I survived the Himalayas. The two Finns (Otto and Matti, not Neil and Tim), a human-packhorse of a porter named Santi, our guide Monos and myself completed the Helembu Trail in seven days. I kept a journal while up there, having just looked at it I realised it's long and not particularly insightful (the thin air at 4600meters doesn't make for deep thinking) so I think the whole story is one for another time. In short though the Himalayas are an absolutely magical place. The stillness and quietness, clear sky, cold weather, thin air - all the absolute opposite of the last few weeks in India (noise, pollution, heat and smog).
I was trying to sum up the experience at our last stop, a hostel in the town of Dounche when someone turned the TV to Al Jazerra. The random noise of the the Hindi/Nepali channels was replaced with fragments of English which my distracted and exhausted mind gradually assembled into a story. At least 100 killed in Mumbai, terrorist attacks targeting westerners, hotels on fire...As a westerner who could well have been in Mumbai (although not at the expensive hotels targeted) what I was writing seemed less significant. I gave up on my writing and drinking roxi to tune into the story. We flicked between Hindi and English channels for a few hours before turning in early, the triumphant atmosphere very much subdued.
I'm back in Kathmandu now, and will be flying into Delhi tomorrow. I'm avoiding the 48 hour overland commute partly because of the security situation in India and partly because the 9 hour drive from Dounche to Kathmandu (the worst road I've ever been on, bar none) badly jarred my neck and the idea of rattling down the mountains and across the desert to India for two days really doesn't appeal.
I've got two days left once I get back to Delhi so may make my way out to a Hari Krishner community a friend of the family has links to. One or two night out there and that will be about it for this particular adventure. I've very much enjoyed everything but western civilisation, my girlfriend and a family Christmas are foremost in my mind now.
Greg
Katmandu, Nepal
29 November 2008.
Friday, 28 November 2008
Thursday, 20 November 2008
I hate busses
After my last post I went straight to Varanasie train station to start my journey to Kathmandu. It was 10pm on a Sunday night, I arrived in Kathmandu at 4am on Tuesday.
I was advised my my guesthouse owner to go to the station at 10 for my 12:30 train because the tuk-tuks are hard to find after ten and triple or quadruple their rates, I took his advise and got a rickshaw to the station two hours before my train was due to leave. At the station I saw two guys who had been on my train into Varanasie (you tend to notice other white people in that environment) so I got chatting to them. Otto and Matti are Finnish guys who are travelling for four months across India, Nepal and Thailand. We compared tickets and found we were in the same booth on the same train so formed a kind of defensive perimeter it the surreal environment on an Indian train station at midnight. After about two hours sitting on the concrete we heard the first announcement for our train, saying it would arrive at platform one. We lugged our bags out onto the platform expecting it's imminent arrival, and waited....after a while we sat on the platform edge, trying to ignore the rats we waited some more. Eventually the announcements started trickling in again, the train would be a half hour late, then an hour. We moved back inside and waited more, a very unhelpful American girl told us the train was going to be four hours late but when I pointed out the chart she was looking at had a different train number she told said
'doesnt matter, its the same train'.
'No, it's another number and its got a different name because its a different train going to a different place'
'Oh'
Eventually our train got in about two and half hours late, one hour after the announcement saying it was arriving now. We reached our destination of Gorakpor (closest the railway goes to the border) nearly five hours late (after a two hour stop in the middle of nowhere which was never explained) but we didn't care so much because we were in sleeper carriages and were perfectly comfortable snoozing in our bunks.
Otto, Matti and I emerged into Groakpor and after the usual hassle of touts and ticketsellers bought seats on a bus to the border for fifty-five rupees. The two and a half hour trip took four hours, the bus had twice as many people as seats and the two tallest people, myself and six-foot-five French guy, were made to sit next to eachother. As the bus arrived in Saluni the rickshaws raced along side the moving bus trying to secure our business to take us from the bus station to the border. Telling us alternately that is was 'many kilometer away' and 'one and half kilometer' we decided to walk, it was about 200 meters and we were out of India and in no-mans-land.
An hour of filling in forms, changing money, and securing visas later we walked into Nepal. Much to my disappointment it looked the same as India at first. Then I noticed a few little differences, the people looked a little different - more like Thais than Indians. There was less noise, the shops and restaurants were back from the road rather than built right up...little things. We had planned to be in this town in the early morning to get a tourist-bus up to Kathmandu in the daylight but by now it was about 2.30pm. Knowing we had a 12 hour drive infront of us I insisted on looking at the bus we were to take and checking the seats folded back before we bought tickets. I didnt want to spend the night on windy mountain road in a cramped, crowded minibus. The seats seemed okay, and we were promised we would actually get one each (you've gotta ask here) so we parted with a few hundred rupees and went to get some lunch/dinner before the departure, confident of an comfortable ride to Kathmandu. We were so wrong.
As soon as we boarded the bus we knew something was amiss, there was a driver and a guy who seemed to be a conductor of sorts. As far as I could tell his job was to tell people where to sit and yell at everyone...constantly. He yelled at people to get them to sit where he decided, he yelled at the driver, he yelled at people at the bus stops - and it stopped without explanation every ten minutes or so for the first two hours - he yelled when it was time for the bus to go again. Picture the demeanor of a hard-faced army Seargent who's been stripped of his responsibility and given some humiliating, petty task, that was the yelling man.
Our bus lurched away from the border and very slowly got out of the towns. It may have had folding seats (I was very proud I checked them before hand) but they had very worn padding and the bus had no suspension at all. My butt ached after twenty minutes, and I knew the arse-crunching, bone-jarring ride of the angry-mans bus would last another twelve hours. Again I was wrong.
Nepal has some problems which I dont fully understand with a Moaist insurgency. There's been an on-and-off civil war for ages. Its mostly off at the moment but one of the consequences (I dont know how they connect or who's on what side) is these rolling strikes they have across the country. Without warning shops and offices are ordered to shut and roads are blocked. I learnt this while our bus, along with every other veichle on the road that night, sat in a non-descript village in the middle of nowhere while an angry mob, who I could hear but not see, cordoned off the road infront of us.
The thing about these strikes is that they are completely unpredictable, they can happen anywhere at any time and last for an hour or a couple of days. Everyone got off the bus and milled around, smoking, being yelled at and buying from the roadside vendors who appeared with popcorn, fruit and paan (like chewing tabacco, but made with lime past and beetle nut, it's a national obsession back in India where the tin-foil wrappers clog every street). No one had any idea how long we'd be there. I'd heard a story from a middle-aged British woman in Varanasi that she'd been caught in one that lasted for twelve hours. There was nothing that we could do, the lights on the bus went out so I couldnt read. We just waited.
