On the road, and neatly tucked into our bus seats, we were also well placed for scamming. A guy came up to Wendy and handed her a phone. She took it and the voice on the other end claimed to be from the “hotel” we just left. Apparently, she had departed without paying the final bill. The voice said that she should give the missing amount to the “agent” on the bus (the man with the phone).

All lies.

I had been there when all accounts were settled and I know that our friend had not “failed to pay”. She got very angry and the guy got insistent. This was his mistake, because our friend was a British GP (a doctor) and in my experience doctors don’t take shit from anyone. She shouted at him for a few moments and he shrugged and took his leave.

Worse was to come when we arrived into the desert.

The sun was very hot and of course the desert was as exposed as countryside can get. Over the endless heat waves we espied the fortified city of Jaisalmer. Cesca described it as,

“A giant sandcastle”

And indeed it looked the part, being raised high above the desert, and presumably dust winds, by what must be a huge pile of sand. It looked like it was sitting onto a dune. The only thing I have seen that comes close for the view was Uluru in Australia. It was striking in the extreme and exciting.

The bus entered the vicinity of this old city and stopped by the side of the road next to a swarm of touts. Immediately these started opening the bus storage doors and taking out our bags. I was up, out of my seat and off the bus in seconds. I pushed my way through the throng and grabbed my bag off the tout trying to make away with it.

“Put my bag down!” I screamed.

He did so. I was much bigger than him. I quickly took it and collected the girls’ bags too.

Another tout tried a different tact, producing a “licence” he claimed to be from the tourist board here to take us to our hotel. I put on my sunglasses and ignored him. I guarded the bags and they stood slightly back. That was until the girls got off.

Clearly white women getting off busses here make a “Ca’Ching” sound. Cesca and Wendy were instantly swamped with touts all pushing against each other to get the business. Pushing the girls too, who had their Lonely Planets out and were thumbing a map of the city. Upon seeing this, the touts as one craned their necks to see the page and “assist”. Arms were thrust onto the page and attempts to take the books to “show madam” aplenty.

As soon as I had seen all this start, I started counting to ten in my head. I reckoned that, what with the bus con fresh in their minds, the girls would explode after ten seconds.

9, 10…

Boom!

“Look!” shouted Wendy, “all of you just BACK OFF, RIGHT NOW!”

It was like kryptonite on these guys. Wendy was bigger than most of them to start with and she really shouted at the top of her not inconsiderate lungs.

This prompted a policeman to come over. He had a sub machine gun at his hip and it was loaded. The touts backed away and he very casually suggested that the tout that had spoken to me was actually “official”. Of course, this may be a clever bit of the play we were in, but it worked. I heaved all the bags into his tuk tuk and he sped us through the outskirts of the old city, just at the base of the sand mound it sits on, towards a hotel he swore blind was excellent.

When we got there, I defended the bags again and the girls went in. Immediately they came back out with the hotel owner, a 30 something Indian man with a professional manner. He handed the tuk tuk driver a note and he left. He then welcomed me to his hotel.

As it happens it was a brilliant hotel.

We got a quite expensive room (by our standards of the time, I probably spend more on coffee now) and met up on the roof top bar. All the hotels around this area had similar bar restaurants and we ordered some very nice food and drank out the night. Soon we had met others on their holidays and formed a little pride of travellers. There was an Asian lady from Canada on a life changing trip, a couple of very attractive Sweeds as well as a British couple who were good fun. We all decided to go on a Camel safari together.

The next morning, we set off early for the desert proper in jeeps. After a couple of hours of riding into the desert, putting us not too far from the border with Pakistan by my reckoning, we came to a small dusty village and met our camels.

I never thought I would like camels, they are shaggy with rough fur that catches dust and sand, their farts endlessly serenade the desert and their spitting is legendary in its ruthless laid back efficiency. However, one look at the smiling face of my mount for the next two days and I was in love. She was lovely.

Clambering aboard I immediately noticed that we were not riding in high Berber style on a mound of cushions – clearly the organisers were worried about us falling off (camels are very tall) – so instead we had to use horse style saddles only without stirrups.

About 5 or 6 seconds of the jerking, jolting, off-timed and frankly horrendous bouncing was enough for all of our crew to realise that is was not going to be pleasant experience. My inner thighs complained almost immediately.

We bounded off; each led by our camel tied to the one in front and headed into the desert. Soon the dunes swallowed the village behind us and the amazing spirit of emptiness started to pervade. The desert here is very quiet, only occasional tracks, desert roads and some power lines crossed our path which was otherwise endless scrub bushes and sand.

We plodded for about 10 miles or so, taking most of the day, and then our hosts announced we were stopping to make camp. Camp sat upon two very clean looking sand dunes that were empty apart from hundreds of 4 inch long dung beetles. I like beetles and these little scurriers skittered all around us as we setup the mats and the guides started a campfire.

They then taught us how to make chapatti, which we all had great fun doing before feasting upon the tiffin pots of food the guides had brought.

As we ate, talked and laughed together I sat back and wondered at the guides, for whom this was probably their primary business. By this point in our adventures Cesca and I had been on 20 or so “local tours” and I could recognise the signs of a well organised trip very quickly. This one, I decided, was definitely above average for, while we were missing a few home comforts out here, the guides were good and trying hard to please, the food was the pleasant Indian fare I had come to appreciate and the group atmosphere was friendly.

Then it rained.

In the desert.

Huge sheets of rain suddenly thundered down on us and we were all wet through. I couldn’t quite believe that so much water was available to fall in the desert, and neither could the guides. Gone was the chance to sleep outside and they scurried to the back of a camels for some small tents they had brought. Unfortunately there were not enough tents to go around and we would have to share, I quickly claimed a tent for Cesca and me and since we were the only married couple on the trip no one argued to join us. We all helped put up the tents and dived in. Listening to the rain, we huggled down and slept.

The next morning the rain had passed on and to look at the desert you would not know it had rained at all. To look at the group however… Several of the tents had flooded and eventually the poor junior guide had slept under a camel. Many people were seriously wet.

I stretched and walked up the dune to see the sunrise. There is definitely something primal and wonderful about the morning here. Soon Cesca joined with her camera and then the entire group rushed up to capture the moment on film. We all ate a hearty breakfast and then it was back on the camels.

Our route back took us via a couple of small villages, and had cleverly been designed to be shorter as the guides must have worked out that long camel rides play havoc with western soft legs. Soon, the vast majority of our group had abandoned camel and were walking alongside.

We arrived in our final village stop way after lunch and the camels all went for a drink. All around us the villagers came out and greeted our visit. An hour later I said goodbye to my mount as the jeeps arrived and we jumped on board for the trip back to the city.

On the way back we all discussed the rain we had experienced, surely a rare event in the desert? I should have realised that it was a portent of what was to come, but my thighs were burning too much to care.

On our arrival back we headed to the roof bar and drank our success in surviving the trip. I don’t remember going back to the room to sleep, but what happened next will always be in my mind.

I was awoken from a dream by a unique sound. I have thought long and hard about how to describe it, and I have settled on the following:

It was the sound of the entire Golden Horde, all 60 thousand horses; men and carts, galloping towards us over the desert.

The sound was loud at first, but soon it was huge and all around us. The walls shook, the paintings shook with them, the bed moved with the vibration. I heard screams outside and then the sound was with us in total and the entire world shook. Cesca and I jumped up in the bed,

“Earthquake!” I shouted.

“Oh my god! The city!” Cesca said, and we shared a vision of the city sand flowing down towards us burying us in a landslide of ancient walls, camels and palaces.

“Quick!” I shouted to her, “Get under the door frame!” I pointed to the entrance to the bathroom and we rushed under it and held each other.

Ten seconds later it passed on, but the screams outside continued. These were joined by the sounds of feet on the nearby stairs as screaming, jabbering tourists fled the building.

Seconds passed and no further roaring approached. The building remained standing. Clearly the city wasn’t going to engulf us in a landslide today.

“That was an earthquake!” Cesca exclaimed.

“Either that or war with Pakistan has started and we just got nuked!” I replied. “I’m going back to bed” I said.

“What!?” Cesca said, “Shouldn’t we go outside?”

“Out to panic? No thanks.” I jumped back in the bed and pulled up the covers.

Cesca made no move to follow me, “I’m heading outside”

“Baby” I called from the bed, “if it is Pakistan, try not to get any on you…”

She stuck out her tongue and went off.

Sure enough it had been a quake, measuring nearly 6 on the scale. The local area had suffered some damage, but we had been lucky. Quakes are on a logarithmic scale, so while a 6 is high, it’s not in the same league as a 7 and not even the same sport as an 8. All the same, it was one hell of a thing to be woken up by.

For the rest of the day the only chat was of the quake and I eventually logged onto the UN Quake watch web site to record my eye witness account in their database. No further incidents happened and the next day it was forgotten.

We use our final day in Jaisalmer to visit the old city. It was very beautiful.

The ancient buildings all have facia carved from stone and thin alleys wind all around the centre. The hotel owner took us on a tour to the tumble down palace and we spent a good few hours talking to the man whose job it is to rebuild it.

