Goodbye India

Having haggled down to an acceptable price before the journey, the rickshaw driver that took us to the train station for the night train out of Varanasi played the “I have no change” trick. The change involved was only 10 rupees, but this, along with all the other hassle we had, meant we left the city with a bad taste in our mouths.

Don't be afraid to visit there just because my account however. The city itself has a nice relaxed atmosphere and is beautiful in parts, and our experiences were as much down to bad luck as anything else. It was just a shame that, in our three weeks in India, the only place where we really felt targeted as Westerners was our last stop.

Our final journey in India was also one of the most comfortable, switching to a hired car at the last train stop, Gorakhpur, to bring us to the edge of this country and the gateway to our next, Nepal.



Out of all the countries on our itinerary, India was the one I held the most apprehension for. Looking back now, I can't even remember why this was the case. India surprised me. I really enjoyed it, the food, the rickshaw journeys, the scenery, the history...it all adds up to a superb three weeks. Three weeks! We experienced and saw so much, it felt like so much longer. Not a bad start at all.

Billu Barber

No, I didn't give in and decide to get a haircut. Billu Barber is the title of the “outstanding film the world is talking about”, according to the posters, and also the film we went to see to sample some bollywood.

The (Varanasi) cinema we were in was as clean as any back home, and hence the cleanest place we saw in our three weeks in India. In many ways it was better than Irish cinemas, with adjustable backrests and the option to order food/drinks from a porter, brought straight to your seat. Seating was also categorised, with the more central seats costing more, and with typical Indian fussiness the seats were numbered. For a film that wasn't necessarily a guy movie, it was strange in that the audience was almost exclusively male, with maybe one or two females in the whole cinema.



As for the film itself, well let's just say it lived up to my Bollywood expectations. With the film being entirely in Hindi, bar the odd song chorus, guessing the plot was where we had the most fun. Our attempted synopsis is: Billu Barber is a barber in a small town. Sahir Kahn is a movie megastar, and hugely admired throughout the world (India). Sahir Kahn just so happens to be shooting a movie in the small town Billu Barber lives in. And it turns out that Billu Barber is Sahir Kahn's long lost brother. We're honestly convinced that was the storyline.

Throw in random singing and dancing scenes and that was what we watched. At times it was so cheesy (“Sahir Kahn, he's the man!”) that I had to work overtime to contain my laughter, for fear of offending the two young Indians sitting next to me who were really enjoying it. I think us Westerners can be content with Hollywood for now.

Scam City

Strolling down the Varanasi ghats in the sun, John and I came across Gearóid, who had wandered ahead earlier, face down getting a traditional Indian massage. Spotting me observing my friend, I was targeted instantly by another massager with an adjacent table.

Before I could even say no he was massaging my head and hands. I said no to a full body massage, even at 250 rupees, but he insisted that it would be much cheaper. What followed was 30 minutes or so of discomfort, sometimes pain. Then at the end he insisted on 500 rupees. I said no way, and as I argued with him he tried to keep massaging me, with a few of his onlooking mates in my field of vision. I had to fight him off. Another bloody scam. I paid 400 in the end. Gearóid and John were happy with their massages, but I was incensed. Between our farcical arrival and now this, Varanasi was not leaving a good impression on me.

Hello, Boat?

After the trouble we had on arrival, wandering about was all we were motivated for on our first night in Varanasi, the holiest of Indian cities with the revered river Ganges flowing through it's side.



The Ganges holds huge importance in both Hindu and Muslim faiths, with huge numbers of pilgrims from both visiting Varanasi every year. For many Hindus it's their final pilgrimage. Hindus believe that if you die here you achieve automatic enlightenment, the ultimate goal for any Hindu. Hence you have the odd phenomenon of many elderly or very ill Hindus coming to the city as a place to see out their final days. Seeing bodies openly cremated on the banks of the ganges is a sight that I won't forget in a hurry.

But Varanasi has some life too. The maze of narrow pedestrianised streets are great fun to explore, packed with people, cows and flying motorbikes. Along the ghats on the banks of the Ganges, we saw everything from cows and people bathing to clothes being washed as well as the aforementioned cremations, all along the same two kilometre stretch of river.