One of the Finns produced a bottle of Vodka so we took a couple of swigs each. People chain-smoked, argued...stood around. Some tried to sleep, I couldn't. With absolutely nothing to do and no idea how long we'd be there I retired to my seat and stared into space. It was dark by now and where there was light it was headlamps of idling trucks or moving motorbikes piercing the dusty air or orange glow from candles by the roadside - no electricity in evidence anywhere, my bored mind noticed. I got off the bus several times, walked around the road, looked at the stalls and got back on, waited for a while then repeated. Time seemed to stand still and everytime I saw movement I quietly hoped it was the end of the blockade, the only benefit from the disruption was to a couple of happy cows who emerged from the paddocks and grazed on the cargo of an overloaded straw-carrying truck. They were the most interesting thing to watch, so I watch cows gorge themselves for a half hour and wondered what thier bovine brains were thinking ('Jackpot! Woo Whooo!' was about the best I could come up with).
After about three hours the angry-mob chanting stopped and shortly after an inaudible message seemed to go to everyone that it was time to move again. Without being told everyone walked back to thier cars, tractors, busses and trucks. Angry-man felt the need to reinforce this knowledge with a good bit of yelling anyway. The cows got scared off by the straw-truck starting up and our massive convoy started to move. I napped intermittently for a while, waking up cold and realising that the Finn's bags were tied to the roof we split up what warm clothing I had between the three of us. The constant rattling of the bus shook the windows open, there was no heating and we were, after all, in the foothills of the Himalayas.
After a couple of roadside stops (cafes cooking dahl on clay, wood fired ovens - unspeakable toilets, even by developing world standards) a four hour drunken argument between a family sat next to us, more unnecessary angry-man yelling and countless ass-jarring potholes we arrived in Katmandu 34 hours after we left Varanasi. Someone from our hotel met us at the bus station and we crashed out.
Katmandu is much the same as any city in India, there is the poverty, hard-to-find hot water and intermittent power supply but everything is on a smaller scale, less noise, less hassle. I felt such a sense of relief walking the streets here, there are still beggers and trinket sellers and unnecessary use of vehicle horns but its so much more bearable. The air is more breathable and the city on the whole its more traveller-friendly. There have been some interesting moments since we arrived here but I think all thats for a later entry.
After arriving here I've decided to go on a trek in the Himalayas - When else would I have this chance? Me, Otto and Matti have hired a porter and guide (guide is required by the government, porter because none of us have been to altitude before and we may need help at some point) and will be walking the Helembu Track. We'll be staying in little villages along the way, not camping or anything hardcore like that. With good weather we'll have views of some 8000+ metre peaks (including Everest) but wont be going too high ourselves. It's a relatively easy trail but should be challenging enough. The whole thing, including guide, porter, food, some equipment hire, accommodation in guesthouses along the way and transport to and from starting point is costing less than $US220 each so it'll be healthy, cheap way to spend 8 days.
All of a sudden the end of this trip is within sight, after getting back to Kathmandu I've only got a few days before I fly out of Delhi - it's been a bit of a shock to realise that.
Greg
Kathmandu, Nepal
21 Nov 2008
I was advised my my guesthouse owner to go to the station at 10 for my 12:30 train because the tuk-tuks are hard to find after ten and triple or quadruple their rates, I took his advise and got a rickshaw to the station two hours before my train was due to leave. At the station I saw two guys who had been on my train into Varanasie (you tend to notice other white people in that environment) so I got chatting to them. Otto and Matti are Finnish guys who are travelling for four months across India, Nepal and Thailand. We compared tickets and found we were in the same booth on the same train so formed a kind of defensive perimeter it the surreal environment on an Indian train station at midnight. After about two hours sitting on the concrete we heard the first announcement for our train, saying it would arrive at platform one. We lugged our bags out onto the platform expecting it's imminent arrival, and waited....after a while we sat on the platform edge, trying to ignore the rats we waited some more. Eventually the announcements started trickling in again, the train would be a half hour late, then an hour. We moved back inside and waited more, a very unhelpful American girl told us the train was going to be four hours late but when I pointed out the chart she was looking at had a different train number she told said
'doesnt matter, its the same train'.
'No, it's another number and its got a different name because its a different train going to a different place'
'Oh'
Eventually our train got in about two and half hours late, one hour after the announcement saying it was arriving now. We reached our destination of Gorakpor (closest the railway goes to the border) nearly five hours late (after a two hour stop in the middle of nowhere which was never explained) but we didn't care so much because we were in sleeper carriages and were perfectly comfortable snoozing in our bunks.
Otto, Matti and I emerged into Groakpor and after the usual hassle of touts and ticketsellers bought seats on a bus to the border for fifty-five rupees. The two and a half hour trip took four hours, the bus had twice as many people as seats and the two tallest people, myself and six-foot-five French guy, were made to sit next to eachother. As the bus arrived in Saluni the rickshaws raced along side the moving bus trying to secure our business to take us from the bus station to the border. Telling us alternately that is was 'many kilometer away' and 'one and half kilometer' we decided to walk, it was about 200 meters and we were out of India and in no-mans-land.
An hour of filling in forms, changing money, and securing visas later we walked into Nepal. Much to my disappointment it looked the same as India at first. Then I noticed a few little differences, the people looked a little different - more like Thais than Indians. There was less noise, the shops and restaurants were back from the road rather than built right up...little things. We had planned to be in this town in the early morning to get a tourist-bus up to Kathmandu in the daylight but by now it was about 2.30pm. Knowing we had a 12 hour drive infront of us I insisted on looking at the bus we were to take and checking the seats folded back before we bought tickets. I didnt want to spend the night on windy mountain road in a cramped, crowded minibus. The seats seemed okay, and we were promised we would actually get one each (you've gotta ask here) so we parted with a few hundred rupees and went to get some lunch/dinner before the departure, confident of an comfortable ride to Kathmandu. We were so wrong.
As soon as we boarded the bus we knew something was amiss, there was a driver and a guy who seemed to be a conductor of sorts. As far as I could tell his job was to tell people where to sit and yell at everyone...constantly. He yelled at people to get them to sit where he decided, he yelled at the driver, he yelled at people at the bus stops - and it stopped without explanation every ten minutes or so for the first two hours - he yelled when it was time for the bus to go again. Picture the demeanor of a hard-faced army Seargent who's been stripped of his responsibility and given some humiliating, petty task, that was the yelling man.
