.
We had a meal in the hotel and very good it was just like the breakfast. As the meal finished Ozbus members slowly made their way outside into the street where young kids were setting off fireworks. They were lighting and dancing round Catherine Wheels like Scots performing reels. The kids were amazing setting of cherry bombs, Catherine wheels and various fountains and all the time enticing the younger element of the bus into the antics. The whole series of events culminated in Marcus asking one of the youngsters if he had a firework he could handle and the lad gave him a cherry bomb which exploded seriously burning his hand. The rest of the evening was spent trying to quell the pain in Marcus's hand which puffed up in great blisters under the called water tap in the hotel. This was abandoned when the the hotel staff complained about the amount of water which was being used. It seems that Darjeeling are constantly suffering from a water shortage.
We made our way upstairs back to our room. Once again we had been given a room that did not really endear itself to us. It smelt fusty and was damp. It did have plenty of room with an anti room consisting of a sofa, telly and chairs but was not very warm or inviting and was in an annex section two doors up the street from the main hotel which had good reviews from those staying in it and the Lonely Planet guide.
Day 47 : Thursday 8th November: Kathmandu - Hotel Avocado - Darjeeling
Although today's itinerary does say Kathmandu to Darjeeling there's no chance whatsoever of making it. The experience of Varanasi to Kathmandu seems to have sunk in. Today's journey is 200 kilometres longer and so we intend driving until dark and then either free camping or finding a hotel. We have had to abandon the drive and trek outside Kathmandu and of course the trip to Everest Base Camp which was advertised as the highlight of the whole journey and the chance of a lifetime according to Ozbus blurb. Now, along with Mac and Mas, we all realise that the blurb meant nothing. It was just a way of getting bums on seats. Only eighteen of the thirty seven are now heading for today's destination, the others have gone off to do their own thing. Mas, and Mac left us in Delhi as soon as it was confirmed we were flying from Calcutta. They're now in Tibet. Dave, who suddenly turned up in Kathmandu, is now waiting for a flight home. John, Das, Jim, Barry, Paul, Geof, Kate and Caroline staying in Kathmandu to bungee jump, water raft and para glide before flying to Calcutta to rejoin us. Mas and Mac rejoining in Bangkok.
The journey back down the road we came up was just as spectacular; this time saw the lower section missed two days ago in the dark with the road perched high above the beautiful river many feet below. Had a prepared lunch in a roadside café in an idyllic setting overlooking the river. Amazingly the owner did not seem to object to 21 people sitting at his tables and chairs eating their packed lunches. He even helped to clean up some of the mess. Would not happen in UK. We spent 4 hours retracing out journey back down towards the border before turning to follow the foothills on our left that lead to Darjeeling.
As we drive along I make another observation which is probably obvious to everyone else but not me. I have already remarked earlier in India that I saw a sign for the latest Royal Enfield bike and the place is scattered with Massey Ferguson tractors and Morris cars. Well I've suddenly realised that the Indian Sub Continent is an who's who of British products. Today while heading across Nepal I've seen adverts for Lifeboy soap, lux washing powder and Pepsodent toothpaste. Looking at the standard of living along this route I don't think mums here will 'wonder where the yellow went' when their kids brush their teeth with you know who.
I've also noticed another unpleasant side effect to keeping a blog, to accompany the aching elbows, wrists, finger joints and eye strain from trying to focus on a screen and keyboard that's bouncing up and down from the movement of the bus, and that is a constant feeling of nausea. I first thought it was linked to Delhi belly but now realise its a kind of travel sickness. When I just sit and look at the stunning countryside the sickness goes away. I'm also having to spend longer at the keyboard for less output. It's harder to find a new angle and easier just to sit and watch India go by.
The countryside around this part of Nepal is very different to the mountainous region obviously but has a quaint beauty to recommend it. We have journeyed for a few hours along a pretty poor road lined with lovely thatched huts sitting among palm tree groves. Constantly overshadowing everything are the forested hills, just visible through the haze and mist and a life source feeding the communities with an abundant supply of water which eventually seems to reach them from pipes by the roadside. I've just passed a man washing his car with a kind of power hose which seemed to come straight out of the hillside. On the lower part of the road is an enormous dried up river bed which must be very impressive in the Monsoon period. On the other side of this wide stony bed more forested hills lead all the way to the setting Sun on the far silhouetted horizon. The wide expansive stony river bed is alive with figures and their trucks harvesting this season's deposits presumably to be broken down further for construction and road repair. Laying by the road, having created a large deep scar through the forest, are very large boulders, smooth and round from their journey down the hillside and just waiting for next years rains and pastures new.
As darkness began to take hold talk of free camping died and hotel suggestions developed thanks mainly to Sue who'd found an attractive sounding Hotel Avocado highly recommended in her Lonely Planet. After travelling up and down the main street of the town we found ourselves outside the hotel. As Leighton rushed off to find out availability the are outside went into darkness as the headlights of the bus for some unknown reason cut-out. Leighton came back with tales of gloom about the hotel which had gone into serious decline in the years since Sue's book was published but the adjoining hotel was available. Our room was excellent, very large with big double bed, clean bathroom and large windows looking out over a large grassed area.
Dinner was arranged and consisted of rice and two types of curry chicken and vegetable washed down with copious amounts of beer. All in all a good ending to a long but beautiful day scenic wise.
The journey back down the road we came up was just as spectacular; this time saw the lower section missed two days ago in the dark with the road perched high above the beautiful river many feet below. Had a prepared lunch in a roadside café in an idyllic setting overlooking the river. Amazingly the owner did not seem to object to 21 people sitting at his tables and chairs eating their packed lunches. He even helped to clean up some of the mess. Would not happen in UK. We spent 4 hours retracing out journey back down towards the border before turning to follow the foothills on our left that lead to Darjeeling.
As we drive along I make another observation which is probably obvious to everyone else but not me. I have already remarked earlier in India that I saw a sign for the latest Royal Enfield bike and the place is scattered with Massey Ferguson tractors and Morris cars. Well I've suddenly realised that the Indian Sub Continent is an who's who of British products. Today while heading across Nepal I've seen adverts for Lifeboy soap, lux washing powder and Pepsodent toothpaste. Looking at the standard of living along this route I don't think mums here will 'wonder where the yellow went' when their kids brush their teeth with you know who.
I've also noticed another unpleasant side effect to keeping a blog, to accompany the aching elbows, wrists, finger joints and eye strain from trying to focus on a screen and keyboard that's bouncing up and down from the movement of the bus, and that is a constant feeling of nausea. I first thought it was linked to Delhi belly but now realise its a kind of travel sickness. When I just sit and look at the stunning countryside the sickness goes away. I'm also having to spend longer at the keyboard for less output. It's harder to find a new angle and easier just to sit and watch India go by.
The countryside around this part of Nepal is very different to the mountainous region obviously but has a quaint beauty to recommend it. We have journeyed for a few hours along a pretty poor road lined with lovely thatched huts sitting among palm tree groves. Constantly overshadowing everything are the forested hills, just visible through the haze and mist and a life source feeding the communities with an abundant supply of water which eventually seems to reach them from pipes by the roadside. I've just passed a man washing his car with a kind of power hose which seemed to come straight out of the hillside. On the lower part of the road is an enormous dried up river bed which must be very impressive in the Monsoon period. On the other side of this wide stony bed more forested hills lead all the way to the setting Sun on the far silhouetted horizon. The wide expansive stony river bed is alive with figures and their trucks harvesting this season's deposits presumably to be broken down further for construction and road repair. Laying by the road, having created a large deep scar through the forest, are very large boulders, smooth and round from their journey down the hillside and just waiting for next years rains and pastures new.
As darkness began to take hold talk of free camping died and hotel suggestions developed thanks mainly to Sue who'd found an attractive sounding Hotel Avocado highly recommended in her Lonely Planet. After travelling up and down the main street of the town we found ourselves outside the hotel. As Leighton rushed off to find out availability the are outside went into darkness as the headlights of the bus for some unknown reason cut-out. Leighton came back with tales of gloom about the hotel which had gone into serious decline in the years since Sue's book was published but the adjoining hotel was available. Our room was excellent, very large with big double bed, clean bathroom and large windows looking out over a large grassed area.