No visit to Varanasi is complete without a boat trip on the Ganges, preferably at sunrise, so says the Rough Guide to India. And you can't walk 30 seconds down the ghats without hearing the words “Hello, boat?”. So on our last morning we struggled out of bed at 6.15 and hit the water.



In a way it was surreal. On the river banks you have pilgrims and locals giving worship and going about their business, and on the river itself you have dozens of boats full of tourists watching and photographing them. Add to that the fact that our hired rower was about 12 years old and incapable of rowing three giant Irishmen around, and you get an idea of the scene. John even attempted to row himself.



After he spun the boat around in a circle for a little while we decided it'd be best to give the 12 year old a little rest and leave it in his little hands.

Welcome to Varanasi

After a reasonably comfortable overnight train journey (I got some sleep this time), we arrived at Varanasi station looking forward to relaxing for a day or three. Our schedule had been close to hectic for the past few days, and this was our last stop in India, so we needed a bit of down time before tackling Nepal. As it turned out however our search for a hostel was anything but relaxing.

A seemingly nice Nepalese fellow gave us a good price (50 rupees) for the rickshaw journey. He wasn't the driver as it turned out, he rode in front alongside, but no harm, the price was good. The Nepalese fellow, or gobshite as I'm going to term him henceforth, suggested a hotel he knew well, promising everything we were looking for and inour price range. It sounded good. When we were pulling up outside the entrance, gobshite said that actually it's a bit more expensive, but very nice.

Price is our priority, and we reluctantly called in to the place. Too expensive. Cue John justifiably getting very angry with gobshite, throwing the 50 rupees his way and storming off, with Gearóid and myself in tow. Gobshite proceeded to stalk us, asking why were we walking the wrong way, the hostels were in the other direction apparently. After five minutes, we realised we had no idea where we were. Gobshite was still around. Realising our lack of options, we demanded to be taken to Yogi's. He agreed, at no extra cost. I thought this was nice of him, but John was still suspicous.

We pulled up to the hostel. The sign matched the name on the book, but looked very temporary. We had a look at a room. Not great, the price was too high, and the hostel manager didn't make a good impression. Not to mention gobshite was pushing the hostel the whole time we were there. We'd had enough of him.

Finding a nearby main street, we tried to get our bearings, gobshite still in tow! We asked a shop owner to show where we were on the map. Nowhere near Yogi's! The hostel was a replica! And gobshite even had the cheek to point to the real Yogi's when we asked him to show us where we were on our map. At that point I wanted to turn to gobshite and say things I wouldn't publish here, but he had conveniently vanished.

After a 2km walk with our backpacks in the sun (we weren't chancing another rickshaw), we found the real Yogi's. Close to it was another recommended place, which we had a look at first. It wasn't great. We told the owner that we were going to check out Yogi's around the corner, and he told us that someone died there today. Great, more lies we thought. But around the corner we went to be faced with a group of police officers and some onlookers outside Yogi's. One of the staff had committed suicide there that morning.

After an exhaustive and exhausting couple of hours we finally found a suitable place for a suitable price. We've had better arrivals.

Assimilating Agra

The number one reason any traveller visits Agra is the Taj Mahal, that's beyond doubt. But read the Rough Guide to India's description of the city itself, and it's hard not to develop a sort of Agra-phobia before you even arrive there. Corrupt rickshaw drivers, over zealous touts and begging await you at every corner, at least that's the impression that I got. Maybe it's because we expected the worst that it wasn't so bad when we arrived. Or maybe we've been here long enough and gained enough confidence to handle these nuisances.

We arrived at our cheap dump of a hostel in the Taj Ganj (the backpacker area adjacent to the Taj Mahal itself) too late in the evening to do any sightseeing. From the hostel roof, we could just about make out the Taj through the dark haze at night, it's silhouetted features instantly recognisable. Even this set off a small tingle of excitement in me.


Agra Fort

I do like to save the best till last, so with three days planned in Agra the Taj could wait. The next day we visited Agra Fort, getting an excellent insight into the huge amount of history at Agra from our guide. This was were the Mughal empire was centred, before the British slowly drained their power and seized it for themselves.