Our bus lurched away from the border and very slowly got out of the towns. It may have had folding seats (I was very proud I checked them before hand) but they had very worn padding and the bus had no suspension at all. My butt ached after twenty minutes, and I knew the arse-crunching, bone-jarring ride of the angry-mans bus would last another twelve hours. Again I was wrong.
Nepal has some problems which I dont fully understand with a Moaist insurgency. There's been an on-and-off civil war for ages. Its mostly off at the moment but one of the consequences (I dont know how they connect or who's on what side) is these rolling strikes they have across the country. Without warning shops and offices are ordered to shut and roads are blocked. I learnt this while our bus, along with every other veichle on the road that night, sat in a non-descript village in the middle of nowhere while an angry mob, who I could hear but not see, cordoned off the road infront of us.
The thing about these strikes is that they are completely unpredictable, they can happen anywhere at any time and last for an hour or a couple of days. Everyone got off the bus and milled around, smoking, being yelled at and buying from the roadside vendors who appeared with popcorn, fruit and paan (like chewing tabacco, but made with lime past and beetle nut, it's a national obsession back in India where the tin-foil wrappers clog every street). No one had any idea how long we'd be there. I'd heard a story from a middle-aged British woman in Varanasi that she'd been caught in one that lasted for twelve hours. There was nothing that we could do, the lights on the bus went out so I couldnt read. We just waited.
One of the Finns produced a bottle of Vodka so we took a couple of swigs each. People chain-smoked, argued...stood around. Some tried to sleep, I couldn't. With absolutely nothing to do and no idea how long we'd be there I retired to my seat and stared into space. It was dark by now and where there was light it was headlamps of idling trucks or moving motorbikes piercing the dusty air or orange glow from candles by the roadside - no electricity in evidence anywhere, my bored mind noticed. I got off the bus several times, walked around the road, looked at the stalls and got back on, waited for a while then repeated. Time seemed to stand still and everytime I saw movement I quietly hoped it was the end of the blockade, the only benefit from the disruption was to a couple of happy cows who emerged from the paddocks and grazed on the cargo of an overloaded straw-carrying truck. They were the most interesting thing to watch, so I watch cows gorge themselves for a half hour and wondered what thier bovine brains were thinking ('Jackpot! Woo Whooo!' was about the best I could come up with).
After about three hours the angry-mob chanting stopped and shortly after an inaudible message seemed to go to everyone that it was time to move again. Without being told everyone walked back to thier cars, tractors, busses and trucks. Angry-man felt the need to reinforce this knowledge with a good bit of yelling anyway. The cows got scared off by the straw-truck starting up and our massive convoy started to move. I napped intermittently for a while, waking up cold and realising that the Finn's bags were tied to the roof we split up what warm clothing I had between the three of us. The constant rattling of the bus shook the windows open, there was no heating and we were, after all, in the foothills of the Himalayas.
After a couple of roadside stops (cafes cooking dahl on clay, wood fired ovens - unspeakable toilets, even by developing world standards) a four hour drunken argument between a family sat next to us, more unnecessary angry-man yelling and countless ass-jarring potholes we arrived in Katmandu 34 hours after we left Varanasi. Someone from our hotel met us at the bus station and we crashed out.
Katmandu is much the same as any city in India, there is the poverty, hard-to-find hot water and intermittent power supply but everything is on a smaller scale, less noise, less hassle. I felt such a sense of relief walking the streets here, there are still beggers and trinket sellers and unnecessary use of vehicle horns but its so much more bearable. The air is more breathable and the city on the whole its more traveller-friendly. There have been some interesting moments since we arrived here but I think all thats for a later entry.
After arriving here I've decided to go on a trek in the Himalayas - When else would I have this chance? Me, Otto and Matti have hired a porter and guide (guide is required by the government, porter because none of us have been to altitude before and we may need help at some point) and will be walking the Helembu Track. We'll be staying in little villages along the way, not camping or anything hardcore like that. With good weather we'll have views of some 8000+ metre peaks (including Everest) but wont be going too high ourselves. It's a relatively easy trail but should be challenging enough. The whole thing, including guide, porter, food, some equipment hire, accommodation in guesthouses along the way and transport to and from starting point is costing less than $US220 each so it'll be healthy, cheap way to spend 8 days.
All of a sudden the end of this trip is within sight, after getting back to Kathmandu I've only got a few days before I fly out of Delhi - it's been a bit of a shock to realise that.
Greg
Kathmandu, Nepal
21 Nov 2008
Monday, 17 November 2008
Life and death on the Ganges.
I thought I'd seen some weird stuff in India, but the last few days have been surreal. On the evening of the 14th I left Agra (without having been to the Taj, refer previous post) and arrived the next morning in Varanasie. This ancient city (the locals claim it to be the oldest living city on earth) is famous for a few different things. Among travelers it's notorious has having the worst touts in all of India. For those who haven't enjoyed/endured the backpacking experience, touts are the guys who appear out of nowhere whenever a tourist is sighted. They'll try to sell you stuff you don’t want at outrageous markups, drag you into their tuk-tuks for a ride at ten times the going rate, they’ll call themselves your guide, your friend. They know someone from where you're from (even made-up places are inhabited by their uncles) and always know that the hostel you've booked into is 'infested', 'burnt down' or full, fortunately they have another uncle who doesn’t live in an imaginary place who will put you up at a good rate because you are his 'friend'. Of course it's all bullshit, the touts are on all sorts of commissions and kickbacks, if your hostel happens to be 'full of gangsters' they deliver you somewhere else in return for a hefty kick-back from the hotel owner. You pay more for your room so the owner covers the cost of his bribe to the driver. This hidden economy of hassle is in place everywhere in Varanasie, and sometimes people can be quite aggressive trying to get you into their shop or rickshaw. If you give as good as you get and don’t take any bullshit (plenty of that on the pavement here) it's easy to avoid (unlike the pavement stuff). None the less it's a constant annoyance.