Dinner was arranged and consisted of rice and two types of curry chicken and vegetable washed down with copious amounts of beer. All in all a good ending to a long but beautiful day scenic wise.
Day 46 : Tuesday 7th November: Kathmando
As promised the flight to Everest went a head at 5.00am and the tired but happy group returned about 10.00am and went straight back to bed contented. Anne and myself had declined the free flight but now regret it. I had visions of flying in some patched up Russian piece of junk but not at all the planes looked very modern. I hadn't realised at this point that the trip to Everest base camp was cancelled. So much for the Ozbus blurb about once in a lifetime opportunity. Things are beginning to turn pear shape: we don't have the time they said to see these great sites and the journey times allowed between are ridiculous. Poor Jaenpol he looks knackered every night. We were supposed do the journey from Varanasi to Kathmandu in one day and it took 16 hours to an unscheduled stop which was still four and half hours away.
Our first impression of the accommodation last night was pretty accurate but it did not take into account the water feature. On second reflection the room was crap and dingy, the bed hard but the water feature an horrendously noisy series of buckets with holes outside the only window. When the first shower or water usage started at about 5.00am in the morning it started gushing and making a rattling noise that made sleep impossible.
Besides this we didn't rise until late morning because we were both spaced out after the horrendous drive yesterday and so had a late breakfast and then went to explore the area around our hotel. Managed to buy a Lumix battery for the camera but it nearly cost as much as back home but two silk inner sleeping liners were only a third of the Sheffield price.
Made our way back to the hotel to checkout an arranged three hour bus tour of the city. It was important that we were not to spend most of the time on the bus and the guide promised us that most of the time would be walking. I'm to glad to say his word was better than the two in London. The bus was needed to take us to our first venue the Monkey Temple which is back out of the city.
This has been a temple for two thousand years and as the name suggests has monkeys by the score. I was quite pleased to see them because the guide said they sometimes don't come out when it's not sunny and it was very dull although not cold. Besides, the monkeys there were the real pests; these were the street sellers or entrepreneurial beggars who hung around in groups just like the apes. As Anne was in negotiation with a woman selling more bracelets for the girls (our daughters) one of the monkeys, unknown to me until it landed, placed an empty can of something squarely on my head much to the delight of two young girls in front of me.
The actual temple is very hard to describe, the buildings were mainly of wood and in need of serious renovation and was devalued by all the street sellers who completely outnumbered the animals and who, with the exception of the can throwing incident, left us alone.
The trip into the old part of Kathmandu was more interesting. No sooner had we left the coach and we were surrounded by street sellers. I have had a problem with street sellers or entrepreneurial beggars as I call them ever since starting the trip. They come up to me and shove their wares in my face and quote some ridiculous price. I know I should ignore them and not give them any facial contact but I can’t help saying something, to me it is polite but to them it is contact and leads to them pester me and then me eventually losing my temper. But the king of all beggars lives in old Kathmandu and if his patter was correct he makes the flutes, the beautifully carved wooden flutes he sells. I made the terrible mistake of asking him to play one of his instruments and although he only managed a dozen notes it was enough for him to believe that I had committed myself to buying one of his creations. I attempted to explain that we were backpacking and really couldn’t carry such a large heavy instrument but he either didn't understand or didn't want to.
Our first stop in the old area was a very interesting old temple with wooden carvings of erotic figures. For some unknown reason, at least to me, young couples sat underneath the erotic freeze kissing and cuddling seemingly oblivious to the wooden antics above their heads. As we made our way away from the wooden porno I first caught sight of the flute seller from hell. After his virtuoso of a dozen notes he gave me a price of only 3500 rupees. I explained to him that I only wanted to hear what the instrument sounded like and had no intention of buying one because it was too heavy to carry. To him, and his non-existent grasp of the English language, this meant I was some shrewd business negotiator.
We went to see the living goddess. She was chosen at the age of 5 after various rituals to test her character. Her feet were never allowed to touch the ground in case she cut herself and shed blood. Once she reached menstruation she was no longer pure and therefore could no longer be the goddess and a new one was found. She was only allowed 13 public appearances. After being the goddess she was destined to be a spinster for the rest of her life. No self-respecting Nepalese lad would want to marry a goddess. It would be difficult trying to please someone who had grown up with their feet off the ground. Once a day, around 4.00pm, she made a momentary appearance at a small window in the courtyard of the old palace. Before she looked out of her prison cell, two chaperone's surveyed the courtyard for camera toting visitors and plain clothe guards approached those who had not heeded all the signs.
We arrived too early and were taken by our guide round the various street stalls. At each venue my flute toting friend appeared each time with a new lower price. He followed me around the temple of naughty nudes, waited outside the old courtyard as we checked the time of the goddess' appearance, sat patiently as we had drinks and ice cream in a café and weaved in and out of the crowds down the packed streets between each venue. Eventually our guide approached a tourist policeman and he and his flutes were taken away. At this point he was quoting 600 rupees and Anne was pleading with me to buy it and free him and us from the turmoil. I have to say I felt so sorry for him at this point that I was tempted to follow them and pay him.
The goddess eventually appeared after a couple of Japanese tourists were made to put their cameras away. To me she looked sad and lonely and I was glad to leave the courtyard and join the throngs of people outside. I would like to say her sad image haunted me for hours, days or weeks but in fact it didn't last minutes because as I stepped out through the large old wooden door flute man jumped on me with his latest and cheapest offer yet: 500 rupees. I have to say, what sympathy I had dissipated instantly and I screamed at him 'please fuck off'. He replied '400 rupee? handmade by me'. He followed me all the way back to the bus and made his last offer as we drove away. He was persistent following me for over three hours and consistent dropping his price in 500 rupee units each chance he got. I do regret not giving such a craftsman the money even though at least three other sellers approached me showing similar flutes they had also made.
In the evening we were taken to a restaurant come cultural centre for a night of traditional food, music and dance. Although I enjoyed the food and the performances it was very much staged managed for tourists. The highlight of the evening for me was the rice based liquor which was very pleasant but disliked by everyone but Anne, John and myself. I had about 11 glasses which is probably why I enjoyed the whole evening. Also the young ladies dancing were very attractive.
Our first impression of the accommodation last night was pretty accurate but it did not take into account the water feature. On second reflection the room was crap and dingy, the bed hard but the water feature an horrendously noisy series of buckets with holes outside the only window. When the first shower or water usage started at about 5.00am in the morning it started gushing and making a rattling noise that made sleep impossible.
Besides this we didn't rise until late morning because we were both spaced out after the horrendous drive yesterday and so had a late breakfast and then went to explore the area around our hotel. Managed to buy a Lumix battery for the camera but it nearly cost as much as back home but two silk inner sleeping liners were only a third of the Sheffield price.
Made our way back to the hotel to checkout an arranged three hour bus tour of the city. It was important that we were not to spend most of the time on the bus and the guide promised us that most of the time would be walking. I'm to glad to say his word was better than the two in London. The bus was needed to take us to our first venue the Monkey Temple which is back out of the city.
This has been a temple for two thousand years and as the name suggests has monkeys by the score. I was quite pleased to see them because the guide said they sometimes don't come out when it's not sunny and it was very dull although not cold. Besides, the monkeys there were the real pests; these were the street sellers or entrepreneurial beggars who hung around in groups just like the apes. As Anne was in negotiation with a woman selling more bracelets for the girls (our daughters) one of the monkeys, unknown to me until it landed, placed an empty can of something squarely on my head much to the delight of two young girls in front of me.
The actual temple is very hard to describe, the buildings were mainly of wood and in need of serious renovation and was devalued by all the street sellers who completely outnumbered the animals and who, with the exception of the can throwing incident, left us alone.