He was part of a family who had worked for the Rajput for generations and it had fallen to his generation to try and get the palace back in order. It was very old and open to the elements, and I remember thinking that he had one hell of a job on his hands.

As we shopped I considered buying a camel skin leather bag, which all looked wonderful (I am a sucker for bags) but didn’t. I regretted that for days until I read on the web that they are often not properly treated and consequently rot with a smell that is impossible to mask and will definitely get picked up when going through an airport.

That evening we all checked out together as one group. We took a bus to the nearest train station and had berths near each other. That night we all chatted and enjoyed each other’s company for one last time before Cesca and I left the train in the early morning and wended our way to our final stop in Rajasthan; Jaipur.

Kind regards,

Basho

The city is blue, blue of the Brahmin caste we were told, but I can’t help wondering if there is another reason for its popular -nay ubiquitous-shade. I heard one rumour that it was due to the blue paint putting off the mosquitos. However, I am more inclined to believe it is to challenge the other brightly-coloured-city it is most often confused with (Jaipur, which is bright pink!) I leaned back on the bed and spied out of the window at the huge cliff-wall behind the hotel, and then up, up and eventually to the turrets of the Mehrangarh Fort high above.

It towered over the entire city of a million people, ever watching like a sleeping dragon turned to stone by some mighty magic, frozen with one eye open and brooding over its faded dominance.

The city’s name? Where else but Jodhpur: the blue city of India set amongst the stark landscape of the Thar Desert.

Actually, as nice as post cuddle snoozes are, I could have murdered a beer and so I dressed and headed out to sit with her. I found her sitting on the roof with the owner and a clearly English woman of about our age. They greeted me and I joined them. The owner waved me up a beer from a passing staff member and continued telling us about the city.

“The city is known as the “Sun City” because of the fine weather,” he said, “It was the capital of the Marwar Kingdom founded by Rao Jodha. The wall goes all the way around.”

I remembered our arrival a few hours before, Jodhpur is indeed a walled city with a tight maze of very narrow streets full of wandering cows and tiny stores of all descriptions.

Travelling through it in a tuk tuk, one cannot help but feel that westerners stand out a little too much amongst the backdrop of a city whose sheer cramped size and ancient structure is hugely resistant to modernisation. Not that this is stopping the tuk tuk driver attempting to break the speed of light.

I turned to Cesca, the wind buffeting her hair, “If we travel any faster, we will go back in time!”

She grinned a response.

Eventually we made it to the large haveli or converted palace that you will find all over Rajasthan. It had enormous doors in a giant wall upon which we knocked mightily and were greeted by a staff member who directed us to the young owner. He was the same man holding court with us now and part of the family that had converted the old edifice of residence into the magnificent guesthouse before us.

Suddenly I realised that the reason he was paying us all such attention was that he fancied the English girl speaking with Cesca. At least I hoped it was she and not my baby as this was a very high roof from which to be flung…

Anyway, we espied the city and he told us of the sights to be had in its investigation. He then offered us himself as a guide. We agreed and he took us through the streets and temples showing us the sights. It was all quite excellent really.

That night we stayed up quite late, eating the great food prepared at a moment’s notice by our host, and chatting to the English girl. She was a Doctor by trade, on her travels and heading further into Rajasthan until reaching the desert city of Jaisilmere. We very quickly hit it off and decided we should all go together. Indeed, like all the incredible people we met, it was my darling wife they immediately took too – she just has a very impressive skill of putting people at their ease, which is formed of her intense innocence and classy way.

The next day we walked up to the castle-like Mehrangarh Fort and took a long look around.

Like the palace in Udaipur this was very impressively preserved and indeed still in use by the ruling family. We enjoyed another exquisite audio tour and visits to armouries, ballrooms and private antechamber of the Princes found in this part of India.

It never failed to impress. Outside I filmed the city and animals living on the walls and Cesca, dressed in her traditional and bright orange Indian clothing (bought way back in Mumbai), made friends with locals who were soon chatting to her in excited and animated conversation.

Later we realised that we wanted to stay a few more days here and so we made to find a cash machine. This required a long walk through the city until coming across only two working international choices. The first was out of money, which worried us mightily. Rushing to the other, we found that it was not working properly and took 20 minutes to count our money, but it eventually spat out enough funds to cover our adventures for the next few days.

Now we could go shopping!

The Handicrafts industry has in recent years eclipsed all other industries in the city. By some estimates, the furniture export segment is a $200 million industry, directly or indirectly employing as many as 200,000 people. Other items manufactured include textiles, metal utensils, bicycles, ink and sporting goods. A flourishing cottage industry exists for the manufacture of such items as glass bangles, cutlery, carpets and marble products.

WIKIPEDIA

We asked around for where to buy fine silks in the city (something that it is famous for) and were directed to a slightly tattered looking shop with enormous piles of silks of every conceivable type. There we spent the best part of half a day ordering up bed coverings as presents for our families.

This was an experience that was at one moment highly pleasurable; full of “ohh’s and ahh’s as they laid out the wares for us and claimed everyone from London boutiques to Richard Gere himself bought from this store; and the next moment was sheer pain; as we were pressured to make decisions (something Cesca hates doing) and agree a price. Eventually we bargained down to a fair price, but as always you know that you are being fleeced somewhere and somehow. Still the silks are lovely.

“How can I decide which goes to which person?” Cesca asked me.

“You can’t really baby, people will always like a different one than the one you picked out for them. Just let them do the fighting.”

Therefore, I paid the (massive) bill and the company posted the entire lot home. I remember at the time wondering if it would actually arrive back in the UK, but it did and quickly.

Then we went tea hunting. Jodhpur is also justly famous for its spices and high quality teas. We had a fantastic couple of hours trying all sorts of brews and listening to the happy proprietor explain their many health benefits.

We bought some spices (which I only got half way through after a year) and teas (which Cesca has never opened!).

This bounty, plus a few other gifts we posted back to the UK through the torturous Indian postal system, which requires you to wrap all you items in cloth and seal them with wax. Or rather it requires someone to do this, just not you. No, in another gouge, you must have someone trained in the required technique do it or your package will go missing.

It’s not the cost that prickles, but the time wasted trying to find a suitable merchant to do this for you.

After another fun night talking to Wendy, we decided to move onto the next town together. We found a suitable bus and headed out into the long road into the desert and the sand mountain that is Jaislemere.

Regards,

Basho

Those are the known unknown things that you decide to do only when faced with the opportunity. You know you might do them, but you perhaps only have the haziest plan about them. What this story highlights are the complete unknowns; those strange twists of fate and chance that dog everyone’s lives from one end to the other. Perhaps that is being unfair to them as they are the same class of occurrence that led to me meeting my wife, my friends and finding my job.

But, they can also lead to what is to follow…

My tale begins just before we travelled to the (now closing) park of Bandhavgar in India and starts with us trying to go the train station in Varanasi.

Leaving Varanasi is not something I am soon to forget.

Just getting to the station that night was one hell of challenge. I have written before about how Cesca and I played good cop, bad cop with the local Tuk-Tuk drivers to make sure that we were not gouged by excessive charges, facilitated by the driver and friends taking us for a “marks” or as we in the UK call them “mugs”. Our double act, of Cesca walking away in huff followed by myself after sharing an exasperated look with the offending driver, had wowed and convinced all over the east. Indeed, I remember thinking that it was so effective that it must be a simple part of the “play” or “act” of hiring a taxi, Tuk-Tuk or Songthaew anywhere else in the world apart from the bit I came from. I also remember remarking that it would always work…

Cesca and I stopped, our backs to the small group of Tuk-Tuk drivers, and we leaned into each other conspiratorially.

“How many steps have we gone?” I asked, and we both computed the answer in our heads.

“6” we agreed.

“Bugger,” said Cesca, “they’re not going to go for it are they?”

I sneaked a look around at the drivers, coolly watching us walk away. They looked uncaring and if it was acting, it was good acting.

“Thing is darling,” I said, “We don’t have long until our train… Is this time for humble pie?”

Ceca’s eyes met mine and I saw fire in them.

“Never!” She spun to face the group and strode towards them raising an indignant finger.

The trouble was simple. The Tuk-Tuk to the hotel from the train station had been one hell of a journey, but at least it had been a fixed fare set by the government rates system. However, trying to get back to the train station from the hotel was to pick a Tuk-Tuk off the street nearby and this was ungoverned… and five times the price. When the man had first suggested the fare we simply knew it had to be a haggler’s bluff. But, I was now forming the notion that the Tuk-Tuk drivers here are in some sort of price-fixing union or cartel (or mafia!) and won’t haggle at all- they want the foreign visitor to pay a high price!

Cesca took to arguing with the men. I don’t know how good their English was beyond how to simply perform their job, but I could tell that Cesca’s body language was translating perfectly; she was pissed off. I hung back. A big guy standing over her shoulder could illicit the wrong reaction.

After only a few minutes another man, leaning against a wall, detached himself and walked over and offered to take Cesca for the original price on the condition that she stopped shouting and also that he happened to live near the station anyway.

She grinned in triumph all the way to the station forecourt. What a girl!