Battersea Power Station

We also visited Akbar's Tomb, Akbar being the Mughal emperor I hold the most respect for, because he managed to create a peaceful unity between the main religions of India (Hinduism and Islam) during his reign (it was the British that destroyed this unity, which still hasn't been recovered to this day, the recent Mumbai attacks being an example of this). Despite over-pushy guides inside, the tomb complex itself was mightily impressive too, it's superb symmetrical design whetting my appetite for the supreme example of Mughal (and perhaps all) architecture – the Taj Mahal.



Like everyone else, I'd seen pictures of it a million times before. And like everyone else that's actually visited it, I'll tell you that it's even more impressive with your own eyes. The sheer size of it alone surprised me, and it has a presence that I've never seen from any other building. If you can bite your tongue and get over the extortionate entrance fee (750 rupees – most sights cost 100 to 200 – and until 2001 it was just 20 rupees!), it's a must see while you're in the country.

Agra is similar to Delhi in that it's overcrowded, over-polluted and sprawling, so after the Taj it was time to move on. Before we boarded the night train to Varanasi however there was one last unexpected highlight, a Hindu wedding procession, complete with unhappy looking groom (arranged marriage), running right past our hostel just as we arrived back after dinner. Gearóid in particular got carried away with the joy of it all, joining the dancing in the streets. You can see him try to escape the procession in the video below.

Training

We had yet to experience Indian trains, something we were keen to do, and it turned out this was the best way to get to our next stop, Agra.



Booking a seat on an Indian train is an inefficient and frustrating process. First, you have to go to the train station the day before your departure, and fill out a paper form. You have to know your train number and name, not to mention which one of the bewildering array of classes you want. Then, the station employee types the information on your form into a computer, and tells you whether there are seats (or sleepers/beds) available or not. If there are, then he prints out your ticket.

But this ticket doesn't have any seat numbers on it. So you have to go back to the train station on the same day as the train, and go to the reservation office. Here, you present your ticket to one of the staff, they go into the back and come out a couple of minutes later with your seat numbers written in biro on the ticket. If this reservation office closes at 5pm, say, and your train is at 10pm, then that's three trips to the railway station just to make one train journey. I'll never complain about Iarnród Éireann's website again.

The day before the tiger safari, we went to Sawai Madhopur train station to book our ticket to Agra. Our rickshaw driver came to the ticket desk with us to help (and for a good tip). For some unknown reason though, the ticket desk was closed for the rest of the day. In just about decipherable English, the rickshaw driver explained that he could get us a seat on a train to Agra tomorrow. He would bring us to the station, and take care of things there. This sounded good to us.

After the safari the following day, the driver brought us to the train station. That was about the only part of his plan that he managed to pull off successfully. He led me to the counter, where he ordered three tickets and I paid. Then we were led to the platform, where we were handed over to a station porter of some sort. When our train arrived, he started looking for the conductor. He never found him, and the train was about to pull off, so he just shunted us into the nearest door, and still demanded a tip for the service.



We ended up in a coach with exclusively reserved seats and no standing. Cue awkwardness and stern stares as the three standing tourists and their rucksacks blocked up the passageway. To make things worse the conductor eventually showed his face to inspect tickets, and charged us a fortune (in Indian terms) to upgrade our useless tickets. He also ordered an elderly Indian couple to compress their sitting space to allow me to sit my arse down. I kept a low profile for the rest of the journey.

Slouching Tiger, Pissed-Off Adam

After a brief one day stopover in Bundi, which was a nice break from the touristy places, we got a hired car to Sawai Madhopur, the village from which tiger safaris into Ranthambore National Park are launched. The safari here is up there with the Taj Mahal in terms of popularity with tourists. With no cheap backpacker accommodation to be found, we had to make do with a swish hotel, which, even though it was the cheapest listed, was still a step or two up from what we were used to (in price and quality). I even got to watch the Man United v West Ham game in our room.

There's a huge slump in tourism in India right now, which is mainly down to Westerners fearing to come here after the Mumbai attacks. In one way this isn't a good thing for us, as there's less fellow backpackers about to mingle and share stories/info with. In another way it's made things very convenient for us though, as we've never had to book ahead for accommodation, and we can dictate the price. Our luck in this way was no more so apparent than with the tiger safari itself. There are two modes of safari transport – canter, which is essentially an open top bus, and gypsy, a jeep. Gypsies are far more popular, because your chances of spotting a tiger are far greater in them. We were told that to get a spot in one you normally had to book about 26 weeks in advance. We bagged seats in one the day before our safari.