The trip into the old part of Kathmandu was more interesting. No sooner had we left the coach and we were surrounded by street sellers. I have had a problem with street sellers or entrepreneurial beggars as I call them ever since starting the trip. They come up to me and shove their wares in my face and quote some ridiculous price. I know I should ignore them and not give them any facial contact but I can’t help saying something, to me it is polite but to them it is contact and leads to them pester me and then me eventually losing my temper. But the king of all beggars lives in old Kathmandu and if his patter was correct he makes the flutes, the beautifully carved wooden flutes he sells. I made the terrible mistake of asking him to play one of his instruments and although he only managed a dozen notes it was enough for him to believe that I had committed myself to buying one of his creations. I attempted to explain that we were backpacking and really couldn’t carry such a large heavy instrument but he either didn't understand or didn't want to.
Our first stop in the old area was a very interesting old temple with wooden carvings of erotic figures. For some unknown reason, at least to me, young couples sat underneath the erotic freeze kissing and cuddling seemingly oblivious to the wooden antics above their heads. As we made our way away from the wooden porno I first caught sight of the flute seller from hell. After his virtuoso of a dozen notes he gave me a price of only 3500 rupees. I explained to him that I only wanted to hear what the instrument sounded like and had no intention of buying one because it was too heavy to carry. To him, and his non-existent grasp of the English language, this meant I was some shrewd business negotiator.
We went to see the living goddess. She was chosen at the age of 5 after various rituals to test her character. Her feet were never allowed to touch the ground in case she cut herself and shed blood. Once she reached menstruation she was no longer pure and therefore could no longer be the goddess and a new one was found. She was only allowed 13 public appearances. After being the goddess she was destined to be a spinster for the rest of her life. No self-respecting Nepalese lad would want to marry a goddess. It would be difficult trying to please someone who had grown up with their feet off the ground. Once a day, around 4.00pm, she made a momentary appearance at a small window in the courtyard of the old palace. Before she looked out of her prison cell, two chaperone's surveyed the courtyard for camera toting visitors and plain clothe guards approached those who had not heeded all the signs.
We arrived too early and were taken by our guide round the various street stalls. At each venue my flute toting friend appeared each time with a new lower price. He followed me around the temple of naughty nudes, waited outside the old courtyard as we checked the time of the goddess' appearance, sat patiently as we had drinks and ice cream in a café and weaved in and out of the crowds down the packed streets between each venue. Eventually our guide approached a tourist policeman and he and his flutes were taken away. At this point he was quoting 600 rupees and Anne was pleading with me to buy it and free him and us from the turmoil. I have to say I felt so sorry for him at this point that I was tempted to follow them and pay him.
The goddess eventually appeared after a couple of Japanese tourists were made to put their cameras away. To me she looked sad and lonely and I was glad to leave the courtyard and join the throngs of people outside. I would like to say her sad image haunted me for hours, days or weeks but in fact it didn't last minutes because as I stepped out through the large old wooden door flute man jumped on me with his latest and cheapest offer yet: 500 rupees. I have to say, what sympathy I had dissipated instantly and I screamed at him 'please fuck off'. He replied '400 rupee? handmade by me'. He followed me all the way back to the bus and made his last offer as we drove away. He was persistent following me for over three hours and consistent dropping his price in 500 rupee units each chance he got. I do regret not giving such a craftsman the money even though at least three other sellers approached me showing similar flutes they had also made.
In the evening we were taken to a restaurant come cultural centre for a night of traditional food, music and dance. Although I enjoyed the food and the performances it was very much staged managed for tourists. The highlight of the evening for me was the rice based liquor which was very pleasant but disliked by everyone but Anne, John and myself. I had about 11 glasses which is probably why I enjoyed the whole evening. Also the young ladies dancing were very attractive.
Day 45 : Monday 6th November: Kathmando
Because of the horrendous journey yesterday, today’s start is scheduled for 11.00am. I’ve developed my second bout of Delhi belly and didn't improve the situation with the beer last night but I needed it. The breakfast although good took a good hour to be served, speed not in the Nepalese gene pack. I sat in the shade looking at the beautiful mountainous scenery doing heavy breathing exercises every time I got a stomach cramp.
The journey to Kathmandu which took well over four hours with the traffic congestion in the city, made last nights effort look positively stupid. We were heading up a mountainside road full of potholes, mad Nepalese lorry drivers, at least three over turned lorries and a drop of three or four hundred feet into the river below.
On our first glimpse of the legendary city it looked like all the stinking, over-populated, poverty stricken holes we'd been through in India. The hotel looked better from the inside than the outside but our room worse so far. It was a box of a hole with a double bed that sloped down to the headboard even though the floor was flat, a dirty bathroom with no door lock and bad lighting that made everything look worse. Instead of kicking up a fuss we rushed off to eat with Barry who'd been here a couple of days and was raving about the place. It didn’t seem appropriate to spoil his image of the place. It was only later that I found out he wasn’t staying in our hotel. He later admitted their hotel was cleaner and surprisingly cheaper.
The bar he recommended was good as was the food but the live band were exceptional especially the singer, lead and bass guitarists. After an hour or two we decided to move bars and headed off into the night and the maze of streets. Unfortunately I had to rush back to our hotel to use the toilet. I’d obviously been feeding my Delhi belly but when we came out we couldn't find the rest of the group and had to abandon the evening much to Anne’s annoyance. I agreed to go and have a coffee in a quaint little coffee shop. No sooner had we received our drinks and the staff started to turn the lights out, close everything down and lock the doors. We were in no doubt they wanted us out. Rather bad practice for a business. Nothing left to do but head back to the dingy room and sleep.
The journey to Kathmandu which took well over four hours with the traffic congestion in the city, made last nights effort look positively stupid. We were heading up a mountainside road full of potholes, mad Nepalese lorry drivers, at least three over turned lorries and a drop of three or four hundred feet into the river below.
On our first glimpse of the legendary city it looked like all the stinking, over-populated, poverty stricken holes we'd been through in India. The hotel looked better from the inside than the outside but our room worse so far. It was a box of a hole with a double bed that sloped down to the headboard even though the floor was flat, a dirty bathroom with no door lock and bad lighting that made everything look worse. Instead of kicking up a fuss we rushed off to eat with Barry who'd been here a couple of days and was raving about the place. It didn’t seem appropriate to spoil his image of the place. It was only later that I found out he wasn’t staying in our hotel. He later admitted their hotel was cleaner and surprisingly cheaper.
The bar he recommended was good as was the food but the live band were exceptional especially the singer, lead and bass guitarists. After an hour or two we decided to move bars and headed off into the night and the maze of streets. Unfortunately I had to rush back to our hotel to use the toilet. I’d obviously been feeding my Delhi belly but when we came out we couldn't find the rest of the group and had to abandon the evening much to Anne’s annoyance. I agreed to go and have a coffee in a quaint little coffee shop. No sooner had we received our drinks and the staff started to turn the lights out, close everything down and lock the doors. We were in no doubt they wanted us out. Rather bad practice for a business. Nothing left to do but head back to the dingy room and sleep.
Wednesday 19 December 2007
Day 44 : Monday 5th November:Kathmando
Because of the horrendous journey yesterday, today's start is scheduled for 11.00am. I developed my second bout of Delhi belly and didn't improve the situation with the beer last night but I needed it. The breakfast although good took a good hour to be served, speed not in the Nepalese gene pack. I sat in the shade looking at the beautiful mountainous scenery doing heavy breathing exercises every time I got a stomach cramp.
The journey to Kathmandu which took well over four hours with the traffic congestion in the city, made last nights effort look positively stupid. We were heading up a mountainside road full of potholes, mad Nepalese lorry drivers, at least three over turned lorries and a drop of three or four hundred feet into the river below.
Our first glimpse of the legendary city reminded me of all the stinking, over-populated, poverty stricken holes we'd been through in India. The hotel looked better from inside than out but our room was the worse so far. It was a box of a hole with a double bed that sloped down to the headboard even though the floor was flat, a dirty bathroom with no door lock and bad lighting that made everything look worse. Instead of kicking up a fuss we rushed off to eat with Barry who'd been here a couple of days and was raving about the place.
The food was very good for bar food and the live band was excellent especially the singer, lead and bass guitarists. We then decided to move bars but had to rush back to our hotel to use the toilet. When we came out couldn't find the rest of the group, this place is a maze of alleys etc.
