Friday 26th October
Another early start after our rest day and time to say goodbye to Pakistan. Although the journey to the border took less than an hour the early start was needed to offset the time wasted going through customs. It took over an hour to officially leave Pakistan; all our bags had to be carried through even though no one attempted to check them. Once we were clear it was time to say goodbye to Bilal who was incredibly popular amongst the kids on the bus unlike Vali who seemed to annoy them. After thanking him for his insight into Pakistan history, politics and culture we exchanged hats, his Afghan for my winter woolly hat. It was very good of him to let me have his hat because he new I wanted to buy one and was unable because of the crowd in the bazaar in Quetta. This was the only place I saw them for sale whilst in Pakistan. Bilal informed me they are hand made by villagers on the border with Afghan. The wool comes from local sheep, is hand woven and then hand made. I'm really pleased with it.
After being thoroughly checked by the Pakistani customs it was then the turn of the Indian authorities just down the road. It was not very long before we were unloading all the bags again. There was a marked difference between the two borders: gone was the strong army presence, replaced by officious beauracrats who showed no compassion for the traveller and incredible incompetence once again. We were herded into groups, filled in a single form which did not have enough space for the answers and did not include questions that needed to be filled in. After Leighton had explained what spaces and margins to use on the form and which new questions to write in, a wasted journey with our bags to a conveyor belt which was stationary and a quick grope round the outside of my bags by uniformed man we were in India. It only took three hours to get through and at times was as ridiculous as the antics the two countries get up to every night when closing the border. We were informed it could have been a lot worse. The appalling time wasting, beaurocratic incompetence and nasty and belligerent attitude towards travellers has been a constant since setting out. It seems to me travellers are the new gypsies.
Fifty miles down the road in Amritsar and things looked no different. The countryside looked the same, it was just as hot (35 degrees), there was just as much litter everywhere, the people looked the same and we were still looking to exchange for rupees. At the border the Bank of India exchanged dollars and Pakistani Rupees but not my pounds sterling. Is this what three hundred years of British rule means to them. Perhaps it's repayment for giving them such a good system of administration.
My first impression of Amritsar was why would four million poor souls stay in this sea of squalor, dusty unsurfaced roads, open stinking drains and the most appalling congestion and pollution imaginable. It took two hours to find the hotel, roads were closed, traffic at a stand still, few we asked spoke no English and the rare one who did did not know of our night's abode and an enormous flyover in the construction stage which ran for miles and miles down what seemed to be the only main road and reduced everything in this human hell to shear, heartbreaking chaos. Very early into our time in India I had noticed stone sign posts painted yellow at the top giving distances to towns exactly like the ones in England during my childhood. Signs are not something Amritsars has many of and the ones evident are not to be believed: it seems it is common practice to turn the signs round if they get in the way of wide loads and leave it to someone else to turn them back.
The hotel was ok bang slap dab in the middle of all this mess. It is amazing how hotels with all mod cons sit in the middle of such deprivation. Although our room was below ground with windows the air condition had a vicious efficiency lacking at border crossings and which made the room fridge obsolete: beer cooled to ice just happily lounging on the bed.
After a quick cooling down in the room we set out into the seething mass of life swirling around the hotel to find the Golden Temple. We were told it was literally a few minutes from our accommodation and all we had to do was join the flow outside as it made its way right up to the gates. It reminded me from the distance like Wembley Way on Cup Final Day: white wall ahead with domes and a mass of supporters (Sikhs) making there way in expectation of things to come to an army of din made by motorbikes, scooters and the indomitable rickshaws all sounding what ever device they have for moving those on foot.
Once at the gate we removed our shoes and attempted to enter, me supporting my new teams hat (Afghan Albion) to know prevail. A man in an orange turban carrying a rather sharp spear sent me to a plastic barrel containing orange head scarves whilst instructing me with the help of his weapon to get rid of my hat. I was just feeling quite pleased that my new head piece folded so neatly and slipped inside my short's pocket when another character out of the old Tango adverts, also carrying a spear, tried to pull my hat back outside my pocket but for what reasons I was unable to understand. Anyway I held my ground and my hat and at last made it inside.
Everytime I am fortunate enough to see one of the great man made wonders of the ancient world the same thoughts fill my head. In short how can they make this master piece presumably using the labour of the ancestors of those filling the streets outside and in the process solving all the problems associated with such enormous tasks and not be able to solve the social and economic problems lining every street and corner in this town. At least they should have provided examples of fine town houses for those living here but no, wherever the eye looks there's only shacks, make shift tents and awnings, filth and squalor. Rickshaw men lay asleep in their vehicles by the wayside exhausted by the days struggle.
As we enter through one of the outer gates the actual temple sits in the middle of the water reflecting all its glory to men, women and children all around genuflecting either by touching the ground, kneeling and bowing or just sunk in prayer. Further round men strip down to a white loin cloth and standing knee deep in the water pour buckets of water firstly over one should and then the other to cleanse themselves.
On first inspection of the temple, what seemed gold leaf is in actual fact gold plating: the walls and the domes are encased in a metal overcoat of gold. The interior is no less grand with ornate gold railings, plaster and carpets surrounding a holy figure sitting in the centre facing musicians playing traditional instruments. As the crowds neeled down in prayer to him a man in front of him used a scraper type instrument to push the money being throne on to the central floor into a container. It was difficult to see and get a feel of the place for the mass of bodies slowly moving along and carrying us back outside. Upstairs another figure sat reading presumably from the sacred book and again he was surrounded by comfort. Above him on the roof a series of gold plated domes. Everywhere the people carried little food containers made out of palm leaves and at the exit of the temple large cooking pots provided them with a kind of gruel combination of meat, fat and wheat. It didn't look very appetizing to me and I refrained from trying.
The whole temple complex is covered in polished marble and kept incredibly clean. Anne asked me to sit and have my photo taken with the temple glistening in the quickly setting sun when another spear carrying sentinel approached me and told me off for doing something wrong. I can only assume he was a photo lover. The whole place was an haven for birds with minarets or towers being occupied by what looked like parrots. Once outside again, I was struck by the peace and tranquility of the inner area. Why can't they treat their own environment with the same reverence applied inside?
Our next port of call was a gardened area where in 1919 over two thousand Sikhs, Muslims and Hindus were massacred by the British government for demonstrating for independence. As we walked round the fountains, monuments, bullet holed walls and the sacred well where one hundred and fifty died at least three people asked me where I was from and didn't seem to mind when told them England. Only much later in Delhi an Irish lad from Ozbus 1 told me if he was English wouldn't admit it round here.
Made our way back to the hotel for a supposed forum meeting. We were told we're not going into Tibet, China and Laos due to extreme weather conditions but re-entering India and heading for Calcutta and a flight to Bangkok. Quite a few are not happy about this and feel there was never any intention of going that way. The bus has been going back to England from Calcutta from early days in Europe even though Mark told me just before we left it was going on a boat to Darwin. However, as compensation the group are being given a free flight round Mt Everest which is of course great for someone like me who's on the bus because he can't stand flying. Needless to say I shall be watching from Katmundo, extreme weather permitting.
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