Despite all that the reason people come here is the river, and all that is associated with it. The entire riverbank as far as the city stretches is lined with 'ghats'- a sort of temple with steps down into the sacred river. Collectively, these ghats are a microcosm of life and death in India. On one will be women washing their bright saris in the putrid water, men bathe at the one next door, either dunking themselves to wash away sin or soaping up and rinsing away the grime of the city. I took a boat ride on the river at dawn and that gave me some understanding of why the locals consider it sacred, the mist and smoke, lights, alternate chanting and silence as we passed the ghats was a amazing sensory experience. The most famous are the 'burning ghats'- there are two of these where Hindus are cremated in the open on wood funeral pyres as their relatives and tourists look on. It's morbidly fascinating to watch the process, the deceased are carried in by male relatives on bamboo stretchers and taken down to the river, where they are dunked in the brown water a couple of times, short prayers are said. While this is going on there is a bussling marketplace around the river dealing with the mechanics of reducing human flesh to ash. The relative who will light the fire has his head shaved in an outdoor barber shop. Wood sellers weigh up standardised measures of timber on giant scales. Other men carry these logs down to the bank and give them to the 'firemen' who build the funeral pyres. When the bodies are brought out of the river, wrapped in bright material and dripping wet the are placed on the pyres, sometimes the bright fabric is removed leaving a human shape wrapped in wet white cotton. More timber is stacked on top of them and the shaven head relative is given a bundle of straw, burning at one end. As far as I can tell his job is to circle the body anti-clockwise as many times as he can, setting fires at the base of the pyre. Pretty soon a fire is raging, the relatives retreat to a distance but linger in the area as the smoke rises. The firemen remain nearby, stoking the fire and occasionally poking stray bodyparts back into the heat with bamboo poles. More than once I saw these bamboo poles swung down onto the remains with great force to crack scorched ribcages and skulls. To the outsider it's a crude mechanical process, raw physics- smoke, heat and ash. From my vantage it doesn’t seem there is an awful lot of ceremony involved, maybe that goes on earlier, maybe alot of fuss isn't necessary in a faith that believes in rebirth.
Retreating from the ghats you enter pans labyrinth. The 'old city' is a veritable maze of tiny alleys with shops, market stalls, guesthouses, restaurants, shrines and of course, cows. Walking away from the burning ghats I had to step aside several times as convoys of chanting relatives carried their dearly departed down towards the river. In those first few streets more of the industrial side of the cremations is present. The first minute or two is spent negotiating a route through towering piles of neatly stacked firewood, there are small shops selling the colorful robes the bodies are wrapped in, floral garnets for sale and even a store which seemed to be the office of a photographer. His wares were on display, including photographs of middle-aged men washing the faces of their dead mothers in the Ganges.
The main attraction of this part, for foreigners and locals alike, is the golden temple. Not to be confused with another temple in Amritsar, also called the golden temple. This one is a Hindu shrine, which was built of stone and gold plated as an (expensive) afterthought by the ruler of Punjab. The security around this shrine was immense in numbers of guards and firepower, not so much in actual security.
After lining up, depositing my shoes, camera and phone in a locker, being frisked twice and walking through a metal detector (it beeped, no one cared) I joined a que of pilgrims filing through the temple. It was then I realised I was the only white person in sight. Everyone else was touching the floor on certain steps, dropping offerings at certain shrines and generally looking quite devout. I was looking puzzled. I followed the flow of people being pushed along by the army folk to keep the crowd moving. At one point I was pulled aside by a priestly looking type, taken to a shrine and asked to repeat a mantra in Hindi, not wanting to offend the faith I was intruding on I repeated. I have no idea what I said but the priestly looking man asked for the names of various family members which were duly incorporated into the illegible sounds. At the end of this I received a red spot on my head and a request for 500 rupees (or 1000 rupees, more blessing for your family!). My desire to be culturally sensitive had led me to another psudeoholyconman. I gave the bastard two coins total value of about four rupees and left. Sorry Mum, Dad, Mick and Georgie - could have bought you 250 time more luck, happiness and wealth but I was a bit cheap.
I filed through with the rest of the locals and generally tried to be inconspicuous (white guy in jeans and red t-shirt blending in among the saris) and filed out another guarded gate. It was then I realised my shoes were on the other side of the temple. I tried to find my way back but instantly became completely lost in the labrynth, barefoot among the cow shit and motorbikes. I wandered round, stepping carefully for about an hour until stopped within sight of my gate by an army checkpoint which refused to let me walk 10 meters to the main alley. I don’t know why but they all had big guns and spoke limited English. Who am I, armed with nothing more a faint odor of cowshit from my feet, to argue? A teenage boy who ran a shop saw the exchange and took pity on me and offered to lead me back. Expecting another 'I be your guide' type tout arrangement I accepted his help anyway, being barefoot and lost in Varanasie isn't present. He led me around to the gate I came out of 1 hour ago, talked our way around the armed, if nonchalant, guards (ten heavily armed men defeated by two sentences in Hindi and a barefoot Australian) and led me through the metal detectors (they beeped again, none cared again) back into the temple/fortress. After negotiating a few hidden passages we emerged at the back of one of the cave-like shrines people were dropping flowers at. I paused for a moment to appreciate being worshipped before emerging into the daylight and being led back to the main gate. My self appointed guide then refused a tip. Some of them really will be your friend...
Greg
Varanasie, Uttar Pradesh, India
17 November 2008
Despite all that the reason people come here is the river, and all that is associated with it. The entire riverbank as far as the city stretches is lined with 'ghats'- a sort of temple with steps down into the sacred river. Collectively, these ghats are a microcosm of life and death in India. On one will be women washing their bright saris in the putrid water, men bathe at the one next door, either dunking themselves to wash away sin or soaping up and rinsing away the grime of the city. I took a boat ride on the river at dawn and that gave me some understanding of why the locals consider it sacred, the mist and smoke, lights, alternate chanting and silence as we passed the ghats was a amazing sensory experience. The most famous are the 'burning ghats'- there are two of these where Hindus are cremated in the open on wood funeral pyres as their relatives and tourists look on. It's morbidly fascinating to watch the process, the deceased are carried in by male relatives on bamboo stretchers and taken down to the river, where they are dunked in the brown water a couple of times, short prayers are said. While this is going on there is a bussling marketplace around the river dealing with the mechanics of reducing human flesh to ash. The relative who will light the fire has his head shaved in an outdoor barber shop. Wood sellers weigh up standardised measures of timber on giant scales. Other men carry these logs down to the bank and give them to the 'firemen' who build the funeral pyres. When the bodies are brought out of the river, wrapped in bright material and dripping wet the are placed on the pyres, sometimes the bright fabric is removed leaving a human shape wrapped in wet white cotton. More timber is stacked on top of them and the shaven head relative is given a bundle of straw, burning at one end. As far as I can tell his job is to circle the body anti-clockwise as many times as he can, setting fires at the base of the pyre. Pretty soon a fire is raging, the relatives retreat to a distance but linger in the area as the smoke rises. The firemen remain nearby, stoking the fire and occasionally poking stray bodyparts back into the heat with bamboo poles. More than once I saw these bamboo poles swung down onto the remains with great force to crack scorched ribcages and skulls. To the outsider it's a crude mechanical process, raw physics- smoke, heat and ash. From my vantage it doesn’t seem there is an awful lot of ceremony involved, maybe that goes on earlier, maybe alot of fuss isn't necessary in a faith that believes in rebirth.