The journey to Kathmandu which took well over four hours with the traffic congestion in the city, made last nights effort look positively stupid. We were heading up a mountainside road full of potholes, mad Nepalese lorry drivers, at least three over turned lorries and a drop of three or four hundred feet into the river below.
Our first glimpse of the legendary city reminded me of all the stinking, over-populated, poverty stricken holes we'd been through in India. The hotel looked better from inside than out but our room was the worse so far. It was a box of a hole with a double bed that sloped down to the headboard even though the floor was flat, a dirty bathroom with no door lock and bad lighting that made everything look worse. Instead of kicking up a fuss we rushed off to eat with Barry who'd been here a couple of days and was raving about the place.
The food was very good for bar food and the live band was excellent especially the singer, lead and bass guitarists. We then decided to move bars but had to rush back to our hotel to use the toilet. When we came out couldn't find the rest of the group, this place is a maze of alleys etc.
Day 43: Sunday 4th November: Varanasi - Kathmando
This was the earliest start yet. I haven't been up this early since the 6 till 2 shift at Handsworth Pitt. As we left the hotel grounds, bang on time, at 5.00am and turned into the main street outside I was not surprised to see it occupied by a substantial number of faces quietly waiting for daylight to break and staring inquisitively as we sneaked out into the last of the night. As soon as we left the city the lights on the bus went out and most of its passengers quickly slipped into the dreams so abruptly broken an hour earlier. Laying with head pressed against the window it was strange not to lookout on a scene bathed in early morning sun but a landscape shrouded in mist. Laying in the comfort and warmth of a hotel it is easy to ignore the fact that life for the masses here in Mother India gets
harder after dark.
This journey turned into another nightmare trip. First a very long and boring drive up to the Nepalese border along a road totally unfit for carrying traffic. The border was yet another dumping ground for lorries and travellers. The actual border control was situated on the main street of the town and took an hour to get to because of all the vehicles queuing. The women had to use the most appalling toilet I have seen since Ecuador 1993. Once through the border we were told to expect another 10 hour drive up to Kathmandu.
The last of the daylight was not waisted on the most beautiful of scenery as we started to climb into the foothills of the Himalayas but our estimated time of arrival began to look ridiculous. As dark took over the drive became dangerous. The road started to climb steeply and the lorries coming down from Kathmandu just kept up their constant drive to overtake everything in front irrespective of the danger. At 10.00am Sue erupted into rage. We'd now been driving for six hours since Nepal without a toilet stop and fifteen in total. As by magic the bus stopped for what I thought was a toilet stop but on looking at John Paul's face it was obvious we were going no further. Whether by luck or judgement we were stopped at the entrance to a Nepalese travel lodge and after a ten minute wait Leighton confirmed they had enough room. Although I didn't have any Nepalese rupees and we'd been told by the guide in Varanasi not to take anything above 100 Indian notes because no one would change them the little man at the bar took them thank goodness.
The lodge had been built by the locals and was quite comfortable if not a bit damp. The rooms were stretched out above the bar and dining room terrace and lit by fairy lights and looked idyllic from the road. The service at the bar was good but food took an age even though a large sign said 'food 24 hours a day'. By the time our soup arrived I'd had three bottles of Ghauka and since I'd been up since 4.00am I was feeling a bit tipsy. I sat with John Paul and he was very annoyed about the length of the journey which was impossible in the time given by Andrew and Mark. I think it is becoming obvious they are office travellers. Their instructions said set off no later than 8.00am and a buffet tea will be waiting in Kathmandu. We had been travelling for sixteen hours with few breaks, hence the outrage by Sue, and talking to the little barman who lived in Kathmandu it takes at least another three hours. It seems to me they're either ignorant of the distances and road conditions or they're prepared to endanger our lives and the reputation of the drivers for the sake of their precious timetable. Went to bed very very tired and bitter because obviously we have lost one of our days in Kathmandu.
harder after dark.
This journey turned into another nightmare trip. First a very long and boring drive up to the Nepalese border along a road totally unfit for carrying traffic. The border was yet another dumping ground for lorries and travellers. The actual border control was situated on the main street of the town and took an hour to get to because of all the vehicles queuing. The women had to use the most appalling toilet I have seen since Ecuador 1993. Once through the border we were told to expect another 10 hour drive up to Kathmandu.
The last of the daylight was not waisted on the most beautiful of scenery as we started to climb into the foothills of the Himalayas but our estimated time of arrival began to look ridiculous. As dark took over the drive became dangerous. The road started to climb steeply and the lorries coming down from Kathmandu just kept up their constant drive to overtake everything in front irrespective of the danger. At 10.00am Sue erupted into rage. We'd now been driving for six hours since Nepal without a toilet stop and fifteen in total. As by magic the bus stopped for what I thought was a toilet stop but on looking at John Paul's face it was obvious we were going no further. Whether by luck or judgement we were stopped at the entrance to a Nepalese travel lodge and after a ten minute wait Leighton confirmed they had enough room. Although I didn't have any Nepalese rupees and we'd been told by the guide in Varanasi not to take anything above 100 Indian notes because no one would change them the little man at the bar took them thank goodness.
The lodge had been built by the locals and was quite comfortable if not a bit damp. The rooms were stretched out above the bar and dining room terrace and lit by fairy lights and looked idyllic from the road. The service at the bar was good but food took an age even though a large sign said 'food 24 hours a day'. By the time our soup arrived I'd had three bottles of Ghauka and since I'd been up since 4.00am I was feeling a bit tipsy. I sat with John Paul and he was very annoyed about the length of the journey which was impossible in the time given by Andrew and Mark. I think it is becoming obvious they are office travellers. Their instructions said set off no later than 8.00am and a buffet tea will be waiting in Kathmandu. We had been travelling for sixteen hours with few breaks, hence the outrage by Sue, and talking to the little barman who lived in Kathmandu it takes at least another three hours. It seems to me they're either ignorant of the distances and road conditions or they're prepared to endanger our lives and the reputation of the drivers for the sake of their precious timetable. Went to bed very very tired and bitter because obviously we have lost one of our days in Kathmandu.
Saturday 1 December 2007
Day 42: Varanasi
Saturday 3rd November
Today's a landmark. Firstly we are at the half way point. Secondly days like this have been quite rare on this trip i.e. free to explore. This is not just because of the gruelling schedule but an accumulation of factors, the main one for me being the lack of self confidence in my ability to survive out there without the support that travelling in a large group provides. But today we found ourselves away and alone and very vulnerable and gullible.
After the experience of last nights massage I decided to have an hair cut and shave, another service within the confines of the hotel's grounds. One look in the mirror told me I needed it, I hadn't seen my electric hair clipper since Bulgaria and Anne assumed probably correctly that I'd lost it. I made my way to the barber's chair only to be directed to an office occupied by three women in saras. One asked me what I wanted and suggested, looking at my appearance, the full works, although at this point I was completely unaware what it entailed. The second lady took my money for this major operation, a staggering 80 rupees or £1 and the third made out a chit or document to take back to the barber who stood quietly at the door looking on incredulously as though still trying to come to terms with the bearocracy of this land. The actual operation took less time than the administration if you count the comments about my appearance and the transformation this 'very gud barber' would perform. It started with a large pink comb and a pair of scissors similar the ones my mum used to cut wallpaper back in the 60s. However the similarity ends their, this man wielded them like one of the three Musketeers. As I looked on in amazement he reduced the back and sides, nothing on top to work with, to a No 2 with a series of strokes strait out of a fencing manual. The only lull in this two minute process came as he dipped his first two fingers in a bowl of something, wiped the contents round the back of my ears and with his cut throat created a niche for them to sit snugly in. Then came the longest activity, the ritual application of soap. This extended from a point in line with the space he'd created for my right ear and all the way round to the left and involved four or five applications of soap with a large floppy brush had again similarities to my mums wallpapering skills. He then produced the nearest thing to a modern tool, another black handled gem, cut throat but with a removable blade. This again involved a series of well tried and tested cuts which finished with his finger gently inside my mouth pressing my lower lip out in his direction so he could remove the last thin line of soap still hanging to my face. This last process was quickly repeated reducing my lower face and chin to the texture of a baby's bum. After each cut he wiped the contents of the blade onto the back of his hand until the size of the pile warranted being deposited in a small white pot which reminded me of the butter dishes once commonly used in Devon cream teas. After a few wipes of a towel I was lulled into believing this master class was over, but not at all. His attention now turned to spraying my hair with some sweat smelling liquid and enriching my face with oil before massaging my neck and shoulders. This little exercise was interspersed and concluded with a combination of slaps to the top of my head. Anne who had joined the class just after the scissors round sat behind me, her face smiling at me through the mirror. A quick shake of a bottle which very much looked and smelt like India's answer to Old Spice and a few dabs and rubbing movements and the upper part of the operation was over.