As we were dropped off I took a look at the station forecourt in the darkness. Surrounding it were tall lampposts throwing out a dirty orangey light that illuminated the dusty ground in pools of colour crossed endlessly with the flashing of insects mistaking the bulbs for the moon.

We put on our backpacks and made our way towards the entrance. Walking under the lamps there was a buzzing of activity and I noticed from the corner of my eye a large moth break formation with the group and dive down to take a closer look. It was a wild winged creature of significant size and my first instinct upon seeing it, heading straight down at my face from the corner of my eye, was to flinch aside Bruce Lee’like.

Unfortunately, the moth also changed direction and I remember hearing its wings buzzing loudly like a dive-bombing Stuka.

Then nothing.

I looked around, but couldn’t see it and I thought to myself “where did that go?”

Then I realised the horrifying truth. In a million to one shot the massive Indian flying creature had managed to wedge itself right into my ear canal. I slapped my hand to my ear in shock and the moth responded by buzzing its wings, which inside my ear canal sounded like a recording of 400 cymbals falling down a flight of stairs played through a speaker turned up to 11.

I screamed in pain. Cesca flashed around and for a good few moments couldn’t work out what was wrong.

“Darling?” she asked.

“There’s a bloody great moth in my ear!” I cried. “Help!”

She ran over to help and took a look in my ear, to which the moth responded with the ending of The William Tell overture as heard from 2 inches away from the explosions.

I screamed some more.

“Get it out!”

Now it was at this moment, had this been a film, that the Benny Hill music would have started and everything would have been slightly sped up. We tore off our backpacks and flung everything out on the floor in increasingly desperate attempts to remove said insect from my ear. Each attempt, ear buds; wipes; sticks, was met with desperate struggles from the moth and more screaming from myself. It was wedged in there good and proper and (Cesca told me later) took up the entire ear.

By this time we had drawn the attention of a couple of policemen, who spoke no English and merely stood bemused at Cesca attempts to explain, so I decided that we should get on the train and deal with it there. Cesca told me later that this was the point at which she would have headed to an A&E.

In aural-agony I walked to the train, my hearing on both sides shot to bits and my heart racing as I tried to think of something that would get this bastard out of my ear.

On the train, we took up our little bed area and pulled the curtains across. Cesca then set about thinking hard. The increasingly desperate moth had been seriously battered by my attempts to dig it out with earbuds and my ear canal was now very sore, as was my eardrum against which the moth had been push and squashed. I realised, just as the train pulled out, that this was much worse than we thought.

Cesca hit upon an idea. Ear wax remover.

“Ear wax remover!?” I exclaimed, “You have carried ear wax remover all this way around the world?”

“Yes, for clearing my ears before diving” she said pulling out a small bag from which she took out the tiny dropper-topped bottle. We lay me on my side and she put in a couple of drops.

It smelt very menthol.

The moth, I am ashamed to say, drowned in this stuff and after a few exhausted buzzes that sounded like nuclear explosions passed away from its life. We turned me up the other way and the fluid drained onto a tissue.

But the moth, dead as it was, was still in my ear.

Cesca took a closer look with a torch and gasped slightly.

“What?” I asked, “Is it huge? Can you grab it?”

“Erm, no it’s not huge” she said.

She was clearly lying, the moth was enormous, and it must be to fill my ears. I always had to use the large rubber ear grommets on headphones, I am a big guy, and I have large ear canals. This beast invading my body, probably covered in all sorts of Indian crap, dust, mites, and shit, was the size of a bloody bus! I suddenly thought that I might get an infection if we weren’t careful and that made my skin go into a cold sweat and my brain beat with blood and worry.

Cesca tried to think of something. Then…

“Ah!” she exclaimed, “I have tweezers somewhere, we should pull it out!”

“Tweezers too? What type?”

“They are tick ones, for pulling out ticks” she replied

“Aren’t they sharp at the ends?” I enquired

“A little, yes”

I motioned to the train carriage which was bouncing around us – Indian trains are anything but a smooth ride.

“Forget it!”

“Well what then?” she asked.

I racked my brain,

“Call your sister”.

I don’t know why calling a vet back in England was supposed to help, she would probably be more concerned for the moth than I, but I wanted to do something and get someone else thinking as well. Arabella tried her best over the line, but her only advice was to sleep on that side of my body and the moth would “pop out”.

“Oh yes,” she said to Cesca down the mobile line from the UK, “Sebastian had a moth in his ear, slipped over-night no problem…”

Cesca latched onto the good news and smiled to me but she wasn’t fooling me for a second. I knew from her face that there was no way this thing was simply going to “pop out” without the application of high explosive.

So I had no choice, I slept the 8 hour journey on my right-side awaiting the moth to extricate itself from my ear canal. I didn’t sleep a moment of that 8 hour journey, not one second.

Eventually we arrived at our stop in the middle of nowhere and then I really did start to worry. What if there were no doctors out here? We were visiting the deep wilds of India; perhaps they wouldn’t have the equipment needed for sorting out ears. You know that bendy thing like a clothes hanger with a camera on the end that doctors jam into children’s ears?

We got off the train and were met by a driver, booked to take us to the safari park we were staying at for the next four days.

“How long is the journey?” I asked.

“Oh quick sir,” he said smilingly, “only 2 hours or so”

I didn’t say anything, but my expression said simply, “!”

I went into that strange mode that people go into when they know their mission. A sort of calm and almost detached view of the world that speaks only in a gentile but swift voice answering all questions exactly and quickly with no elaboration whatsoever.

“I have a moth in my ear” I said to myself, “for at least two more hours,” I continued, “and then we shall remove it”.

Zen monks couldn’t have put it calmer.

We finally arrived at the park as the sun rose over the trees. It was beautiful in the extreme, but I wasn’t really watching it. We quickly checked in and got to our room. Bags were flung into the bed and I grabbed our extensive medical bag and strode purposely into the bathroom.

“Cesca,” I said smartly, handing her the bag, “in there is a syringe.” I bent over the sink. “Please use that with some water to flush this obstacle from my ear”.

Cesca tried, but it didn’t work. The moth was crushed against the ear and the water couldn’t get under it to lift it.

It was time for desperate measures.

“Ok,” I said, “go for the tweezers”

Cesca lifted the large chisel ended tweezers out of the medical kit and approached my ear. She reached out and in.

“Slower!” I said.

“I am going slowly” she protested.

“Then go slower, go glacially”.

The tweezers entering my ear disturbed the moth’s corpse and set off more endless cymbals in my head. I felt her grab hold of the end of the moth and that really hurt. She later told me that her greatest fear at this point was that the moth would come apart and have to be removed in bits.

“I have it,” she said, “ready?”

“Go,” I said.

She pulled and for a moment I too thought the moth wasn’t moving, then suddenly its entire bulk shifted and my hearing returned. It was off the ear drum! The pain stopped and then with the most satisfying, crashing, screaming, noise-filled moment of my life there was an audible, slimy pop and the moth came out.

Intact.

Cesca immediately flung it into the basin. I stood up and then we did that thing that always happens in the movies, we learned in to take a closer look and both, in unison, cried “urrrg!”

It was huge and slimy and crushed and all legs and wings and, well, “urrrg!”

We looked at each other and then I gave Cesca the biggest hug of her life, lifting her clean off her feet and against the wall.

“THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU!” I exclaimed over and over again, tears coming to my eyes.

The nightmare of the last 10 hours was over, my ear was sore but safe, and Cesca- she was as ever my hero.

So, there you have it. We went on in the next few days to see 9 tigers in their wild habitat and this certainly helped redress that painful journey. My ear did hurt all that time, but I didn’t care since we were having such a great time.
It’s often said that it is the bullet with your name on it that you don’t hear. Well, I went through a long journey to reach the moth with my name on it and I heard it all right. That was got me to flinch. It’s natural to do so, to protect the eyes, but very few people consider their ears!

I sure do now!

Since then I have come to realise that this story highlights perfectly the difference between Courage and Bravery. I had the moth in my ear; there was nothing I could do to get it out. Staying calm was brave. Cesca was in charge of a very sharp set of medical implements which she needed to put into my deepest ear canals. Staying steady at such moments takes courage.

Something she has in spades.

Regards,

Basho

Udaipur was the first stop for us into Rajasthan. We had heard so much about this part of India and were looking forwards to our visit with relish. The historic capital of the former kingdom of Mewar in Rajputana Agency, Udaipur’s fierce independence had successfully led it into the modern world almost untouched. This is in part due to its mountainous region being unsuitable for heavily armoured Mughal horses; Udaipur remained unmolested from Mughal influence in spite of much pressure.

We had already experienced a “preview” of what we could expect while in the colourful southern city of Mysore, with its grand palace covered in bulbs, culture revolving around the charismatic power base of the Raja’s and incredible local markets.

We arrived, as ever, by train. It remained the quintessential method of transport across India, but its routes into Rajasthan were not all going to where we wanted and so we were soon going to abandon the train for buses and other methods of transport. But, for now, we caught a tuk tuk to the “travellers” centre. The city is built up around lakes and almost everywhere we went overlooked them somewhat.