Retreating from the ghats you enter pans labyrinth. The 'old city' is a veritable maze of tiny alleys with shops, market stalls, guesthouses, restaurants, shrines and of course, cows. Walking away from the burning ghats I had to step aside several times as convoys of chanting relatives carried their dearly departed down towards the river. In those first few streets more of the industrial side of the cremations is present. The first minute or two is spent negotiating a route through towering piles of neatly stacked firewood, there are small shops selling the colorful robes the bodies are wrapped in, floral garnets for sale and even a store which seemed to be the office of a photographer. His wares were on display, including photographs of middle-aged men washing the faces of their dead mothers in the Ganges.
The main attraction of this part, for foreigners and locals alike, is the golden temple. Not to be confused with another temple in Amritsar, also called the golden temple. This one is a Hindu shrine, which was built of stone and gold plated as an (expensive) afterthought by the ruler of Punjab. The security around this shrine was immense in numbers of guards and firepower, not so much in actual security.
After lining up, depositing my shoes, camera and phone in a locker, being frisked twice and walking through a metal detector (it beeped, no one cared) I joined a que of pilgrims filing through the temple. It was then I realised I was the only white person in sight. Everyone else was touching the floor on certain steps, dropping offerings at certain shrines and generally looking quite devout. I was looking puzzled. I followed the flow of people being pushed along by the army folk to keep the crowd moving. At one point I was pulled aside by a priestly looking type, taken to a shrine and asked to repeat a mantra in Hindi, not wanting to offend the faith I was intruding on I repeated. I have no idea what I said but the priestly looking man asked for the names of various family members which were duly incorporated into the illegible sounds. At the end of this I received a red spot on my head and a request for 500 rupees (or 1000 rupees, more blessing for your family!). My desire to be culturally sensitive had led me to another psudeoholyconman. I gave the bastard two coins total value of about four rupees and left. Sorry Mum, Dad, Mick and Georgie - could have bought you 250 time more luck, happiness and wealth but I was a bit cheap.
I filed through with the rest of the locals and generally tried to be inconspicuous (white guy in jeans and red t-shirt blending in among the saris) and filed out another guarded gate. It was then I realised my shoes were on the other side of the temple. I tried to find my way back but instantly became completely lost in the labrynth, barefoot among the cow shit and motorbikes. I wandered round, stepping carefully for about an hour until stopped within sight of my gate by an army checkpoint which refused to let me walk 10 meters to the main alley. I don’t know why but they all had big guns and spoke limited English. Who am I, armed with nothing more a faint odor of cowshit from my feet, to argue? A teenage boy who ran a shop saw the exchange and took pity on me and offered to lead me back. Expecting another 'I be your guide' type tout arrangement I accepted his help anyway, being barefoot and lost in Varanasie isn't present. He led me around to the gate I came out of 1 hour ago, talked our way around the armed, if nonchalant, guards (ten heavily armed men defeated by two sentences in Hindi and a barefoot Australian) and led me through the metal detectors (they beeped again, none cared again) back into the temple/fortress. After negotiating a few hidden passages we emerged at the back of one of the cave-like shrines people were dropping flowers at. I paused for a moment to appreciate being worshipped before emerging into the daylight and being led back to the main gate. My self appointed guide then refused a tip. Some of them really will be your friend...
Greg
Varanasie, Uttar Pradesh, India
17 November 2008
Thursday, 13 November 2008
'Life is Cheap'
A fellow traveler told a story over dinner the other night, he had been crossing a road in Calcutta when an old man pulled him aside and said 'You be very careful, here life is cheap. Someone run you over and not care so much. It's different for you'. That though keeps bouncing back into my head whenever I'm traveling around. Trucks bumping along the highways with fifteen people clinging to the top, cyclists going against the traffic on dual carriageway, kids playing in the dust and shit by the side of a major highway - dodging the cars, trucks, camels and tuk tuks which in turn are swerving out to the side to dodge a cow. The whole attitude to human life seems to be different - no so precious here? People take risks everyday that any westerner would balk at. The most obvious example is in the traffic. Drivers in the smallest vehicles driving into a gap between two overloaded trucks, old men on cycle-rickshaws sharing the roads with overcrowded busses (typically with one guy hanging out the gap where the door would be, acting as a turn-signal). The road toll here is 100,000 annually, around 274 a day - more than the combined total of the Bali Bombings and the July 7 attack on London every single day. I did a quick google search and the first article I found on the Indian road toll seemed more concerned with the economic impact of loosing a hundred thousand workers every year.
Speaking of the traffic I just got a rickshaw from the Agra Fort to the markets near the gates of the Taj Mahal - the fifteen minute journey cost me 10rs - about 75p. The guy peddling was very happy to have the fare even though it meant dragging me and my bag around in the midday heat with the strength of his 60ish year old legs. People here are willing to work, and work bloody hard for the most meager remuneration. The old man who cycled me here offered to wait (no charge, 1 hour 2 hour no charge!) and then take me to my next destination. Women in particular seem to get the short end of the stick. As we drove into Agra the highway was under repair - women were carrying rocks from the fields to the road, squatting down on the highway (not a traffic cone in sight) and filling in potholes. Want a job involving grueling physical labour, high prospect of a sudden violent death and shitty conditions for less than 1 pound a day?
Back to the basics though, I got into Agra last night and opted to wait till dawn today to see the Taj Mahal, the morning light is apparently the most spectacular, dependent on smog. This morning I woke up to my alarm at 5 and met my driver (for the last time, he went home today) to take me to the Taj. About five minutes into the journey he says 'Oh no - Today is Friday?' I replied that I didn’t have a bloody clue what day it was (I love that about travel). He pulled over and asked a local in Hindi who seemed to confirm that yes, today is Friday. That part of the conversation I didn’t understand but the way the guy looked at me and chuckled let me know that something was amiss. Veer (driver) then said to me, and I quote as closely as I can remember 'I make big mistake, very much sorry. This day is Friday. Taj Mahal is not open on Friday. Very much sorry'.
Fuck.
We drove through some back streets in the pre-dawn smog and emerged on a bridge that looked like it was build as a rail crossing but has since been covered converted, in a sort of Indian way, to a road. After crossing the river and driving through a small slum (there is no other word for it, people were living in tents and children were shitting on the side of the road) he found the river bank again and I got a view of the back of the Taj as the sun rose. It was quite nice - would have preferred to time my Taj trip on any other day of the week but it was nice. A local kid appointed himself our guide and led us around the riverbank suggesting bad photos and taking a few pics for me - he was very impressed with my camera.