We set off for the park in our gypsy just before sunrise the next morning, along with our guide, driver, and two quiet Finns with oversized cameras. The cool pre-dawn breeze shook me out of slumber mode, and once we passed the park gates there was a genuine air of excitement. This grew as our guide heard the alarm call of some nearby antelopes, and then spotted fresh tiger tracks in the dirt road.



We followed the tracks for a couple of miles, all with cameras at the ready. But then the trail disappeared off the road and into long grass. With the gypsy's engine switched off, we scanned the long grass in silence with the utmost concentration, hoping to get our money's worth. But the tiger remained incognito.

Later, deeper into the park, the pattern repeated itself, again with no tiger sighting. The tiger hunts in the morning and the afternoon, and sleeps in the mid-day heat, an interval we were fast approaching. We had only booked a morning safari, so no tigers for us. Still, the hunt was half the fun.

A Rolling Start

Having bought our bus ticket out of Udaipur earlier, we made our way to the travel company's office that night, as directed. Multiple buses drove past, none of which were ours, we were waiting for the agent to let us know.

After waiting around for 30 minutes or so, said agent abruptly told us to “follow him”, pointing at his friend.. So we did. We walked through roundabouts and across busy roads, with all our possessions on our backs. We walked expectantly past a couple of parked buses. From a bend in the road in front of us emerged yet another bus, moving at a fair old speed. “This yours”, said the stranger we were following like lost sheep. He waved frantically and the bus slowed down. It had just about stopped when we were hurried on to the bus. No time to put our rucksacks in the luggage compartment. Two more people got on behind us, one of whom had to run to keep pace with the door as the bus started to move and as we slowly made our way through the crowded bus stairwell.

This time I had a single sleeper capsule to myself, though the pleasure of having my own space was slightly ruined by the streaks of shit that ran down one side of the compartment.

We got there in the end. I didn't get much sleep though.

Losing my Naivety

Smaller than Jaipur, but bigger than Pushkar, Jodhpur is viewed simply as a stopping point on the way to other destinations by a lot of travellers. That may be true, but it's a nice city in it's own right, and our brief stay there was an enjoyable one. After all the relaxing we did in Pushkar, we needed a place to chill out, and Jodhpur met our needs.

Cleaner than other places we'd been to so far, Jodhpur also had an excellent and varied market five minutes from our hostel, selling everything from clothes washing brushes (I got one for two rupees) to saffron tea (which we all chipped in to buy a packet of). Saffron tea, and spices in general, are a Jodhpuri speciality. The saffron tea purchase came about after a spice smelling and tea tasting session in the market with a local seller, which was excellent. They have some great tea over here (nothing to beat Barry's though).



Mehrangarh Fort
“Great, another description of a bloody fort”. I can hear the moans already. Yes, it was another bloody fort, but this one was the best yet. The audio tour was excellent (with a route that was easy to follow), and the view from the battlements at the top was the first justification I had received of Jodhpur's nickname of “The Blue City”.



If I had written this blog entry a couple of days earlier, right now I'd regale you with a lovely story of a lovely old man who invited us into his home on the way down from the fort and chatted with us about his life and ours. I'd then tell you how he showed us his collection of money from around the world, and how he didn't have any euro in it, and of how John very kindly gave him five euro to complete his collection, and everyone was happy with the joy of it all. Except that the following week our hostel host in Agra pulled out his own collection of money, and he too didn't have any euro (or dollars). Feckers.

Bussing It Up

With Pushkar unreachable by train, another bus was our only way of moving on. This time we ended up on the cheap public bus with the locals. It also happened to be the school bus for every village for 90km. If you remember what happened in Delhi, you'll remember that our height and white skin gives us celebrity status when Indian children are involved. So there was a lot of long stares, and plenty of wary but friendly shouts of “hallo!” At one stage the bus was so packed there was people on the roof too! We could only make out their shadows, but they were definitely there. Another must-see off the list.

Our (late) arrival in Jodhpur was as chaotic as the bus journey. The bus stopped on a big bridge. A lot of shouting in Hindi ensued. Random people stormed on to the bus, shouting at us (in English) directly. They were saying get off, the driver's helper said stay on. One of these randomers showed a card for our hostel (we had arranged hostel pick-up from the bus station – we didn't think it'd be at a bloody flyover). Follow him then.