 For Indian cities, Udaipur is fairly well off and the buildings are all brightly painted and shining in the vast amount of sunlight. In the distance, over the almost endless roof-top gardens and restaurants, are the majestic rolling Aravali foothills.

The huge visible distance lends an ambiance to the city. However, when we arrived it was very early and still dark. We had called ahead and booked our room at Anjani hotel, an old royal Haveli Anjani Ji converted to hotel which is situated near to the Pichola-Lake. It’s bright White frontage and views over the lake made it a great choice and not too expensive. We walked up a steep alley to the hotel front and entered the foyer.

There was no-one in sight and the lights were all off. Cesca called out into the dim room and three men, obviously sleeping behind the counter rose and bid us welcome. They certainly went from sleeping to working quicker than I can manage, however they made the mistake of trying on a little room gouging with Cesca first thing in the morning. After twenty minutes she had not only got us the original rate back, but also double upgraded to an incredible suite overlooking the lake. It had a four-poster bed and was quite wonderful. We then went to the rooftop restaurant for breakfast.

The hotel floating in the center had originally been a palace for the local Rana of course, but now was a playground for the western rich. Those that don’t stay at the other great hotel locally: the Oberoi. That hotel was outside of town and hidden from view around the lake edge. It was even more exclusive. I wondered how much it cost to stay there.

We spent the next day exploring Udaipur and considering the purchase of silk bed covers as gifts for those back home. We also perused the local cafes and partook of the local foodstuffs, or at least the tourist versions of same. The best place we found was a German style bakery serving up all sorts of wonderful delicacies.

Then we decided to visit the great City Palace built in 1559 and overlooking the lake from atop a nearby hill. Walking up to the grand ‘Bara Pol’ (Great Gate) entrance was to experience the brilliant architecture of India.

We were learning that Rajasthan had not lost any of its classic beauty compared to the, obviously, war-torn southern cities. How could this be? The story goes that the invading Marathas tormented the Udaipur rulers for years until the British came to their rescue in exchange for becoming a British territory. A wise choice as the southern states that fought against the empire suffered greatly against the most formidable army of that time. Indeed it would only be the great peacemaker Gandhi (a hero of mine) who could break the British will, well that and WWII having bankrupted it. After independence, the “princes” here lost those rights in the change to democracy, but kept their palaces which are now run as trusts.

 Like all Maharanas palaces this one was a monument to pure familial power and a building to inspire a cultural influence. Gleaming white buildings with gigantic doors, designed to defend against elephant attack, protect the entrances to the palace proper. Clearly this was more of a castle than just palace. It had the winding corridors and courtyards, the guard rooms and barracks of a major civic administrative centre.

Interestingly the title of “Maharana” is that given to a military warrior ruler not a king (“raja”). Hence they are “princes” of their domains.

Inside the giant doors was the armoury and guard-room. This was a highlight for me and I stood amazed at the superlative inventiveness of the Indian’s methods of waging war. Swords and spears were only the beginning. Almost all the beautifully inlaid weapons also had a hidden pistol somewhere in the structure. I saw axes with pistols in the top, swords with pistols in the handles, even pens that could fire a bullet.

These were not even the most incredible weapons, for the Indian’s also used arms I had never seen before. Such as a very long sword built into a gauntlet so that the four-foot blade protruded from the fist like a giant punch dagger. It was stiff and with the gauntlet coming quite far down the arm meant that the warrior would not be able to use his wrist to “roll” or turn the blade and would have to swing his whole arm using his elbow as the main joint. It must take an amazing amount of training to use effectively not to mention a lot of space on the battlefield.

Once through the armoury we entered the maze of rooms, hidden gardens, jewelled chambers and throne rooms of the palace proper. These were all still intact and had not been looted. Stained glass and brightly coloured artworks adorned all the Walls. One motif I noticed regularly was the visage of a Rajasthani man, all round-faced and with the traditional moustache of the region.

I realised that the Ranas had built up quite a cult of personality here in their power base. This revolved around their ability to “protect” the local population from the assignations of invading hordes from the north. Much was made of the Ranas personal prowess in battle – not surprising if he had so many hidden pistols to fire – and how this leant itself to the divine right of warriors to rule.

 There is a lot of is sort of thing in all monarchies, but it is only when seeing it not directed at oneself that you can see it for what it really is: a method of keeping a family line in power. As the Patrician of Ankh Morpork says, “people mostly want tomorrow to be just like today”.

That is not to say I didn’t find it alluring and beautiful, quite to the contrary; I thought it magnificent and a stunning artistic marvel. I wondered how anything I would go on to see in Rajasthan could compete. Little did I know that this palace was the standard of this area of India, and each city-state had an equally or better edifice to the past.

One thing I do remember well was the very high quality audio tour that spoke at length about the legends and history of the building, something that would be difficult to discern without local assistance.

After a few hours we returned to our hotel and met the owner. She and Cesca got on very well and we were presently surprised when she offered Cesca a job renovating the hotel. We seriously considered it and I wonder now what would have become of us had we relented to the temptation.

That night we ate out in a roof top restaurant and spoke with the waiter who, as it turned out, used to work in the mysterious Oberoi.

“How much is a room for a night?” I asked.

“$2000 a night,” he said, “but it doesn’t really have rooms”.

“What do you mean?”

“The hotel is like nothing else. You get your own wing, your own cook, your own staff and your own pool. You basically get your own hotel”.

“Wow!” Cesca exclaimed.

The waiter smiled and filled our glasses.

We had a few days until the festival we had come to see, and I would like to say we spent it exploring the countryside and many temples, but the room was so nice and the heat so high that we mostly spent it exploring each other. Not to say I didn’t learn new things!

In the mornings Cesca would go and do some yoga at the local school, and then we would explore the cafe’s (of which there were many, usually filled with too-loud Americans yelling into their phones and sipping lattes). After that it would be some shopping and then back to the room.

It was great to relax and Udaipur was just the place.

Eventually the night arrived and we had the opportunity to see one of the strangest festivals in all of India. Down by the steps to the Gangaur Ghat a large crowd of very brightly dressed Indians all milled around as though waiting for something.

They were mostly middle-aged women and children. They didn’t have long to wait. Amidst much fanfare the first younger girl came into view. She was dressed in very fine and colourful garments and on her head was a large pointed puppet. There were two types, one male and one female.

They were made to look like they were dressed up for something as well. The girls’ numbers swelled to a dozen full casts for Punch and Judy. They all seemed happy, but ever so slightly embarrassed.

I learned that they were all unmarried women and that this ceremonial procession was to ask the Gods for aid in finding them a partner. Cesca and I decided that it was all very sweet really.

We spent a couple of hours paying with the hordes of local kids who had come for the colourful spectacle being played out by their sisters and aunts, but found the two Westerners an unexpected bonus.

We had quite a flock demanding money, photos and school-pens following us until the festival ended and we went for a drink.

As we sat on yet another rooftop bar, ruminating on the night’s brightly lit strangeness and the phenomenon of unmarried sisters; I noticed something on the hills in the distance:

They were on fire.

A large fire was burning over the brow of the hill. Judging by the distance to the glow it was a dangerous size and I briefly wondered about it coming down to threaten the city itself. Over the next hour i watched it out of the corner of my eye as it swept along the hill-side.

Eventually we turned in. The next day we booked a hire car to take us to Jodhpur and we left Udaipur behind. It had been a very relaxing and pleasant city area to visit with some incredible architecture and that amazing palace. I still remember it very fondly.

Our hire car drove us through the countryside towards the great city of Jodhpur and we watched the beauty pass us by in happy, if warm, contemplation.

About half way through our journey we stopped at the enormous Jain temple of Ranakpur, near Sadri town, in the Pali district of Rajasthan.

It is acclaimed world-wide for its intricate and architectural style and one of the five major pilgrimage sites for the Jain faith. 

The sign outside asked menstruating women to refrain from entering and so I went in alone. Inside, the temple’s complex chambers with carved pillars the interesting geometry threw me for a moment; it was incredible. I heard later that it was seriously considered as one of the new “wonders of the world”.

The Jain cult is not well known outside of India, but it is as ancient as Buddhism and not dissimilar. Certainly much ink has been spilt in claim and counter claim of who came first between them. Suffice to say, they are both of importance. Both are concerned with spiritual release through discovery of the nature of the “self” and the veneration of those who have achieved this release in the past. Given that Buddhism has splintered into such variant churches, the fact that Jainism remains almost unchanged after 2000 years is quite an achievement.

Then a smiling man in a robe approached and introduced himself as the High Priest and would I care to make a donation? I should have known what was coming next as I had been in umpteen Indian temples by this point: he was going to “spot” me.

In India, the spot of paint on the forehead means that one has attended temple that day. They come in all colours and guises, but Cesca and I had decided to avoid them. It seemed to me that it’s unfair to appropriate beliefs you don’t hold or to “fake” as such. For example I hate it when politicians claim affiliation to a cause they don’t actually support, such Tony Blair wearing a “Drop the Debt” wrist band at the G8; as if he really cared for that.

As I leant in to pass the note into the man’s proffered pot I suddenly felt the unmistakable strike of a fingertip just above my eyes. He had got me!