He took my hand, I thought as gesture for me to stand and leave but before I moved it was obvious he had other intentions. In no time at all with the aid of a scalpel type instrument he reduced my finger nails to ten perfect little arches. Once he'd done the same to my toe nails he wiped me down and with a well earned satisfied smile released me back into the real world of the three smiling, waiting, female administrators. All agreed that their assessment of his skills were justified and the transformation from shabby old man to clean one could be improved further if I would only pay for a full massage. Only Anne's intervention and assessment about the one that we had the night before played on their competitive spirit and thus distracted them long enough for me to escape. Also Noreen suddenly appeared at the door wanting the full works and the three headed back to their passion: administration. If you're wondering why I've spent so much time trying to give you a flavour of my experience then you need to understand that this was my first visit to a barbers for thirty five years and I have to say if I'd known it was so cheap I'd have gone years ago. A haircut, shave, manicure, pedicure and head massage and all for a quid.
I had first used the need for a hair cut to escape the clutches of the hotels tourist guide Tripiathi', pronounced like japaty, who was pestering me (Mr Peter and Anne, Mrs Peter) to muster up enough of our group to visit the Gov't Centre for Silk Workers and a night trip on the Ganges or Ganga to see the Ghats or steps where the living wash and the dead burnt. As I escaped the grasp of the barbers three admirers Triapathy pounced once again and persisted, no matter what my excuse, until we agreed.
The visit to see the area where India's finest silk products are made was very interesting and bore amazing similarities with the carpets in Iran. Both were designed and hand made on hand looms within Muslim communities. There were designs taken from memory and ones punched into cards which are then followed by the loom and also the salesman capable of making a sale from a history lesson while using the old Muslim custom of offering prospective customers refreshments. Needles to say we left spending £40 on shirts, pillow cases and the gifts. It could have been worse and indeed it was about to.
We escaped our guide with the intention of finding a camera shop to buy new memory cards. He said goodbye to us after instructing a totally unconcerned rickshaw driver to drop us at the best and poshest - chose my word selectively hoping it would have some meaning to a native and not just those travelling to India - camera shop in down town old Varanasi and not to charge anymore than 25 rupees. Firstly he looked disgusted at the 30 rupees I offered him and rightly so the journey took 20 minutes and had more obstacles than the Toure de France. Unfortunately all my other notes were 500s which I tried to explain to him through gesture but I had to leave him hands clasped in prayer still wanting. On turning away from him he'd got his own back the street and area looked no more up market than the one we'd come from.
Before I could explain to him about the lack of camera shops a voice rang out in good English 'Camera shop down there'. We turned round and got our first glimpse of Ras the young man from the back alleys of ancient Varanasi. The shop sold Konica roll film, no cameras but sourced an SD card via a runner in his sixties. I knew he must be going to another shop and buying them and adding cost but finding it would virtually impossible. Also as I sat waiting, there was always the chance that Ras would get fed up and leave but unknown to me Anne had embraced him in conversation about post offices and sending parcels home and in the process of promises was sold a package which included the visit to a GPO and a festival taking place today down on the ghats.
The programme started with a walk down the old back alleys leading past old Hindu temples, 'holy oxen and holy shit' as Ras remarked and recesses where spices, vegetables and artisans wares were sold. All eventually led to his brother's silk shop. Surprise! surprise! After another 30 quid spent we carried on with our programme carrying a parcel of goodies, well wrapped and ready for dispatch.
Our journey through the maze of little stinking alleys continued until we came out onto a raised area over the ? Ghat and stood staring out on a surreal picture of stacked tree trunks by the side of the Ganga. The stacks of wood which were arriving by boat and being unloaded and chopped along the grain by a frail looking underfed worker, using wedges and a sledgehammer, whilst others loaded the newly cut trunks on their heads and carried them to where they were needed gave the scene a work environment and not a religious one. Ras told me I could take photos of the old buildings but not of bodies because this would upset the families. I made it quite clear I had no intention of trying to do so. We'd heard earlier of Americans paying $1000 to be allowed to take shots of bodies close up. I think you'd have to be of a special mindset to infringe on someone's grief and passed it off as another story to discredited yanks further. At this point Ras introduced us to an Untouchable saying he could better explain the whole of process of the ceremonies which have taken place here for over a thousand years.
We followed the Untouchable into a building used as a refuge by the very old waiting to die and holymen sent to help and be trained. As we entered the top room two very old women, sat crossed legged on mats and greeted us begging, hands in prayer as an holyman stirred a saucepan boiling over a wooden fire sitting in a hand made clay fire pit. Passing them by we walked out onto the roof and found ourselves directly looking down on a scene that as not changed for over a thousand years.
The squalor flowed out of the narrow alleys and down and into the sacred river which stood wide and deep and slowly but noticeably flowing to Calcutta. The Ghat was built on a bend in the river and the far bank stretched across a sandy beach the width of the water again and left dry after the swelling monsoon floods. Flat bottomed, wide beamed, wooden, sailless boats, rudders at the front, rows at the bow designed and tested over a millennium, some stacked with cargoes of wood others empty slightly pulled on their moorings.
The Ghat or steps rise and give way to a terrace and then rise again to two square stoned, outside areas, roofed to give shade from the heat of the day. One contained the eternal fire that has burned constantly for a millennium with a single orange flower placed at each corner just outside the reach of the fire's flames. The level behind and rising up to the shops and guest houses providing cheap accommodation consisted of Pagoda shaped roofed temples in need of attention.
The covered outside area has a number of people, presumably families, patiently waiting to take their loved one down to the water's edge to be submerged before burning. As we look down three golden silk wrapped body forms rest on makeshift wooden stretchers wet from their last meeting with Ganga. Our knowledgeable guide explains it takes two hundred and forty kilograms of wood and two to three hours to burn one body. He points to a white parcel burning fiercely enclosed by a large boy scout shaped fire saying that is a man. Pointing to an orange ball shaped object slightly protruding from the fire says that's women. All arrive wrapped in the silk which is then discarded, folded and laid on the floor after the journey into the river to reveal a male in white or a female in orange. Anne asks about children and is told they are pure and so don't need purification by fire. Neither do holymen who abandoned their families for God and snake victims have to be floated on palm leaves until the poison leaves their body and so on. I'm conscious of the time and the fact we have to be back to the hotel for 5.00pm and the night sail down the river. But stood there staring over such a scene the time seems irrelevant and as we are led back down a level and confronted by the same old women as before my mind is trying to take in all the facts and images: the bodies burning, the oldest son head shaven with just a tuft at the back, 240 kilos of wood to burn one body, the bones that don't burn - men's chest area and women's thighs -
Day 41: Lucknow - Varanasi
Friday 3rd November
Left the hotel after a good breakfast and made our way as every morning through the congestion and smog of the city this time past Marks and Sparks and McDonalds. Amazing even the main dual carriageway taking us out of the city suddenly broke down into a series of potholes, deviations and chaos. I am beginning to think this country is the arsehole of the world: the most appalling infrastructure, poverty, rubbish and street sellers and it is the latter that are getting me down.
Can Varanasi be any different? I very much doubt it. We arrived to surprise surprise street rubbish everywhere, stinking open sewers, human deprivation of all kinds and congestion to rival anywhere else on this sub continent. In the middle of all this was our hotel an absolute haven of peace and tranquility. The front was very ordinary and quite modern but once inside the walled grounds everything was calm and tranquil. The central area was green grass with a path running through the middle with borders of terracotta pots being painted by an elderly Gardner squatting as he moved from one to the other. At the far end of the path was a 1920s white colonnaded building containing the dining room, massaging parlors and the swimming pool to the rear. To the right of this building was a little gem of another white building but probably 19th Century. Unfortunately it didn't seem to be in use but was the focal point of the garden complex.