A Functioning Anarchy

I've had a couple of requests, and I'm sure some of you are curious, as to the state of the roads and the standard of driving in India. So many words come to mind, but a quote from former US ambassador to India Bertrand Russell describing the country is foremost: “a functioning anarchy”.


One of the better roads

The roads themselves range from the sublime to the ridiculous, with the latter being very much in the majority. We've gotten buses almost everywhere so far, and we've hired a couple of cars too (our first train journey will be two hours from when I'm writing this), so I've seen a fair bit of asphalt and dirt. Potholes aplenty mean drastic avoidance manoeuvres, and in parts the roads are more like an off-road trail than a route between destinations. But the state of the roads is a minor story compared to the chaos that occurs on them.

Here's a brief synopsis of how it works: cows have right of way, ahead of everything else. Then it works by size. A truck has right of way over a car, and so on, all the way down to the stray dogs and pigs that wonder about. Indicating is rarely done, in cities not at all. Mirrors are usually folded in, to allow vehicles to squeeze through tighter gaps. You know if a vehicle is behind you if you hear their horn. Likewise, if you're approaching a vehicle from behind, or near a vehicle in general, beep your horn. In cities, this averages a horn use about once every 1.5 seconds.

It is recommended that you drive on the left, but if this doesn't suit the other side of the road is fine.

As for pedestrians, walk slowly, don't run or change direction quickly, and you'll be fine. The traffic will avoid you. Somehow.

Experiencing this in full motion for the first time was an exhilarating experience (it's in my Hynes genes). In Delhi and Jaipur especially, it's complete chaos. Approaching roundabouts I had a big smile on my face, that's where the most fun is had. No one stops at roundabouts, it's in perpetual motion, with no defined lanes to speak of. Road lanes are marked on the big roads but not used in the slightest. Overtaking is done in whichever manner and side is quickest. Quick reaction speeds and good spatial awareness is what keeps it all ticking over.

It's not just the way of driving over here, it's what's on the roads too that makes it so entertaining. Cows, camels, cars, trucks, buses, tractors, motor bikes, bicycles, auto-rickshaws, manual rickshaws, horses, pedestrians, people with carts, dogs, pigs, chickens – all finding the most direct route to their destination at the same time.

Incredibly, bafflingly, it all works. The only collisions we were involved in were due to the aging senses of Nana, our Japurian rickshaw driver, but they were minor, because there's so much traffic on the roads that no-one can go that fast. Amazingly, with all the traffic, there's never any gridlock. The traffic is always moving. No space is wasted. Traffic lights do exist, and they are obeyed at major junctions, but only when to ignore them would mean two flows of traffic bringing each other to a halt. No road rage either (no point). I love it all. Every rickshaw journey is pure entertainment.

On our bus journey to Pushkar, the Indian attitude to the rules of the road (yes they do actually exist) was summed up perfectly. It was the halfway stage of a long trip, and the bus driver wanted to pull over for an intermediate stop. Knowing the (fairly remote) terrain well, he knew there was food available up ahead in a little place on the opposite side of the (3-lane) motorway, with a central barrier (blocking our access to the rest stop). So at a right-turn junction well ahead of the stop, he crossed the gap in the barrier, and proceeded to drive up the wrong side of the 3-lane motorway for half a mile, evading oncoming buses and trucks along the way. None of the Indians on the bus batted an eyelid. This was the fastest way to the rest stop, so what was the problem?

(I think John has a video or photo of this, I'll put it up here if he has)

One Hump or Two?

Over beers the night before (where all good ideas come from – including this whole trip), we arranged to go camel trekking on our second day in Pushkar. The plan was thus: hop on a camel, ride it three hours into the desert, and eat and drink around a campfire for the night, camel-riding back the next morning. Worse ideas have been thought up.

Omi, our hostel host, even tagged along himself, along with our camel guides/cooks/company for the night. Camels are surprisingly easy to mount, conveniently crouching down for you to hop on board. They're not as uncomfortable to ride as I expected, having been forewarned to expect sore legs. An hour in, and I decided I really liked this mode of transport. They're fast buggers too, I never knew a camel could gallop, especially Lashkmi, who wanted to show that he was faster than all the others, with me desperately trying to drink a bottle of Kingfisher on top.