After the sun rose a small group of local men appeared on the beach. One had a spade and started digging a deep hole in the sand. I asked Veer what was going on, he asked the kid and the reply was 'small baby'. The men solemnly stood around while the hole was dug, then one of them carried a small, wrapped parcel down to the shore of the river and washed it in the filthy water. Another man followed and with the slightest conciliatory arm around the shoulder, gently wrapped the parcel in a clean blanket. The men rejoined the group around the hole - formed a circle and stayed there for about twenty minutes. When the circle broke and the men started towards the slum one stayed behind with the spade and filled in the waist deep hole in the sand.
Greg
Agra, Uttar Pradesh, India.
Speaking of the traffic I just got a rickshaw from the Agra Fort to the markets near the gates of the Taj Mahal - the fifteen minute journey cost me 10rs - about 75p. The guy peddling was very happy to have the fare even though it meant dragging me and my bag around in the midday heat with the strength of his 60ish year old legs. People here are willing to work, and work bloody hard for the most meager remuneration. The old man who cycled me here offered to wait (no charge, 1 hour 2 hour no charge!) and then take me to my next destination. Women in particular seem to get the short end of the stick. As we drove into Agra the highway was under repair - women were carrying rocks from the fields to the road, squatting down on the highway (not a traffic cone in sight) and filling in potholes. Want a job involving grueling physical labour, high prospect of a sudden violent death and shitty conditions for less than 1 pound a day?
Back to the basics though, I got into Agra last night and opted to wait till dawn today to see the Taj Mahal, the morning light is apparently the most spectacular, dependent on smog. This morning I woke up to my alarm at 5 and met my driver (for the last time, he went home today) to take me to the Taj. About five minutes into the journey he says 'Oh no - Today is Friday?' I replied that I didn’t have a bloody clue what day it was (I love that about travel). He pulled over and asked a local in Hindi who seemed to confirm that yes, today is Friday. That part of the conversation I didn’t understand but the way the guy looked at me and chuckled let me know that something was amiss. Veer (driver) then said to me, and I quote as closely as I can remember 'I make big mistake, very much sorry. This day is Friday. Taj Mahal is not open on Friday. Very much sorry'.
Fuck.
We drove through some back streets in the pre-dawn smog and emerged on a bridge that looked like it was build as a rail crossing but has since been covered converted, in a sort of Indian way, to a road. After crossing the river and driving through a small slum (there is no other word for it, people were living in tents and children were shitting on the side of the road) he found the river bank again and I got a view of the back of the Taj as the sun rose. It was quite nice - would have preferred to time my Taj trip on any other day of the week but it was nice. A local kid appointed himself our guide and led us around the riverbank suggesting bad photos and taking a few pics for me - he was very impressed with my camera.
After the sun rose a small group of local men appeared on the beach. One had a spade and started digging a deep hole in the sand. I asked Veer what was going on, he asked the kid and the reply was 'small baby'. The men solemnly stood around while the hole was dug, then one of them carried a small, wrapped parcel down to the shore of the river and washed it in the filthy water. Another man followed and with the slightest conciliatory arm around the shoulder, gently wrapped the parcel in a clean blanket. The men rejoined the group around the hole - formed a circle and stayed there for about twenty minutes. When the circle broke and the men started towards the slum one stayed behind with the spade and filled in the waist deep hole in the sand.
Greg
Agra, Uttar Pradesh, India.
Tuesday, 11 November 2008
Short Update
Pushkar was an incredible assult on the senses - even by Indian standards. Insence and religious chanting from the temples, gawdy costume jewellery under spotlights, bright fabric hanging from every shopfront, fluroscent lights, camels covered in Hindu-bling. There were gurus with thier flowing white beards and facepaint, tourists with oversize cameras and flashbulbs and on top of all this the usual Indian assortment of beggars, sewage and touts.
Beyond the town hundreds of acres of camels, horses, cows and thier owners camped on the edge of the desert. All kicking up a massive dust-cloud which hung over the town trapping all its sounds and smells. I had two days to take it all in and I think that was quite enough. Today I'm on the edge of Rathenbon National Park, headed out tomorrow morning to see if I can spot some tigers. I've got two days here then headed for Agra - home of the Taj Mahal. From Agra I'm on my own, no more package tour. I'll be headed by train from thereto Varanassie.. From there I've booked a train to Goralkpur up near the border with Nepal for my sidetrip to Katmandu.
Greg
Rathenbon, Rhajistan, India
11 Nov 2008
PS: Please excuse my attempts at spelling Indian place names. I'm sure half of them are wrong.
Beyond the town hundreds of acres of camels, horses, cows and thier owners camped on the edge of the desert. All kicking up a massive dust-cloud which hung over the town trapping all its sounds and smells. I had two days to take it all in and I think that was quite enough. Today I'm on the edge of Rathenbon National Park, headed out tomorrow morning to see if I can spot some tigers. I've got two days here then headed for Agra - home of the Taj Mahal. From Agra I'm on my own, no more package tour. I'll be headed by train from thereto Varanassie.. From there I've booked a train to Goralkpur up near the border with Nepal for my sidetrip to Katmandu.
Greg
Rathenbon, Rhajistan, India
11 Nov 2008
PS: Please excuse my attempts at spelling Indian place names. I'm sure half of them are wrong.
Sunday, 9 November 2008
Camels and Cows
I've spent the last few days in a state of self-loathing, still kicking myself for signing onto an arranged tour. The sights, sounds and smells of this incredible country are just as striking but being delivered from place to place in an air-conditioned car takes away all the adventure and challenge. Haggling over fares with touts and drivers, trying to figure out timetables, knowing where to swap trains and how to get to the bus station at 5am is the great challenge of backpacking. In a moment of weakness I've swapped that for ease and convenience. At any rate I've convinced myself now to stop worrying about it and get on with the experience, slightly sterilised though it is for the time being.
I spent my last two days in Udaipor, another of the Maharaja's outposts from times gone by. A magnificent palace/fortress dominates the skyline just outside the town, from there you can look down across the city and its two lakes, one man made with another incredible palace (now hotel) perched on an island in the middle. There are another two major palaces in the town, one in particular has the most incredible displays of wealth imaginable. Entire rooms plated in precious stones and mirrors, magnificently opulent artwork and weapons encrusted with gems. Step outside these places and
Today we (my driver - I feel so dirty saying that - and I) drove from Udaipor to Puskar. Lunch was at a tiny little roadside cafe, the likes of which can be found on any highway in this part of the world. I suppose they are a grittier microcosm of the British or Australian roadside stop. There is one counter which sells sweets, crisps, bottled drinks and the tiny little packets of chewing tobacco the locals are so fond of. Another area prepares meals to order and serves them on makeshift tables with mismatched plastic furniture. In place of a Premier Travel Inn there is a collection of racks with netting in between them where truck crew (there is apparently always more than one person per truck) can sleep.