“Oh!” I said startled, “You got me!”

He just smiled the smile of the believer and moved on. His job done.

I took some photos and left to show Cesca, who informed me that the bright blue mark was very becoming while trying not to laugh out loud at my unimpressed expression!

We got back in the car and returned to the road.

“Are you not going to wipe that off?” Cesca asked.

“No,” I replied, “it was a very relaxing and impressive temple so I think that the priest earned a little blue spot from me today.”

We huggled up and as the car drove into a valley we watched as the countryside slew past and the sun started to dip over the horizon.

But then they are probably not trying to, instead they are after a unique chance of visiting the worlds greatest monument to romantic love ever constructed. For that is what this strange tomb is; one man’s attempt to express his love and loss. Seen in that sense, flying half way across the world just to see the sun rise here is perhaps not so crazy after all.

Cesca and I arrived a different way, a much more down to earth way; by train. Agra was one of the few places that we had phoned ahead and booked. This is because Agra has quite a different reputation amongst backpackers; a deadly reputation.

Surrounding the great tomb is, what some might call, a shanty town. In the past it probably was, just a place for the Mountebanks, snake charmers and con artists to live when they weren’t begging outside the tomb proper. Then came the era of international tourism and the arrival of backpackers. I can hardly imagine what courage it took to backpack India in those first days. I get some of the stories from fifteen years ago when my sister-in-law was in the north of India. Back then, the population was tiny compared to now and everyone much poorer. Staying in the area around the Taj, called the Ganj, was probably taking your life in your hands even just from the point of view of the water quality (drawn directly from the great river flowing behind the Taj and very polluted). You may consider this an exaggeration, but even in our more modern times there has been deaths here. The story I was told was that there was a con being played, which went like this:

Tourists would stay at a hostel and naturally enough ask at the desk for a food recommendation, the helpful staff would call up tuk tuk and direct them to a “quality” restaurant. At the end of the meal the tourists would start to feel ill and eventually collapse in pain. The tuk tuk would then take them to a doctors clinic who would check them in and claim that they had a well-known local infection that he could treat no problem. He would then give them medicine once they had called their insurance company. Over the next few days to weeks they would remain ill and eventually “respond” to the treatment. Thanking the doctor they would probably fly home none-the-wiser to what really happened to them. You see, the hotel, the tuk tuk driver, the restaurant and the “doctor” were all in on a nastily little scam. That the restaurant poisoned the tourists is obvious, but worse so did the doctor’s “treatments”. Why? Because western people are insured up the wassoo and all this money flowed directly into the doctors clinic where he would pay off the others. It worked pretty well for – I hear – a couple of years until two German tourists died from the treatment. After that the Indian government went though the Ganj area and forced out all the scammers. Or so we should hope.

Cesca and I were hearing this tale from a guy on our tiger safari whose face was covered with hundreds of painful looking bedbug bites – the result of a visit to a bad hostel in Agra. We were only slightly more concerned about the story than the painful looking bites, surely going to scar.

We later read up and found that the tale was true.

“What shall we do?” Cesca asked me, knowing that I was the more security conscious (read: paranoid) of the two of us.

I thought for a moment before the answer hit me, “we will stay with Muslims,” I announced. My hope was that the famous Muslim hospitality would prevent them from any such behaviour as it would be against one of the Pillars of Islam. So, we called ahead and booked into a hotel in the heart of the Ganj area owned and run by a Muslim family. It was very close to the Taj itself and the view out the back of the room was over the houses leading up to the great Tomb.

The view from our room / a local women takes in the street view.

We were just deciding to take a walk around the area when we met one of the most memorable people of all our travels. I stood outside in the dusty street out front of the hostel and perused my Lonely Planet. I was considering where we might find something to eat. Then suddenly, amongst the endless sounds of India; chatting in Hindu, Indian music, etc, came a vocal accent it was wonderful to hear; Scottish.

“Hey pal, may I borrow that from ye?”

I looked up to find a thin late thirties bald man standing over the frame of a road bike and indicating my Lonely Planet. He was dressed in cycling shorts and a sport top and his bike was ladened down with large specialist bags over each wheel. Clearly this was all his gear.

“Sure,” I said handing him the book, which he took without hesitation, “it’s nice to hear an accent from home.”

“Aye,” he said reading the book and not really listening. Cesca and I shared a smile. It really was nice to hear the Scottish brogue, it’s a reminder of my little island and my people who I often missed. It has occurred to me since that we spent a lot of time travelling in the company of Scottish and Irish people, I wonder if their voices had anything to do with it, or that the legendary gregariousness of these nations commutes to friendship all over the world? The man flicked through the book for a few more moments and then looked Cesca and I up and down, “Do you know where I may get a beer?” he asked.

“Not off the top of my head I’m afraid, we are new to the area, but there will be one in there I am sure,” I said.

He seemed to come to a conclusion, “Would you two like to come for a beer?”

“Why yes, we would”.

“Grand, I know a good place over there,” he gestured at a building 100 yards away.

“Basho,” I said holding out my hand to shake, “and this is my wife Cesca”.

He smiled a broad grin, “I’m Eric”.

And so we went to have a drink. We were fascinated to learn more about this strange fellow on his bike. The fact that it was early didn’t bother us at all; it was still very hot, ‘tis true, but more than that you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth when meeting people. Some of the greatest people are met in the most unlikely ways; sometimes thrown together by fate like Lenin and Bobbits in Laos, sometimes met through hardship like Gwenny in Kerala and sometimes unavoidable like Connor and Marie-Lou who we gratefully met over and over and over. Sometimes it’s just meeting someone who you just know you will enjoy the company of, like Eric.

We went to the rooftop bar/café and the owner greeted Eric like an old friend, we sat overlooking the Ganj and the Taj poking over the rooftops; all the pretence of needing a guide book was gone.

The Ganj viewed from the café.

Eric ordered us all beer from a little boy waiter,

“He has to go buy it,” he explained, “it’s illegal to serve beer, but he likes me so the lad goes and gets it. We must drink it under the table in cups, OK?”

“Sure,” said Cesca, “so tell us, what’s with the bike?”

He told us.

I’ve met quite a few courageous people in my life and Eric is right up there with the best of them. A postman in Scotland, Eric was struck down with ME; the strange and not understood exhaustion disease/syndrome that usually puts people into homes for the rest of their life.

“I recovered,” he said, “and I said to myself I wanted to do something different, so I became a Yoga instructor”.

“Of course, why not?” I said.

“Aye I did that for a while to earn enough money to leave on this journey.”

“Where did you get the bike?” I asked.

“No that’s what I mean, I left Scotland on the bike, I’m cycling across the world from Aberdeen to Adelaide in Australia.”

There was a silence as we took in the enormity of this challenge. Then my talent for saying stupid things at the wrong time came to my rescue,

“Adelaide is lovely,” I told him. You’ll love it there.”

He smiled, “I hope so”.

“You must be about half way through,” said Cesca.

“Aye, but I’m stopping here for a few days as I’m bloody exhausted from Pakistan.”

And he told us about his experiences cycling through Pakistan. They had not been very pleasant to say the least. The Pakistani government had given him a police escort through the country because they were worried that he might be murdered. This escort stopped traffic as he came to roundabouts and junctions and he felt very isolated from the people. They forced him to sleep in police stations at night and, as he tried to sleep, his “guards” ordered up prostitutes for themselves and eyed his gear.

“It was horrible,” he said, “eventually I decided to just power through it and so here I am trying to recover from the effort.”

“How long will you stay in this area?” Cesca asked.

“Oh, maybe just a few days,” he said.

Sometimes a husband and wife think as one. Perhaps it is a form of mental connection beyond cues, something psychic. Whatever it was we both knew right there and then that this guy wanted company, that he needed some help to right his mind and that this was exactly what we were going to give him.

We sat and ate and drank with Eric all that day. He talked a lot, like a man who had missed the sound of his own language. We listened and talked to and it seemed to me that we had a lot in common.

The next day we did the same. This time we met up with some other travellers (including a graffiti artist and his partner from my home city of London) and long, semi drunken conversations lilted off into the day and night on all sorts of subjects. Life, the Universe, travelling to name three of the topics. We all benefitted from the company and I guess we all needed it, but Eric most of all. Slowly I could tell he was coming right again.

In the distance the Taj still sat. Waiting. I watched it out of the window of our hotel, poking high above the buildings. It wasn’t going anywhere and I wanted to wait until we were ready.

So the next day, we agreed to meet up with Eric at dinner and went off to the Red Fort.

The fort is very large and impressive, if a little barren.

This being the part of India that fought against the British, the fort had long been looted, but still it was an incredible day with the sun high in the sky making the red bricks glow in the light. The fort had been the prison for the Khan who built the Taj for his beloved wife. Almost bankrupting the nation, his son usurped his rule and placed him here for the rest of his life. To add insult to injury the son built a special optical illusion from the prison cell that makes the distant Taj appear to grow closer as your eyes focus. I imagine the old king crying, to be so close to his love and yet unable to touch her, lost in memories.