Kingfisher is the popular beer around these parts incidentally – a cold beer on a camel in the sun being my favourite moment of this trip so far.



We found our spot in the desert and a few mats were laid out and a few more beers were had and a fire was lit. Not by us though, by our Indian guides, who refused to let us do any of the work (we asked a few times – honest). They cooked the food right in front of our beer-swilling faces, proper Rajasthani fare, different to the more general Indian food we'd had up to now, and just as delicious.

Once the food disappeared and the drink really started to flow (whiskey and rum were involved too) the songs started to come out. Each of our guides sang a traditional Rajasthani song in turn, until the baton passed to us. We were reluctant at first, but eventually found our steam. Rattlin' Bog in particular went down a storm (kudos to Gearóid for knowing all the verses). The efforts from the Aussie/Kiwi combo who tagged along proved less successful but all the funnier for it.


The gang

A mix-up in the blanket distribution meant I was bloody freezing after the last embers had cooled, but I was allowed to “drive” the camel all the way back to Pushkar the next morning, which more than made up for it. Oh, and in reference to the title, all camels in India have one hump, the dual-humped variety appear in Africa only.

Serve Chilled

The best thing about our plan is that there is no plan – we decided on our next stop over a couple of beers the second night in Jaipur. In my pocket guide to India was a picture of this great looking little town surrounding a lake. Pushkar was it's name, so we made the arrangements and sorted a bus.

Surrounded by desert, though more the rocky hilly kind rather than sand dunes, seeing it for the first time was disappointing – like when you see a picture of a succulent looking chicken breast in a fast food eatery and are served a plate of awful looking rubber – I felt betrayed. The pristine blue lake in the picture had been replaced by a half-full brown dirt pit. The empty part of the lake was a construction site – they were deepening the lake before the monsoon season, as there had been bad floods here not too long ago (it's hard to imagine any sort of rain falling here right now mind).


It still looked great from the full part

We picked our hostel using the recommendation of an Aussie/Kiwi couple we had met at the monkey temple in Jaipur. They arrived one night before us, and most of our Pushkar experience was shared with them. Having a common drinking culture is a great bonder when in a country with none.

We had been on the go since our arrival in Delhi, and Pushkar immediately felt like a more relaxed place. This was no more evident than in our hostel host, Omi, who offered us a beer before we had even seen our room. He knew we liked to drink, because he had dated an Irish girl for a good while, before his family intervened and set him up with his now current (Indian) wife. I got the impression that he wasn't totally pleased with this, but who am I to comment on how other cultures work?

We were so relaxed upstairs in the hostel that we didn't leave the rooftop at all on our arrival day – beers and chat with Omi the host, Carl the Kiwi and Gemma the Aussie were a nice break from forts, temples and palaces. I also met an English guy who's wife is from Dromina. For those of you that aren't familiar with north Cork geography Dromina is a village not too far from my home town of Buttevant – even on the other side of it, it's a small world.

Five Days In

Five days in, on a bus to Pushkar, and a joke made about completing our first Monday to Friday puts me in a reflective mood, for the first time since arrival. When I try to compare what we've experienced in those five days to a typical week of work back home, I struggle. In fact, I can't compare it to any previous five days of my life.

All my anxiety about India has been washed (or should I say eaten) away. The food is great, the weather is perfect (hot but not too hot), the scenery is fantastic and the people are genuine and honest and open and friendly. There's no such thing as going out to the pub and going on the lash until the wee hours here, but I needed a break from that anyway. And it's all so...different. “No shit Adam”, I can hear you say, but it really is. And I'm loving it.

A Stitch in Time

One of the great contradictions I've noticed about the Indian people so far is how in some cases rules are followed to a hilt but in other cases they're they're thrown out the window. I experienced a great example of this when trying to post a parcel from Jaipur post office.

After filling out a quick form at the front of the building, I entered the main area, where only one counter was open, with a queue of about 10 people. Naturally, I joined the back of the queue, but Nana (who guided me through the whole process) dragged me straight up to the counter, and told me to get the attention of the clerk, who was busy dealing with someone else. I hate queue skippers, and I just looked at Nana as if to say “really?” He shouted something in Rajasthani at the clerk, who took my parcel. I glanced anxiously back at the queue behind me, expecting many an icy stare, but not an eyelid was batted.