I find it quite incredible that the road, one lane each way through a semi-desert landscape, was so busy. There are tiny villages every couple of miles along the road, many no more than shanties (with shanty huts and shanty shops). Everywhere there were people walking beside the road, women barefoot in their bright saris and the men in dusty work clothes trekking around the landscape going about their daily work. Marble quarrying and processing seems to be the major industry and at the thousands of yards selling huge slabs of the stone there were men cutting and working the rocks and women with baskets on their heads carrying away the smaller and broken bits. Veer, my driver, tells me that these women probably make about 40rs a day (50p) while the men driving the trucks can earn around 4000rs a month. Still a tiny amount by our standards but it beats carrying rocks on your head.
With typical 'developing world' ingenuity every conceivable form of transport is used here. There are the typical Indian trucks, large rigid vehicles with incredibly ornate paint and decoration but today alone I've also seen cargo and people towed behind camels, cows, horses, farm tractors, homemade mini-trucks and other people. Every large vehicle has ornate text on back instructing 'Honk Please', which no one seems to need reminding of. The horn is often used in substitute of the brake here, 'I could stop or I could honk the other vehicle gets out of my way' seems to be the mentality. Anywhere where there are vehicles you will hear an assortment of horns, almost universally ignored by the locals, attempting to blast their way through the trucks cars and cows which block the roads.
I'm not quite sure I understand the Indian relationship with the cow. I know the Hindu's consider them holy (a cow being the highest reincarnation a person can hope for) and indeed we passed a festival of sorts today with thousands of cattle and people clustered around some temple by the side of the road. Some of the cows were decorated with tassels, tinsel and paint, others just stood around (probably quite bemused in a bovine sort of way) as people ran about doing their religious duties. On the other hand I've seen cattle towing carts and ploughs (these cows were almost certainly jealous of their venerated cousins). Cattle wander into towns and onto highways and everyone drives around them ignoring them, even if they are blocking a major intersection, as one fat little grey cow was in Udaipor as we were leaving.
Despite the trucks, horns and cows we made it to Puskar. As it's in the middle of both the Camel Festival and a Hindu pilgrimage time and the place is rammed with pilgrims, priests and farmers. Our car was stopped outside the city limits (for security or congestion, no one seemed to know) and I got to my hotel on motorbike. I've been given a brief tour of the town and festival (loads of Camels, unsurprisingly) with a guide (part of the package) but will head out on my own tonight to see what’s happening in town.
Greg
Puskar,
Friday, 7 November 2008
Firstly...
Okay, this is my first entry and I've been in India for four very hectic days so I'm not quite sure where to begin..perhaps at the start...
I got into Delhi airport at 4am and in my excitement rushed through customs through the terminal and out into the heat towards the pre-paid taxi rank. My plan, if you can call it that, was to get a ride into the touristy bit of Delhi where all the cheap guesthouses are and figure it out from there. I went to the booth and tried to book a cab on my credit card but was met with a very stern headshake...no credit or debit cards accepted. No worries, would have had to get cash out soon anyway. So I found an ATM and stick my HSBC ('The Worlds Local Bank') card in to get some local currency - 'Unable to process transaction'. Eventually I realised I have fifteen pounds in my wallet so decide there must be a money changer in the terminal, I'll go back in and get some rupees for my sterling. The only problem is that there is a 80rupee (rs) admission charge to set foot in the terminal. So I'm outside Delhi airport at four o'clock in the morning with no money and no means of getting any or going anywhere. Eventually I find two helpfull young ladies in some kind of official uniform and explain my predicament, they get me past the guard and back into the terminal where my fifteen quid is turned into 1300rs by Mr. Thomas Cook.
I got a pre-paid taxi to New Delhi station and arrived in the pre-dawn, there were people sleeping in the open-air everywhere, on the centre island of the road, the courtyard around the station, the carpark...the most 'in your face' poverty I've seen anywhere. Cambodia was poor but everyone seemed to have a roof of some kind over thier heads, here whole families slept on the side of the road. Open sores, bare feet, horrible sounding coughs, I hadn't expected this, or this much of this, in India.
After wandering around looking lost for a while some helpful soul/potential conman asked if I needed help. I asked if there was a HSBC ATM anywhere nearby and he directed me up some stairs to the first floor of the station where somone official looking asked what-the-hell-was-I doing up there. It was at this point I remembered someone warning me that in India no one will admit they dont understand, they'll just try to be helpful and send you on your way. I was to encounter this many times in the next few hours I wandered dark semi-abandoned streets looking for this ellusive ATM which many people assured me was either right down this road or just over there up that street on the right, all the time stepping over people sleeping in the dust, or on thier rickshaws.
After a while I gave up and found a room to snatch a few hours sleep. I was desperatly tired by now (having left London at 6am the day before) and not really thinking straight. I slept for a few hours but was quite worried about my money situation. Another helpful local assured me there was a HSBC branch on Connaught Street, the main street that goes past the train station so I headed for that, but of course couldnt find it. I cant remember how it came up but I got chatting to someone else who said I should talk to the tourist office, the government folk in charge of looking after us hapless westerners. I strolled into the office after checking it out in lonely planet - apparently there are a lot of tourist offices who pretend to be the government ones but arent - and the very helpful folk there sat me down and gave me Chai and sandwiches and started asking about my plans and problems. I was even provided with a mobile phone to call HSBC in the UK (which of course diverts to an Indian call centre), alas it was closed . Anyway after much friendly banter they started sketching out an itinary for me. In my hapless state (stressed, worried and tired) I eneded up booking 10 days in Rhajistan through them for the sum total of about three times what I planned on spending on my whole holdiay (my credit card still worked apparently).
I was given a car and driver and shuffled off to a nice hotel to get a few hours sleep before being picked up and driven around the sights of Delhi - Red Fort, Ghandi memorial etc. The whole time kicking myself for parting with so much money. I was determined that this would be a independent, economical trip where I would be getting trains and busses with the locals. Spending a pound or two a night on basic accomdation and eating the local grub (without getting Delhi Belly of course). Insted I had got stressed and overwhelmed on day one and grabbed the first safety-net I had seen. A fucking packaged tour!