You cant capture the optical illusion with a 2D camera, but it’s very eerie.

That night we dined with Eric and a nice American couple on the “tour” of India where you fly in and out in a few days. I don’t meet many people quite this rich in such circumstances and certainly not with the same outlook on life, and so it was interesting to spend some time in their company. However, their story of that day’s visit to the Taj was the last straw and Cesca and I determined to visit it the next day. As darkness fell the local people of Ganj had a festival and we went down into the crowd to see the procession. It was very colourful and bright, but I am not sure what it represented beyond the obvious gods.

The next morning we made for the Taj. There are a number of entrances, but only some are open early.

The early queue, with me right at the back…

I remember that tourists are charged a vastly inflated price in comparison to locals, but then; their disposable income is far less in relation. Once into the gateway, and through the very thorough search protocols, you are greeted with an outer courtyard of prodigious size which leads all the paths to the main entrance in to the famous park. Even though we were very early, the place was busy and I could tell that once the bus tours arrived it would get seriously packed in and not too much fun.

The main inner entrance.

Through the giant main entrance (where you have to leave your camcorder for some reason) you arrive in the garden proper. From here the building itself is breath-taking. Again using the optical effects seen in the Fort this is the best moment of the visit as you cannot fail but to be impressed.

In front of you is the spot that Lady Diana made famous and this is the start of the trouble because everyone wants the same shot.

It becomes an inelegant scrum very quickly. In this garden, supposed to be a private place, there is now unnumbered people climbing all over the top of each other and since these are the sorts of people up at this time in the morning they are the sort of people with “photographic agendas”.

I started to feel the magic of that first view drain away, so we approached the tomb. As you get closer you quickly realise that it is a lot smaller than it looks. The design is following some secret principle of making things look bigger, but only from particular angles. From others it shrinks.

Through the hundred meters of garden you arrive at steps and up up to the platform on which the tomb sits. As we drew closer we could see that the entire buildings façade is slight in need of repair with the fine inlaid stone being endlessly chipped off and stolen.

We walked around and spied the river running behind the structure. It is large and very dirty. We then entered inside the tomb, which was quite bare and amongst the throng of people there really wasn’t much to see. Soon we left the building and, avoiding the oncoming hordes, we went into the garden areas to the right. In these there were lots of plants and squirrels and we had some fun feeding the little blighters before deciding to leave the Taj.

Maybe the Taj can be seen in the way it was intended, maybe it is just me, but the large crowds meant that I got very little romance from the occasion and less from the ambience (which is one of busy frustration). If people visited the Taj with the quiet solemnity that one visits, say, Stone Henge then it would remain a magical experience. However, for me the Taj gave very little. What did surprise me was how nice the people of the Ganj area were and how good the food was! Surely this place has changed since the stories we had heard about.

That night we said our goodbyes to Eric. He was moving on to further adventures on his epic journey across the world. I later learned (from his blog) that he not only made it across the deserts of Australia to the wonderful city of Adelaide two months ahead of schedule, but decided to cycle back the other way! Returning to his native Scotland via New Zealand, America and Ireland. He is truly a lesson to us all, and one that was not lost on me.

Cesca and I held hands all the way to the station watching the Ganj area, and the wider roads of Agra, fly past our tuk tuk. Perhaps the Taj had some magical effect after all?

We boarded the train and took up our beds, still holding hands. Ahead was Rajasthan and the great lake city of Udaipur, with its pure quiet romance, huge forest fires and hordes of dancing virgins with giant puppets on their heads…truly.

Regards,

Basho.

On one hand there are high-end coffee cafes that have prices that could only make sense to the gainfully employed. High-end coffee needs to be carefully metered out as it is too comforting and familiar a western experience to eat in such a cafe. Not only does it take you away from your local-encounters in this mighty country, but also takes a large amount of Indian coin from your purse and that directly affects how much you have to spend on the fun things.

On the other hand there are the types of restaurants that Indians eat in themselves. Entering one of these is the classic story of India – the locals stare at you, the menu is in Hindu script, you have no idea what the food is and your loud shouting for Poppadum’s doesn’t go over well. For these places, the average (read lowest common denominator) English person might make the classic mistake that acting like one would act in an Indian restaurant in one’s own country (where Indian immigrants are very supplicating to asshole western dinners) is perhaps not the best idea when there are a million people in the surrounding two miles all of the same culture. Basically, I wonder if the English causal racism played out abroad is not the cause of many of the poisonings you hear about (just wait until this blog gets to Agra for a story of tourist poisoning that will make your hair stand on end). However, treated with respect, and a little bit of savvy regarding the menu, these “true” Indian restaurants serve generally fine if basic fair.

No, the really bad places to eat – the places where one should just walk on – are the for-tourists cafes. This isn’t because they are all bad – some are great and should be cherished like diamonds in the rough – it’s because when they are bad… they try to kill you.

We walked around Bodh Gaya looking for somewhere to eat. Near our hotel was two tourist cafes; plastic chairs, tables and western menus. We sat at the first and was descended on by a platoon of flies. I’m not talking about the usual amount of flies in India. No, this was a shit ton of the buggers. This is normally your first clue to leave since flies are attracted to unclean “cafe-restaurants” with bad sanitation. Cesca and I had been travelling for long enough to take one look at each other, get up and move to the next door cafe. We sat down and perused the menu. It was identical to the first place and was all western fair: Omelettes, toasties, peanut butter and burgers. I took a look at the food being eaten by the other tables and then at the diners. They were all western. This is the second clue. We got up and left. I don’t mind dicing with death in ignorance, but I draw the line at ordering it in a restaurant simply because I am uncomfortable in eating real Indian food. We went back to the hotel and visited the empty restaurant in the basement. After talking to the waiter and surreptitiously checking out the kitchen through the doors, we ordered blindly some local fair and crossed our fingers. It arrived and was of course excellent. We ate there from that moment on. Even when we left the hotel for a new one we came back for the food. Better that than to exchange health for perceived comfort. I suggest to you that you do the same when you are India. After all, Thali is wonderfully tasty.

The delights of Bodh Gaya are more than can just be found at the Mahabodhi Temple.

The surrounding lands contain a large collection of Buddhist temples of all denominations. As this is considered the heart of religious Buddhism many sects want their presence felt in the area. A short walk leads you passed many beautiful temple grounds stacked full of priests. From the the calm and serene temples of the Japanese (I think Pure Land rather than Zen, but I am still not sure)

to the strange and amazing temples of the Tibetans arrayed with many colourful flags, which have since quite taken my fancy as an image; blowing in the wind with their prayers wafted to the skies.

I have a photo of those flags above my bed today.

The highlight of the temple complexes is an enormous Buddha statue that towers high above all the roofs and demands attention. I have walked around such giant symbols before, in Vietnam for example, but never a monster of this size and in this condition. It was beautiful. The sun was dipping in the sky and so we waited and took photos of the statue with the sun at its back. Very nice.

In the high season I expect that you can’t move for pilgrims in this town. At those times I suggest you pre book your visits or you may find it a very crowded and uncomfortable experience. That’s just a guess, but considering that seemingly half the world’s Buddhist schools and “Retreats” are in the area (which were all closed for the “winter” during our visit) and that the Dalai Lama often stays nearby, it is probably on the money.

The background to this place is all part of the Buddhist myth. I shall reiterate that to you now:

Siddhartha, the Indian mystic prince had renounced his birth rights and left to walk the Earth. He did this after seeing death, illness and old age for the first time and deciding it was his mission to find an answer to their suffering. During his travels he learned from Indian mountain mystics who used self-mortification (not eating) to enable them to seek oneness with the Universe and find the self within – the true part of you indivisible from your essence. Siddhartha learned the ways of these men, but eventually left them all and walked on. In a forest he meditated under a tree for months. During this time he hardly ate and became thinner and weaker than could be stomached by less determined men. This fast became notorious and various followers started fasting under trees nearby. Eventually Siddhartha realised that this wasn’t working and he painfully got to his feet and walked on. A few nights later he sat under another tree and mediated. In that night, various demons tried to tempt him and delay his Bodhi – his awakening, but in one night he finally managed it, he broke through the barriers that separate the reality from the conscious and through his mastering of meditation managed to see all realities. This awoke his mind and he became a Buddha – a perfect master with a mind aware in all multiverses and completely without any mental baggage. As he woke from his trance he touched the ground and called upon the Earth itself to witness the new Buddha’s birth.

I remember telling my mum that story and the face she pulled at me. When I was young she had encouraged my mind to wakefulness by discussing philosophy nightly with me. Her philosophy is profoundly sceptical, realist, revisionist and slightly anti-capitalist new age stuff. To spout religious myth to her, to tell her – she thought – that I was a “believer” and a sceptic no more was somewhat horrifying. In actual fact I didn’t become a “blind believer” in Buddhism during my trip and I see the above tale for what it is; a myth. That the man existed and was a Buddha I don’t doubt, but what that means in real and not mythical terms I am not sure. It is true that Buddhism considers him only a man, but he is worshipped like a god by some and his story repeated as if fact. This is not what he taught, he admonished that nothing should be taken on faith (see the Kalama Sutta), but rather one’s own experience was key. This is an issue present in many religious experiences, where the myth has taken over the true story underneath and the message is twisted around it and cannot be easily untwisted. Christianity for example. I told my mum that I saw the Buddha as an ideal to live towards, a state obtainable by anyone and that he was very much just a man; a remarkable man – probably the most remarkable – but not a “god” and not here to setup a celestial hierarchy.