On arriving we were ushered into the dinning room for a buffet. As soon as the food was finished the lads quickly made for the swimming pool and after settling in to our room we made our way out into the garden for a drink and some relaxation.
Day 40: Agra - Lucknow
Thursday 2nd November
As usual we found our seats on the bus and I then went through my now daily routine: firstly take PDA and folding keyboard out of my day bag, secondly connect two together using bluetooth, three place my leather bum bag round headrest in front of me, four place PDA upright with screening sticking out of the big pocket of bum bag like a little monitor and six place keyboard on little blue cushion and both on my knee. Unfortunately the PDA and keyboard don't always connect for some reason and then I'm left writing one to two thousand words like you would a text. I am finding that this is causing repetitive strain injuries to my thumbs and fingers and my elbows and so I'm trying to avoid having to do it this way.
Today they did connect instantly but the morning running up to this point hadn't gone so well. We were up and about at 7.00am and were driven to the bad restaurant for a breakfast of hard boiled eggs, toast, bananas and an apple I took for later. The same rickshaw was not so happy to take us back trying to get money out of us for what was a free hotel service. As I explained this to the driver I was approached by a small, very dirty, boy hands in prayer wanting money. I had no change so offered him my apple which he took with a smile and crunched as we drove away. Once on the bus after more arguing about the rickshaw cost we sat for 35 minutes waiting to go while Leighton tried to find a map of today's route. I can't believe that we're driving across one of the largest countries in the world using a boys school atlas turned to the map of India which only shows the main roads. Hardly surprising it took 12 hours to drive 400 kl to Agra. Leighton lost his cool a couple of days ago saying the same thing to me. I don't know whose responsibility it is but the company should have made sure we had sufficient maps for all the countries. Instead we waist time asking street corner urchins the way to towns they have probably never heard of, at least not with our accents and most certainly never been to. I am not well pleased with this aspect of the trip; very amateurish.
As we eventually headed off 30 minutes late Anne gave me the morning's first bit of gossip. Firstly the party ended about 3.30am and the gang made more noise returning to their beds than my snoring, running up down the corridors, screaming and shouting and waking the others in the group sleeping with exception of me thankgoodness. It then emerged, this morning, that they'd urinated in the garden and on the rooftop area presumably in full view of the Taj Mahal and broken two garden chairs which is the reason why it's now in the public domain. The owner brothers of the hotel and the grotty restaurant who never miss a money making opportunity demanded significant recompense for the damage whilst the culprits, still in their fancy dress pyjamas, lay asleep at the back of the bus. I had wrongly assumed this was the reason for our delay not knowing about the problem with a map to Lucknow.
The best part of the journey was sitting and talking with an improving John. He told me about his prostate operation and how impressed he was with the hospital and staff in Lahore. I think I have written about how he went private and what it cost but I'm not sure because it is so long now since I uploaded anything and it's really hard to check using such a small screen. He'd carried on with the saga explaining how'd he been trying to have the operation for the past two years in England. Same old story; had an appointment booked and told them he was going away for two weeks before but would be back for the op. Returned to find it cancelled because they said they couldn't contact him. Given new appointment 3 months later but by then on his way to Oz with us. Anyway he came out of hospital feeling great and returned to our hotel in Lahore and was ably assisted by Bilal's company who arranged flights and transfers to Agra. Unfortunately, he thinks, he got food poisoning in the hotel and spent the day before and the journey in serious discomfort. He arrived very late after being driven from Delhi airport who it seems also kept stopping to ask corner street urchins the way.
We eventually arrived in the famous town of Lucknow at rush hour and were very quickly bogged down in a sea of rickshaws, literally thousands. I thought to myself I wouldn't want to be besieged here by them all blowing their horns in unison. The slow progress did, however, allow me to view a brand new poster adverting the latest Royal Enfield motorbike. It must be a very familiar brand name over here looking at the rifles being carried by guards on duty in every store, petrol station and bank. One walked past us in a shopping mall late last night and in his turban and loose fitting garments he looked like something straight from the Northwest passage. It looked so old I wouldn't want to be near it if it's ever fired.
Found the Hotel Gaamti, named after the river that flows through the city, and although it looked as though it had seen better days it did have the distinction of being the first hotel, at least in India, with other guests. It also had what was supposed to be an English type pub bar. I had yet another bottle of light Kingfisher while Anne went for the very exotic gin and tonic. At least the Kingfisher came instantly and not in stages like Anne's drink. The gin arrived reasonably promptly and then after I explained to the waiter with mime thrown in 'gin' glass firmly raised for him to see and replaced on table, 'tonic' imaginary bottle of tonic held firmly, top removed precisely to hiss sound and then poured into gin with gurgle noise and finely 'lemon' pronounced slowly and cut on table and dropped in glass with splash sound. Five minutes later waiter placed a glass of lime juice cordial on table. After a No! No! No! I calmly pronounced t..o..n..i..c again in my best Sheffield accent he went away this time to return with a bottle of bitter lemon and in a reasonably clear voice said 'sorry no tonic water'. We both agreed a bottle of wine would have been easier but at 12 pound a bottle it was not worth taking the chance especially since we had at last found beer at 80 rupees a bottle. I really enjoyed the bar session and three beers which are over 5% strong.
After some dinner in the hotel restaurant we went for a walk to find the shopping mall not far away to buy a new battery and simcard for my camera. We had to leave the mall as it closed at 10.30pm having purchased three tops for Anne. Much more interesting than looking at boring photography and electrical stores. Had another beer this time in the hotel garden until driven inside by midges. The last thing I remember is watching Anne write some more postcards and a birthday card for Amy and thinking how lucky I am to be here in Lucknow 150 years after the siege and The Indian Mutiny that followed. Amazing to think that Independence and Partition, 60 years ago, had their roots, 90 years earlier on the streets outside our bedroom.
Day 39: Agra
Wednesday 31st October
Heaven! We stayed in bed till 10.00 for the first time since leaving England. Breakfast was at last nights restaurant and so we decided not to go. I went down to the reception to order two teas and the head waiter from the restaurant was trying to get people to go with him but to no avail: once bitten twice shy. The two cups of sweat, milky, ginger flavoured tea were pretty bad but nothing compared to last nights meal.
After a leisurely morning we set off to walk to the Taj Mahal some 600 yards from our hotel. The heat and the distance were not barriers but the people pestering us to buy from them made it akin to walking through treacle. We were pestered all the way.
When we got to the entrance we met Colin and Claire who told us we could probably do it in 20 minutes. It was only 11.30am and they'd done the Agra Fort and the Taj since breakfast. The entrance fee was 1500 rupees, for two after the extra costs for being foreign and taxes were added, however, it did include a bottle of iced cold water and shoe covers for inside the mausoleum.
Once inside we were nearly trampled to death by an hysterical crowd following two Bollywood stars who'd been filming some advert. Not a good start but things did get better. I had wrongly assumed that the Taj stood in the countryside outside Agra and not surrounded, once again, by the shacks, shops and tents. When you see these icons on the telly they never show the mess that surrounds them. The whole site, however, lived up to its reputation, the gardens and surrounding red sandstone walls and gates were impressive although it was probably the wrong time of the year to see the gardens.
The area leading up to the mausoleum was packed with tourists but surprisingly not foreign ones. The famous marble seat where Princess Diane was photographed was packed with Indians having their own version created by professional photographers. It's ironical that the very people who supposedly drove her to her death in Paris have their own little niche thanks to just that one picture. Mark asked me later if we'd taken our photos on the seat and seemed a little shocked at my reply. Needless to say we hadn't.