At the end of the day's siteseeing I asked the driver to take me somewhere I could call the UK to try and get my banking sorted. A ten-minute 100rs call fixed my ATM problem so I promptly withdrew the equivilant of about two-hundred pounds in Rupees with the idea that I wouldnt pay thoses idiots anymore overseas transaction fees. I realised how petty my logic had been when a wad of notes about half an inch thick appeared, I discreetly stashed this in my moneybelt and asked the driver to take me back to the tourist office. My plan was to try to wriggle out of the package-deal. The contract stated that there would be a 25% cancellation fee but I was prepared to forfit that to regain my 'lonely-planet'esq independence. After much waiting, haggling, phone calls to 'headquaters' and them throwing in several extras and a partial refund (in cash, 10,000rs - add those to the wad) I was persuaded to keep the deal. So for the next week I'm getting carted about the country by a very friendly driver in an air-conditioned 'Tata Indicar' with the obligitory shrine to the drivers God (He's a Sikh) on the dashboard, staying in decent 'government approved' hotels and seeing the sights.
Well, that about sets the scene. The trip I thought would demonstrate my travel experience, independence and empathy with the locals has left me with about three years worth of a locals salary in a hidden pouch around my waist, being driven around by my own chauffer and staying in air-conditioned hotels.
I'ts about dinner time now so I'm off to get another vegiterian feast (not eating meat here, partially out of respect for local customs, partially because I dont trust it). I'm in Udaipor at the moment, will be tripping around Rhajistan for the next week or so then down to Agra and from there leaving my guide and getting a night train to Varinassie (other side of Delhi, towards Nepal).
Hope you're all well,
Greg
Udaipor, Rhajistan, India
07 November 2008
I got into Delhi airport at 4am and in my excitement rushed through customs through the terminal and out into the heat towards the pre-paid taxi rank. My plan, if you can call it that, was to get a ride into the touristy bit of Delhi where all the cheap guesthouses are and figure it out from there. I went to the booth and tried to book a cab on my credit card but was met with a very stern headshake...no credit or debit cards accepted. No worries, would have had to get cash out soon anyway. So I found an ATM and stick my HSBC ('The Worlds Local Bank') card in to get some local currency - 'Unable to process transaction'. Eventually I realised I have fifteen pounds in my wallet so decide there must be a money changer in the terminal, I'll go back in and get some rupees for my sterling. The only problem is that there is a 80rupee (rs) admission charge to set foot in the terminal. So I'm outside Delhi airport at four o'clock in the morning with no money and no means of getting any or going anywhere. Eventually I find two helpfull young ladies in some kind of official uniform and explain my predicament, they get me past the guard and back into the terminal where my fifteen quid is turned into 1300rs by Mr. Thomas Cook.
I got a pre-paid taxi to New Delhi station and arrived in the pre-dawn, there were people sleeping in the open-air everywhere, on the centre island of the road, the courtyard around the station, the carpark...the most 'in your face' poverty I've seen anywhere. Cambodia was poor but everyone seemed to have a roof of some kind over thier heads, here whole families slept on the side of the road. Open sores, bare feet, horrible sounding coughs, I hadn't expected this, or this much of this, in India.
After wandering around looking lost for a while some helpful soul/potential conman asked if I needed help. I asked if there was a HSBC ATM anywhere nearby and he directed me up some stairs to the first floor of the station where somone official looking asked what-the-hell-was-I doing up there. It was at this point I remembered someone warning me that in India no one will admit they dont understand, they'll just try to be helpful and send you on your way. I was to encounter this many times in the next few hours I wandered dark semi-abandoned streets looking for this ellusive ATM which many people assured me was either right down this road or just over there up that street on the right, all the time stepping over people sleeping in the dust, or on thier rickshaws.
After a while I gave up and found a room to snatch a few hours sleep. I was desperatly tired by now (having left London at 6am the day before) and not really thinking straight. I slept for a few hours but was quite worried about my money situation. Another helpful local assured me there was a HSBC branch on Connaught Street, the main street that goes past the train station so I headed for that, but of course couldnt find it. I cant remember how it came up but I got chatting to someone else who said I should talk to the tourist office, the government folk in charge of looking after us hapless westerners. I strolled into the office after checking it out in lonely planet - apparently there are a lot of tourist offices who pretend to be the government ones but arent - and the very helpful folk there sat me down and gave me Chai and sandwiches and started asking about my plans and problems. I was even provided with a mobile phone to call HSBC in the UK (which of course diverts to an Indian call centre), alas it was closed . Anyway after much friendly banter they started sketching out an itinary for me. In my hapless state (stressed, worried and tired) I eneded up booking 10 days in Rhajistan through them for the sum total of about three times what I planned on spending on my whole holdiay (my credit card still worked apparently).
I was given a car and driver and shuffled off to a nice hotel to get a few hours sleep before being picked up and driven around the sights of Delhi - Red Fort, Ghandi memorial etc. The whole time kicking myself for parting with so much money. I was determined that this would be a independent, economical trip where I would be getting trains and busses with the locals. Spending a pound or two a night on basic accomdation and eating the local grub (without getting Delhi Belly of course). Insted I had got stressed and overwhelmed on day one and grabbed the first safety-net I had seen. A fucking packaged tour!
At the end of the day's siteseeing I asked the driver to take me somewhere I could call the UK to try and get my banking sorted. A ten-minute 100rs call fixed my ATM problem so I promptly withdrew the equivilant of about two-hundred pounds in Rupees with the idea that I wouldnt pay thoses idiots anymore overseas transaction fees. I realised how petty my logic had been when a wad of notes about half an inch thick appeared, I discreetly stashed this in my moneybelt and asked the driver to take me back to the tourist office. My plan was to try to wriggle out of the package-deal. The contract stated that there would be a 25% cancellation fee but I was prepared to forfit that to regain my 'lonely-planet'esq independence. After much waiting, haggling, phone calls to 'headquaters' and them throwing in several extras and a partial refund (in cash, 10,000rs - add those to the wad) I was persuaded to keep the deal. So for the next week I'm getting carted about the country by a very friendly driver in an air-conditioned 'Tata Indicar' with the obligitory shrine to the drivers God (He's a Sikh) on the dashboard, staying in decent 'government approved' hotels and seeing the sights.
Well, that about sets the scene. The trip I thought would demonstrate my travel experience, independence and empathy with the locals has left me with about three years worth of a locals salary in a hidden pouch around my waist, being driven around by my own chauffer and staying in air-conditioned hotels.
I'ts about dinner time now so I'm off to get another vegiterian feast (not eating meat here, partially out of respect for local customs, partially because I dont trust it). I'm in Udaipor at the moment, will be tripping around Rhajistan for the next week or so then down to Agra and from there leaving my guide and getting a night train to Varinassie (other side of Delhi, towards Nepal).
Hope you're all well,
Greg
Udaipor, Rhajistan, India
07 November 2008
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