Nevertheless, the myth continues:

After awakening he went for another walk. He came across a deer park and in that park he found the group of men that had been mortificating with him all those months before. They took one look at him and knew, simply knew, that here was the Buddha. They sat and he spoke to them, the first words of the new religious experience that would become Buddhism. He spoke of Four Noble Truths about life, of the impermanence of existence (Anicca), of the interconnectedness of the things in the Universe and of how true happiness (Nibb’na) comes from a Middle Path of eight vows know as the Dharma.

This deer park is in Sarnath.

We arrived by taxi and pulled up by a large white and immaculate temple. This was the Thai temple near the main park and we took a look. It was closed up, but the man guarding it let us in for a few moments. It was exceedingly well kept and had a large and interesting statue of the Buddha at one end. Cesca took a good few photos of that and then we moved on.

A few hundred meters down the road there is the main event; the deer park. Inside there are the remains of temples built by Asoka that were destroyed by the invading Muslims from the north and they remain like that today. All the treasures have been moved to the nearby museum (which I will come to) and the structures reminded me of discarded giant bricks of red stone. At one end of the park a couple of very large stupas sit, squat against the trees and surrounded by Buddhists of all types.

It is a lovely place to come and visit.

We walked around and came across the stone tablet depicting the laws of Asoka, which has been preserved in a cage in the middle of the park. In the distance the green goes on into trees and many deer roam with a wary eye on the tourists.

It was here that we saw some interesting priest chats. That is where a local priest shares his knowledge of the Dharma with the public. The priest had a large amount of listeners and it was quite soothing to watch (even though we didn’t understand the language).

After a couple of hours of chatting with the priests and watching the chats we strolled to the nearby Sarnath Archaeological Museum, which is one of the very best and most impressive museums I have ever visited. Chock full of vital Indian history and fascinating finds from the ancient Indian nations of the past. Inside was one of the highlights of our trip to India: The Lion Capital pillar of Asoka. This large carving of lion heads is the National Emblem of India and the national symbol on the flag. Seeing it in the flesh was a great sight.

Also interesting was the strong features on some of the ancient carvings.

I remember looking at them and wondering what it was that was pulling my attention. Then I realised that these were almost western looking and definitely influenced by the Greek style of caving. Then it struck me; these were carvings made by the Indians that were under the great Alexander! Obviously his Greek tribes influence on the defeated Indians had bled over into the artworks. It was a real meeting of the waters moment and I suddenly felt lucky to be here and seeing this.

After a day we returned to Bodh Gaya and walked around the community taking in the locals. As per usual children flocked to Cesca and before long we were being given the tour which, of course, eventually resulted in demands for school pens. These people were really poor and for once we relented and after being taken to the stationers we made our little contribution to the “learning” of these people.

In the morning we travelled to the train station for our journey onwards. We didn’t really want to leave as the entire experience had definitely moved us both. Soon we jumped on the train and made our way on, but I will never forget those few days in the heart of Buddhism and I definitely feel that I left a little bit of my heart behind.

Cesca and I chose a nice beach-hut style hostel, which was very pleasant. Gwenny found a room further along the cliff edge.

Varkala beachfront is sat atop a quite high cliff overlooking the beach itself. A narrow, and in some places, dangerous path runs along this cliff with the hordes of tourist shops, cafes and hostels all along one side.

Some of the bars had three of four floors for drinking and every single one offered pizza. Gwenny had a flight back home in a few days and Cesca and I were flying to Kolkata the same day. This was to be our last time together, but we had a plan to make it special.

Holi.

Holi is the famous Indian festival where the Hindu faithful throw powdered paint all over each other and especially tourists.

The main day, Holi, also known as Dhuli Vandana in Sanskrit,also Dhulheti, Dhulandi orDhulendi, is celebrated by people throwing coloured powder and coloured water at each other. Bonfires are lit the day before, also known as Holika Dahan (burning of Holika) or Chhoti Holi(little Holi). The bonfires are lit in memory of the miraculous escape that young Prahlad accomplished when Demoness Holika, sister of Hiranyakashipu, carried him into the fire. Holika was burnt but Prahlad, a staunch devotee of god Vishnu, escaped without any injuries due to his unshakable devotion. Holika Dahan is referred to as Kama Dahanam in South India.  WIKIPEDIA

Cesca couldn’t wait and we spent the first day buying Holi-clothing to be obliterated by the paint. I settled on a brilliant white T-shirt with a picture of Ghandi in the middle. I loved it the minute I saw it. I am a massive fan of Ghandi. Cesca picked a wonderful pair of pirate-style trousers, in which she looked awesome. Ready for the onslaught, we went looking for trouble.

We couldn’t find it anywhere.

No paint.

No Holi paint throwing at all.

Eventually we wondered what the hell was wrong, when a local explained that Holi was a Northern Indian festival. Not celebrated in the south (which I now know to be untrue, but we were not in the right place for it – it’s back in Kochin!). To say Cesca was deflated is an understatement. Forlorn we went back to the hostel for a “lay down”. Gwenny took off to her place and we sat and cursed our luck. I decided to shower and then go get drunk. As I turned on the shower there was a knock at the door, which I heard Cesca answer and then she screamed. It was a scream of fun. I poked my head around the door into the room, dripping wet and was rewarded with a face full of red powder paint flung by Gwenny. She screamed at my paint-splattered nakedness and ran giggling out of the room. Cesca and I exchanged looks and got quickly dressed. We chased her down to the beach and a true Holi celebration kicked off with just the three of us. Paint was thrown all around for about 30 minutes.

Dancing in circles like little children. It was great fun.

I took a moment and popped back to the room, for I had a plan. Stripping off the Ghandi T-shirt, I packed it away in a plastic bag. I was going to frame it when I returned to the UK.

And I did. I carried it for months across India, China and Japan and now I see it every day and remember my own special Holi with my Cesca and our new friend.

That night we celebrated in true European style by eating pizza and getting drunk.

Unfortunately, this is the larger part of a visit to Varkala by most people. The strip of cafes and shops offers little more than simply indulging oneself and touts were offering drugs all along it. The next day, while we lay upon the beach I tried to think of something more involved to do. The beach was hot beyond belief, so much so that I managed to get burned while under cover due to the reflection being so strong. Cesca and Gwenny enjoyed themselves until a small group of Indian males had collected nearby.

It is a problem that I have touched on before, but the under sexed and over stimulated Indian men find European women amazingly attractive, exotic and sexy. The British reserve of not seeing semi nakedness and the Dutch ease with sexuality clashes horribly with the Indian social stricture. Consequently the younger men gang up and come for a good look at the white girls. This was one of the reasons Gwenny joined with a couple in the first place. She was travelling alone and being hit on all the time, by locals and westerners. She wanted to hang with us partly because I wasn’t interested in her. She was assuredly beautiful but it is obvious, when one is around Cesca and I, that we are very into each other and very married. We are a safe haven.

Eventually, Gwenny became self conscious about the 10 or so men standing not too close, but close enough to check her out and have a good look. We left the beach and agreed to meet up later.

That night Cesca had come up with an idea. The local temple was having a religious festival with fireworks. We dressed correctly and went for a walk through the night. A couple of blocks into the darkness behind the strip we found some country lanes that wound around to a temple complex with a large courtyard. It was chock full of people, milling around in the dim lights and all awaiting something that was happening in the middle of the complex, where a stone building was throwing out light. Amongst the revellers were many children and a couple of elephants that had been painted in bright yellows and reds. After about 30 minutes the festival started proper when a senior Brahman priest came out of the narrow temple door and spoke in a language I didn’t recognise. We sat to one side on a stone wall and watched from about 10 meters away. He raised his hands and the fireworks started.

Now in Britain, fireworks are safety controlled, especially at public events. People are kept right back and safe from any danger. Not so in India. The rockets, bangers and explosions were amazingly close and loud. Booms that I felt through my fingers that I had jammed in my ears. The crowd were illuminated in flashes as they watched the bright explosions. It was one hell of a show. After an age it finished and the people filed forwards and started passing by a smoking brazier waving the smoke over themselves like one would wash their face with water.

It was fantastic to have been a part of such an event and from the smiles, hand waves and the body language of the event, we were made to feel very welcome by the participants, although Cesca was warned not to photo the ceremony itself. Kindly and with a smile. These were happy people and I was really impressed.

A few days later we were at the airport with Gwenny. There were hugs and promises to meet up sometime and then she caught her plane back to Holland. I was sorry to see her go, I liked her a lot and she was a fun friend to have with us.

Cesca and I then caught our plane to Kolkata. It was an Indian Airways plane and I remember that it was small and that the food was excellent Indian fare.