Even the number of tourists couldn't detract from the sheer beauty of the building. The white marble dome and minarets are much bigger than I expected and standing barefoot in their shadow looking out over the river Yamuna was a very pleasant way to spend an hour. What really made the two icons at Amritsar and here in Agra for me is the wildlife. The Taj is constantly being circled by Red Kites while the trees and bushes in the surrounding garden is a haven for green Parrots and what look like little Chipmunks. While the tourists stand in awe at one of man's great monuments they miss the graceful display going on above their heads. Although the size and quality of the craftsmanship displayed in the white marble is magnificent I have to say it is a little extreme for the love of one woman. It was built (between 1631 - 1652AD) by the Emperor Shahjehan for his wife and it took twenty thousand workers over twenty years to complete. I read, later in the day, at Agra Fort that the Moghul Emperors like Shahjehan had an harem of 5000 who were handsomely paid for their services which is something I didn't know. I just wonder what was so special about this one. Anne made the observation 'it must have been a long wait for your turn'.
Left the site at 3.30ish to satisfy our stomachs: not eaten since the night before. Just outside the south gate we found a rooftop restaurant recommended by the Lonely Planet, and a post office that probably hasn't changed since my dad used it in the 1930s, including the same three personnel who showed no interest in the French couple from Paris returning after backpacking in China and South East Asia and ourselves both queuing at the little arched window for stamps and talking quite loud. The rooftop restaurant was excellent and a tray of a veg and lentil curry, Nan bread, fried rice, tomato salad, yoghurt, a sweat and a cup of coffee cost 80 rupees or £1. It was worth double just to sit high above the squalor of the street and watch the monkeys stealing food from below and sharing it on the rooftop opposite us. This was the kind of food, service and price I expected but sadly is rare in the parts of India we've travelled. It is now up to Lucknow and Varanasi to change my view.
After yet another death defying trip round buses, bicycles, oxen, camels, cars and hundreds of rickshaws both manual and motorised we were deposited at the Delhi Gate entrance to Agra Fort. I have to say this is more my type of building, not only does it have the proportions and the quality of craftsmanship of a Taj Mahal but a real purpose for existing. Men should occupy themselves with power and glory and leave love to the women. As I turned, after paying the mad rickshaw man, the shear size of the fort's brilliant red sandstone battlements took my breath away: stretching out on both sides from the main gate into the distance and rising 70 feet above an enormous moat which is now concreted.
Walking round and reading the various plaques it seems the fort and Agra were the centre off the Moghul Empire. I heard an old guide say to his group the fort is the biggest on the Indian Sub Continent and was commisioned by Emperor Akbar the grandfather of Shahjehan in 1565 who spent their time ruling this enormous area from this fort and the one at Lahore which was the last fort we visited in Pakistan and also built from beautiful red sandstone. The enormous site sits glowing red high above the Yamuna River and facing the Taj Mahal which on this occasion was barely visible due to the thick strip of pollution drifting across the middle of the icon. The scene on the river as we stood there has probably not changed since the early 17th Century with young boys wading neck deep into the middle of the river to cast nets. Further down on a bend their peers kept an unwatchful eye on oxen cooling off and dam-like surrounded by orange flowers and rubbish discharged further up stream.
The fort had a lovely feel of warmth, security and luxury about it with fountains, gardens consisting of beautiful red flowers in full bloom but also neat patterned beds like Victorian vegetable patches but containing small coloured plants like radish leaves, rooms, dormitories, mosques and a very large and ornately multi-arched meeting place in the central courtyard. Standing here as the sun went down the noise of Parakeets was deafening. Again the skies above were full of Red Kites and as the sun set behind the Moti-Masjid a white marbled mosque resembling a white pearl a pair of owls silently changed one tree for another above our heads and the biggest bats I've ever seen darted about to feed on insects. As the fort changed from a red glow to a red silhouette the heat from the stone floors and walls rose and quickly became unbearable and we left hurriedly to beat the pending sauna and a large school party making its way to the main gate and who were making more noise than the green feathered occupants. As we came through the gate sellers of all description descended on us with bat-like accuracy and for a few moments I could empathize with the poor insects inside struggling to survive. As we made a quick get a way in a motorized rickshaw Anne had to throw a small marble elephant, which had come down from 350 to 50 rupees, back into the anonymous hands waiting for money and I tried to explain to another in vain that I didn't want to take a guide book of the fort to Australia with me. The trauma didn't stop there, as the agreed 60 rupee rickshaw ride left the bustle and chaos of the town and took us out into dark suburbs not before seen I began to fear for our safety. Just when I thought he was about to reap revenge on us for the way we handled the beggars earlier the cart bounced up a bank and back onto a main road we recognized. It's hard to image how they can make a profit from a twenty minute ride but 60 he quoted and that is what he asked for. I was so relieved I gave him 100. Inside the hotel Jim related his story outside the Taj and told us how one individual had reduce the price of twelve postcards down to 10 rupees just to make a sale.
We were still stuffed from our rooftop feast and so we went with John Paul and Claire for a drink to a beer restaurant very close to our hotel. Here we found the cheapest beer so far: Kingfisher light 80 and the stronger Kingfisher and Haywoods 5000 at 90 rupees. I took 4 bottles back to the hotel for the pending fancy dress Halloween Party.
Anne did very well to construct a ghost costume for herself and a Batman one for me. A little hot in the gloves and I decided looking in the mirror it was not so much Batman but Delman without that plonker Rodney. The party got going about an half hour before we went to bed at 12.00. Thee best part about the night was John had arrived at the hotel late. I was remonstrating with Anne about my Batman mask because the eye slits were too tight and needed enlarging when I suddenly heard John doing likewise with a porter about the lack of toilet the paper in his room. I took him some from our room as the porter scuttled down the stairs.
Day 38: Corbett Tiger Reserve - Agra
Tuesday 30th October
It was confirmed at breakfast that we're not going back to Delhi, thank goodness, but instead going straight to Agra for two days instead. Also heard another beating this time in the kitchens behind the dining room as we were having breakfast. Sound of cane smacking bare skin very hard and whimpers and pleas. I'll be glad to leave these awful people who run this place. It says a lot about what I've seen so far of this country. I expected to be ripped off in Pakistan and not in India. Everywhere we go the prices are English and we have to argue to get basic facilities and services; not what I expected at all. We could understand the beating over the theft, in some ways a short shop shock is better than court and prison and it is their custom, but the ones in the kitchen are not the best way to encourage tourism.
The journey today is long again, it really does make a mockery of the information we were given before setting off that there would only be a few long journeys. However, the scenery is quite different from the one to the reserve. The line of shops, stalls, shacks and poverty are replaced with farmsteads, many thatched, with yards full of oxen, belly flop flat on the ground from the heat of the day and flapping their long ears to cool themselves and in the process disturbing the dust, the insects and the birds. Alongside are the cows, goats, dogs and people all quietly sharing the spaces between little igloo shaped thatched stacks of straw and pats of dung neatly reshaped and laid out in handmade patterns which add a pleasant artistry to this every day scene of poverty.
Dung seems to play a very important role everywhere. Yesterday from our balcony we observed the workings of the two little farmstead nestled by a dried up river bed. While the farmer of the larger of the two ploughed one of his strips using a wooden plough pulled by two big white oxen the women occupied themselves with the dung. I have noticed how people here spend an enormous amount of time and effort sweeping the soil/ floors around their shacks and tents with twigs tied together. I assumed they just needed a flat surface to sit on or work from but the women on the two farms seemed to be working to a larger agenda, at least, it looked as though it did but who knows what individuals do after generations of poverty stricken boredom. Firstly one woman from each farm carefully and painstakingly, in backbreaking fashion swept all of one field. While they were doing this others carefully placed piles of fresh dung strategically spaced out on the fields in question. Once this was complete a woman poured water from a bucket in small patches to wet the ground and then slapped a helping of dung and started to spread a thin layer of wet mixture across the field. This process took them hours and one of the women actually smiled at Anne as she watched her through the binoculars as she mixed the dung and water with her bare hands before spreading it with a large flat kind of palette knife. This process was long, arduous and precise and therefore had an important purpose but what I don't know. I think the fields were rice fields because they were divided into about 15 foot strips segregated by raised furrows or mounds so if flooded they would hold the water. The process may be a way of creating a hard baked surface that protects and nourishes the soil and then makes it easier to plant the rice crop when the time comes. But probably not.