Then, to my disbelief, the clerk decided the stitching of the parcel was not good enough for them to accept (I was sending a quilt wrapped in some linen material stitched together around it). And there was 10 minutes until the last post! I was lost, but Nana dragged me back to the front desk, where, after a lot of Rajasthani shouting, the man there re-stitched my parcel furiously. Sprinting back to the clerk, re-stitched parcel in hand, more shouting and he re-examined it. Good enough this time. Phew!

The parcel got there in the end.

Textiles, Palaces and Nana?

The second port of call on our whistle stop tour of northern India, Jaipur is the capital of the state of Rajasthan, the state where a large proportion of our travels in India will be based. Our bus actually stopped 9km short of the city, dropping us off at Amber Fort instead. Our annoyance at this fact was tempered by the spectacle in our sights.


Amber Fort

Nana (No, Not That One)
It was here also that we met the old Indian gentleman who was to become our guide to Jaipur. 70 years old, honest to a fault and forever evoking tales of local folklore, Nana was an instantly memorable character. All this from a rickshaw driver who was at the right place at the right time (though the years of experience he has suggest that was no coincidence).

His rickshaw driving alone was memorable. To drive on Indian roads you need top notch reflexes and spacial awareness. Nana's had faded with time. Not just his spacial awareness but his awareness in general. We've only witnessed three collisions in rickshaws here so far, all with him as our driver. Not serious collisions, more amusing than anything else, which somehow added to his charm. As well as ferry us everywhere, we ate some of his delicious home-made parantha (though not as delicious as my own nana's baking) and shared a couple of chai teas with him while he regaled us with stories about his family and his month spent working as a cook in Paris back in the seventies.

He was one of many highlights in Jaipur, which also included the view of the city on our approach.



The floating palace was especially astounding. This first impression, of a quiet and serene city by a lake, proved to be a bit too good to be true once we left the lakeside. Jaipur's heart has far more in common with Delhi, all hustle and bustle once more, though slightly less crowded than the capital. However, with cows, camels, cars, elephants, bikes, rickshaws and people all jostling for position on the streets, chaos was still the norm.

On to the tourist activities, first up being the Hindu monkey temple (not it's official name) that looks over the city from a hill to the south. Spectacular views and monkeys were on offer here. It was great to see monkeys roaming freely, and they lived up to their cheeky reputation by almost making off with my water bottle at one stage, snatching it right out of my hand when I wasn't watching. I got it back mind.



After the ctiy palace, which gave an excellent account of Jaipurian history, and the observatory (also very interesting), I suffered my first bout of temple fatigue. It was at a tomb of which I didn't know anything about. It looked very nice, but not knowing the history of it and having no information at hand meant it was just another tomb. I hope this doesn't occur too often, because, to be honest, it was boring.

Our last day in Jaipur was spent exploring the Amber Fort which had so impressed us the day before. In any kind of fort or castle I've visited back in the west, your tour route follows a very linear path, usually guided by velvet rope or something similar. Not here. The fort was completely open. We could go anywhere. Not only that, but the audio tour signs were often pointing completely the wrong way, due to restoration work that was in progress. The fort is massive, and we got lost a couple of times, with only a dodgy tour map to guide us. It was like a treasure hunt trying to find the next tour point listed on the map. Great fun though.



Without Nana, I think our visit would have been half as good as it was. Because it's not just about temples, forts and other sights to see. It's about people too. From that point of view, Jaipur was great.

It's still amazing to think that the city, which seems tiny in comparison to Delhi, still has a population greater than that of Ireland (5 million). After India (and China), Ireland will seem smaller than ever.

Jaipurian Journey

Our journey to Jaipur began with the surreal. The walk from our hostel to the bus, at 6.30am, was an unexpected treat. Before now we had only seen Delhi in full power mode, with people and vehicles and sales pitches everywhere you turn. But at 6.30am the contrast was startling, an ethereal experience, the city was just coming to life. What we saw was darkened backstreets, lit up only by the rare barber operating and one or two food vendors serving breakfast to those unfortunate enough to be up at this hour, a different Delhi.