These little medieval farmsteads kept giving way to yet another bygone scene this time from early pre-industrial England: steam powered threshing machines. The black smoke puffing little wonders seemed to be fulfilling an important role threshing sugarcane to pulp.
I said the day was going to be long but I was exaggerating what meant was very, very long. Set out at 8.00am and arrived a 8.00pm just twelve hours to cover 400 kilometres. In order to miss going back through Delhi we took a grade 2 road and paid the full price covering the distance at an average speed of 25 mile an hour. I had to stop writing because of the bouncing and jerking about the bus was doing.
The hotel Tara Palace ships its guests out to a restaurant up the road because its owner owns both. This didn't make sense to me either. The hotel had a large dining room and prepared and serverd snacks later on. It was without doubt the most expensive and the worse meal we've had so far. Because it was so late I decided to have something lightish and settled for Tikka Afghan and Anne had a vegetarian specialty containing seven farm freshly vegetables. Mine was cold and consisted of 6 chicken pieces surrounded by slices of tomato and cucumber and came without the chutney sauce. Anne's, Zoe's and Caroline's on the other hand were disgusting. Anne's looked like a cow pat and tasted how I imagine one would taste and was uneatable. The date paratha was dateless and after trying and failing to convince Anne and Katy they had ordered the bread below on the menu he admitted they had no dates. We actually thought that the uneatable dishes consisted of a strange vegetable that should taste like that but when we asked the waiter to taste it his face told us we were wrong. Even after taking Anne's meal off the bill it still came to 800 rupees which is not much in English terms but in India its a months wage. I'm afraid to say this country is leaving a bad taste in the mouth.
Day 37: Corbett Tiger Reserve
Monday 29th October
The happenings of the early hours came to light, to the rest of us who had slept through it, over breakfast at 5.00am before our first safari in the reserve to find Tigers. The six hour ride (6.00am to 10.00am and 2.00pm to 5.00) through the park on the back of a jeep was awesome. We knew there was little, if no, chance of seeing anything burning bright but all of us felt it was worth paying the £34 per session to say we had done it.
I can't really do justice to this beautiful habitat of one of the world's most endangered animals. The forest consists of Teak and Banyan trees, Latana bushes which although a mass of beautiful little orange flowers are a weed and causing problems and of course the wildlife. Within a few hundred yards of the entrance we sat looking at and being looked at by Black Face and Macaque monkeys who showed no fear whatsoever of our presence. Spotted and Nanchak deer's grazed nonchalantly as cameras clicked and the guide explained what they were. However, the real gems of the reserve are the birds.
Before we came I looked the park up in The Lonely Planet and discovered that there are more types of birds here than in all of Europe. Unfortunately neither Anne nor myself can remember all the types we saw even though our guide identified them all in his Bird's of The Indian Sub Continent book. It is a bind having to change from sun glasses to reading ones and back again everytime he pointed out another. I should have written them down each time but I'm sick of writing while bouncing about. I do remember the Crested and White Breasted Kingfishers and a yellow billed one, Crested Hawk, Tree Pikes that made a din like Monkeys, a pair of magnificant and very rare Great Horn Bills, Bul Buls, Rose Ringed and Green Parakeets, a large Vulture which I think was also a crested but not sure, a Wagtail slightly bigger than ours in England and with a longer tail. Although the nearest we came to a Tiger was a couple of footprints it was well worth the cost.
On returning to the camp it seems another police beating had taken place and witnessed by Das who'd stayed behind with what we think is a bus virus and spreading. He's the third after Ben and Jim. This time the incident took place in a little separate room in between the bungalows.
Also waiting on our return was Zoe, Andy and Mike with buckets of bottle beer they'd bought in town. The manager come owner did not look well pleased after the money he'd made from drinks the night before. Even the price from an off licence was extortionate at 100 rupees. After few arguments about hot water, non-working air conditioning and a rather big ugly spider under Katie's sink, another meal of chicken, veg and lentils we settled down to get drunk. Went to bed at 11.00pm and immediately fell asleep after such a long and lovely day but with no thanks from the money grabbing owners of the camp.
The place is run like Faulty Towers
Day 36: Delhi - Corbett Tiger Reserve
Sunday 28th October
Found out last night that those who were most unhappy about not going to Laos, Tibet and China had booked themselves on a tour taking them through these countries and left this morning. Mas and Mac were returning to the bus in Bangkok but Dave was heading on to Vietnam to meet up with Natalie and then going back to Ausie to sort out her divorce which was getting complicated. Beside them Scooby, Barry, Ben and Doc (Fergal) were leaving to spend a few days in Goa. Sue, Noreen and Mary were heading off to Rajpur and Ted and Gordon were staying in Delhi. So we set out at 7.00am with our depleted numbers for what was expected to be a long journey. However, the journey was fine with enough room on the bus for everyone to have a double seat. We made what we thought was a strange decision to stop in a village to have lunch at an outside café. Samosas washed down with bottles of coke surrounded by all the male village population who could walk. Managed to start a conversation with a group of young lads who got closer and closer until Anne and myself were the only ones left totally surrounded by 30 to 40 villagers. All the others had returned to the security of the bus. The young lads told me through their interpreter that they didn't have time to play football, hadn't heard of David Beckham (thank goodness), didn't go to school and strangely were curious about and liked our names Anne and Peter.
The countryside from Delhi was flat to the horizon and squalid by the road with miles of shanty huts and tents interspersed with shops and stalls selling life's necessities i.e. Car parts etc again. As we got closer to the reserve the scenery changed with lovely rolling hills in the distance and squalor by the road.
We arrived at the Corbett Camp with plenty of light some three and half hours before dinner at seven. We would have been even earlier if we could have found the place and spent forty five minutes stood by the road phoning and waiting for someone from the camp to meet us. However, for a change no rushing to wash and dress before eating. We were sitting in the middle of a camp with flatlets at the bottom of the site, bungalows, with tents inside of them, on the outskirts and a round, thatched roofed bar come diner at the top of the site and all set in a beautiful garden area. Trees, hedges, shrubs, flowers, birds and butterflies everywhere. It looked, smelt and felt like paradise. Normally I would stop there but not on this occasion.
Two hours later we were still sitting surrounded by our bags waiting to be allocated our rooms. The rooms were not ready and although no one else was booked in double rooms were converted to hold four on floor mattresses. Firstly we were shown to a very pleasant, if not a little, minimalist but clean room with air condition and roof a fan. But before I could put my bags down the manager came and we were moved to one of tents inside a concrete bungalow. It was damp and wreaked of deet, the sink was smashed which didn't really matter because there was no running water from either the hot or cold taps and this was costing an extra £30 a night on top of what Ozbus had paid. I was not well pleased and Anne using her diplomacy managed to upgrade to a second story flatlet with balcony looking out on the most beautiful Indian farm scene for further 40 a night. The scene won me over instantly but I was now paying an extra 10 a night for the same type of room we were originally allocated before the manager stepped in. Our room down stairs had now become a four bedded room with the use of floor mattresses. Our room was beginning to lose its attraction, no hot and a trickle of cold water, no toilet paper and no electricity to the air condition unit but it did have the view to die for.
Things got worse at the bar, a bottle of Kingfisher beer cost 150 rupees or nearly 2 while Cocola was only 30. Things were beginning to improve as we sat by a roaring fire in its purpose built pit in the middle of the garden. The food when it came was ok consisting of a selection of curries: chicken, veg and a drinkable lentil one along with rice and naans. After dinner we were presented to Lauren's new game called 'ok whose got my wallet'. Then it developed into 'I know someone has it and is playing a game with me'. This was then followed by 'This is no longer funny guys' Instead of letting our food settle everyone, except me and the lads being accused, were scouring the garden area with torches looking for any sign of Lauren's 30 and credit cards. In an attempt to bring things to a head and flush the prankster out I suggested calling the police. By the time they came in the early hours of the morning we had been in bed for hours. This was the earliest night (10.00pm) Anne and myself have had since getting married. Lauren it seems was awoken by the police who had caught the culprit a young Indian lad who we think worked at the camp. After returning the wallet the police preceded to carry out justice by beating the hand bound, naked lad with the long cane and showing no concern for the lad's screams and crying and the astonishment and disgust of those listening.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)