This journey was led by the guy who called to our hostel at 6.30am to lead us to our bus (we had never met him before). We followed him for 10 minutes through the backstreets, then he took a right and a guy on our left started beckoning us to follow him. My first instinct was to stick to our leader, but he proceeded to ignore us. So what could we do except follow this other guy? It was the right bus in the end. And it was a good lesson in how things are done in India. You just have to roll with it.

Our first Indian bus journey and we sat at the back, like all Irish cool kids do. The journey was a rollercoaster of emotion and kinetic energy. Have a taste for yourself with the video below.



Five hours later we arrived in Jaipur, shaken but not stirred.

Food for Thought

Those of you that know me well will know that when it comes to food I tend not to be the most adventurous. Italian, Mexican, some Chinese and of course traditional Irish – that's been my palette, no more, no less, for the past six years or so (before that the range was even smaller). People had been telling me how jealous they were that I'd get to eat real Indian food, but Indian food never agreed with my taste buds. Pizza was my staple diet. I still ate like a student before I left.

All that had to change with this trip. I would have to try new foods, or else starve. For a while I considered starving, then decided that this had too many drawbacks. Strange foreign food it was.

A week in, and I'm very proud of myself. You can get pizzas and such in a lot of places, but I've stuck to Indian. I've tried everything on the menu, and liked a lot of it. A lot. It's delicious, healthy, cheap and filling. Even the (spoiler alert) campfire-cooked meal in the desert was outstanding. Perfect backpacking food. And not a Delhi belly in sight.



I might venture to the Indian restaurants a little more often once this jaunt is over. More gastronomic musings when we hit Nepal.

Delhi

As mentioned in a previous post, we arrived on Republic Day, which had the knock-on inconvenience of alcohol ceasing to be served in restaurants and available in shops. Trust three Irishmen, on our first day in a country where drinking alcohol is not wholly acceptable, and on the one day of the year where it's not available, to ask the poor hostel clerk for a beer minutes after checking in. We got it in the end, but for an extortionate (we learned later) price. Rooftop terrace, 22 degrees, beer. Not bad so far.

Adjacent to our room was a travel agent/slimeball, We ended up hiring a driver to tour Delhi the next day through him, but mainly because we were too tired to look elsewhere, and it was very cheap. Our first night finished with a leisurely stroll, aided by the odd motorized rickshaw (three-wheeled micro-taxies). The highlight of this stroll (and of our time in Delhi), was India Gate (a Champs D'Elysee rivalling monument to Indian soldiers lost defending her), and the walk from the gate to the Royal Palace, beautifully illuminated with thousands of lights to celebrate Republic Day.

Our driver the next day didn't say to much, but unlike the agent we booked him through he was a genuine and amicable fellow, driving us to the big attractions of the city with little fuss. The huge Red Fort, and as imposing as it is impressive, was an instant highlight. The Jama Masjid, the largest mosque in India, was equally impressive, with a superb panoramic view of the city from one of it's towers. Last but not least was the Baha'i Temple, this one rivalling Sydney Opera House for aesthetic quality. I won't go into the history of these monuments, I'll leave that further investigation up to you.


Lotus Temple

We also had the first special moment of the trip in the park by the Raj Ghat (Ghandi's final resting place). John was working on an excellent sketch he did of the Jama Masjid, and it was luchtime for some nearby schoolkids. The picture tells the rest.



After a busy day's sightseeing we deserved a drink (we felt so anyway), so off we went in search of a watering hole. There are no bars here, just restaurants that serve alcohol. The Rough Guide to India was useful here, eventually we found a cheap backpacker joint near our hostel. On arrival we were led to our table as usual, when suddenly three waiters from upstairs (all the same restaurant) launched themselves from above and started shouting and arguing that upstairs was better. We stood there bemused, amused and thirsty. Upstairs promised us cheaper beer, so they won. The place was full of Westerners, with plenty of Western options on the menu. From what I can tell the Indian subcontinent seems to think that to the West they eat lots of banana pancakes. We stuck with the Indian options (they're too nice to ignore).

Back at our hostel after a few and not only did we have our first encounter with a fellow backpacker we also might have bagged a place to stay in Shanghai. Not a bad days work.



So Delhi: huge, filthy, overcrowded, chaotic, but very entertaining all the same. Onwards we go.