I watched Kerala disappear away from under us as we flew north. This was the half way point in our Indian journey; we had made it all the way down one side of the country to the very tip. It had been a great adventure of discovery. I was starting to fall in love with India, a process that continues to this day, and I wondered if the north could be as great as this.

I need not have worried for we had plans to visit Varanasi, Bodhgaya, Jaipur, Jodhpur, have a tiger safari, see the legendary Taj Mahal, the deserts of Jaisalmer and the great northern city of Delhi. All that was to come, but first: we had been in the heaven that is Kerala, now we had to visit hell on earth…

We were to land in the black hole that is Kolkata.

Regards,

Basho

Kerala the heat wave.

As we came down from the cool of the mountains of Ooty, on the famous Nilgiris – Mountain Railway, I couldn’t help but notice the creeping rise of the ambient temperature. It rose and continued to rise. Just when I thought it must surely stop, it didn’t. A few of the European people in the carriage exchanged looks and nervous laughter. One girl sitting near us had befriended us on the way down. This was Gwenny from Holland. I have remarked before that it is the people we have met that really matter in our travels, for they give you a chance to share your experiences, to laugh with someone who has been there and done it too – quite a different feeling than talking to someone back home about the journey. There it is “to”, on the road it is “with”. We had met many: Franco in Australia, Lenin and Bobbits in South East Asia and now Gwenny. We all hit it off immediately, not that we had much choice in talking to her as she talked incessantly to anyone who would listen and could keep it up for hours. As people with the same skills and the same open attitudes, I don’t think we stopped talking for the entire day. Or week.

We decided to continue together as a three.

Catching a succession of busses from the base of the mountains into the heart of Kerala was some experience. Firstly, the mountain bus was old, iron and packed to the gills with locals. Simply getting onto it with all our bags was a challenge enough. It flew down the foothills, winding around the roads and, since we were standing, we were thrown around like rag dolls constantly crashing into seated people and holding onto each other for support. It was funny at first, but after a few hours of standing I actually managed to fall asleep standing up. This bus dropped us at the side of a road and we struggled onto another (they won’t wait for you to get on!), which then bumped off into the traffic and through the outlaying towns towards the nearest city.

Dumped from this bus, we then fought our way into a bus station and after an hour working out how the place could possibly serve up a bus going where we wanted, we got on a bus/coach into Kerala proper and towards our first stop of Kochin.

I want to paint an image for you. If you can imagine Cesca with a backpack on, a large one. Then imagine her having a frontpack of also prodigious size. Now imagine she has another backpack in her right hand. Now that she also has three large shopping bags – the kind you get when clothes shopping – gripped in her left hand. Now imagine she is trying to read the Indian Lonely Planet, which is huge and heavy. Then imagine we have arrived in Kerala in a heat wave.

Now imagine that I have to carry it all for her.

It’s a moment ripe for comedy, and that was the predominant look being given to us by the Indians on the journey. A sort of shocked, laughing, bizarre look, like that given to a giraffe running down Oxford Street. There was pointing.

As the bus carved up the miles into Kerala, the colours started to change. From the reddish browns and deep tea greens of the mountains to the bright sea blues and green palm trees of the coast. Not only that, the buildings changed too. I started seeing brand names and signs of prosperity. The roads improved mile by mile (it’s 314km from Ooty to Kochin) and with a sudden realisation and communal smile shared by our little travelling three, we were in Kerala.

This long and thin slice of India sits aside the tip of that great country. Its main city, and one of the most important cities in the country, is Kochin. It was to the old district of this that we were heading. Towards a maze of Portuguese influenced buildings, churches and the famous beachfront.

Our hostel was really a converted house in the middle of a wide and low street. Even in the dark it had an incredible palatial feel to it, with white walls and gated, large, plantation style houses. All around us the air buzzed. I could have convinced myself that we were in the West if it were not for the goats wandering around. But, unlike most of India where wild animals wander the streets incessantly, here the goats were very clean – and shining white in the street lights – and also wearing collars.

Our host welcomed us and we unpacked in our two rooms. We didn’t know if Gwenny wanted to go her own way now, we wouldn’t have minded as it’s not the “done thing” to place boundaries and conditions on those you travel with, so we didn’t hassle her and went out to dinner.

The area has many western inspired cafes and restaurants tucked in its streets. It is clearly a tourist destination hotspot and the “westerness” of the establishments was higher than your normal Indian-for-Indians fare.

The next day, we ventured out and spent the day walking the streets and browsing the shops. The European influence put us quite at our rest and after that journey we were quite happy to just relax. Eventually our steps took us down to the sea front and we came across the famous Kochin Nets.

Chinese net fishing is ancient and I have to wonder if the nets of Kochin are purely for tourists. Nevertheless, they are one of the most beautiful sights to be seen in India and a classic moment for a photo as the sun moves across the sky. It is one of those spots with a special sort of light. It fair drips, flows in clumps, hovers around creating atmosphere and is quite magical. The beachfront was awash with couples taking it all in. We approached the nets and were waved aboard one for a demonstration.

Now, I must admit that my feelings about such “demonstrations” have changed since that day, and this is probably because the amount of money the crew of the net tried to extort from us is minor to me now. Then it was major and we got quite upset and refused to pay. Anyway, Cesca and I assisted in hoisting up the net and counting out the (very few) fish. We shook our heads appreciatively when we heard the sorrowful tale of the fishermen’s disappearing livelihood. There used to be many fish, you see, but not anymore.

Terrible.

After leaving the nets to the next tourist couple, we went back to the hostel. As a traveller you want as “honest” an experience as possible. Of course you don’t mind paying your way. Or even paying a little extra for being white. However, while I am happy to fool myself that most of these experiences are genuine “moments”, and perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised to find that in such a place as Kochin they will be thin on the ground, I don’t want to simply be a “mark”. After so long on the road I was a black belt master in spotting such thinking in others, as was Cesca. Her reaction to being “marked” was always very negative. She would pay thousands to help a charity, would cross shark infested waters for an orphan, but make her experience cheapened by avarice and she won’t budge an inch.

It’s a difficult situation as, as is probably true here, the fishing net men are really buggered and rely on “donations” to just keep going.

Anyway, the man was mean to a pufferfish and that really tore it.

We met up again with Gwenny that night and we all made plans for moving on from Kochin to having a “real” house-boating experience. Cesca had done all the research. The boat had – simply had – to be a man powered boat with no engine. Those are for tourists, the real experience is in being punted down the backwaters. Sounded idyllic, but I wondered how far we would get along the river by such methods, especially since there was bound to be a tide.

We hitched a ride into the city and fought our way through the ton of boat ride touts to get to the Government run tour agent. This guy sold us a fantastic sounding tour on a riverboat. He raised his eye to the three of us going together, but we explained that we wanted two rooms and that satisfied him. Gwenny could not afford the trip on her own and we felt that we should all go together, which just goes to show that we were getting on famously and avoided a prickly situation of having to leave her behind on her own.

The company we used

The next morning we turned up and were driven down to the boat for our trip. It was classic looking and made mainly of thatch.

It had two rooms for the guests that were very nice, to the rear a kitchen area and crew sleeping quarters. Up front was a large foredeck with chairs and the dining table. Amazingly the entire boat was made so light that it could be punted by two men; one front, one back. We set off along the river and soon the amazing views were taking all our breaths away and for the first time Gwenny lapsed into silence. Cesca and I lay in each other’s arms and enjoyed the view slipping passed. All I could hear was the peaceful sound of man punting a 40 foot wicker boat, which is an enjoyable sound, and – of course – the sound of Cesca’s camera.

The people who live in the backwaters are incredibly hardy to eke out their lives in the endless winding and very thin paths that line the banks. As we passed by they always waved. Small children shouted the refrain, which I had got so used to in India, of “School Pen!”

This means:

Excuse me kind sir, would you mind ever so much in contributing a little charitable something to me? No sir! Put away that wallet! I need no money, for such is not the way we measure riches. No Sir, no blushes, we understand. No, sir, I need something you have I am sure, something you can give that not only will enrich my life, but actually be making a difference, something I will use, a tool kind sir. I am I need of a pen, so that I may write my lessons correctly. Just that sir, a simple pen. For – sir! – I long to be smart like you sir and that pen, that pen… well, I will treasure it, honour it. I will look at it every day in my hand as I learn lessons, but sir, I tell you, no lesson – no sir – no lesson will match that of your generosity in contributing to my future. To India’s future and to you own karma sir, God bless you.

The young man yelled again, “school pen!”

I considered the distance from the boat to the shore. About 20 meters. I calculated that if I was able to get a biro to the required velocity to be able to throw it accurately that far, it would be going fast enough to embed itself in the fellow about 6 inches. Not what he really wanted me to do then. Perhaps it is just something they yell? I was to find out chapter and verse a few weeks later in our journey.

The endless splendour of Kerala drifted past.

Eventually the girls went swimming and announced the current to be lethal.

As the sun dropped we pulled up in an inlet and while dinner was cooking we walked around the river banks. The people we met on our way were all happy to see us and quite happy to be photographed.

We looked out at the fields and listened to the crickets. I squeezed Cesca tight and we watched the moon rising.

The next day we did it all again until we ended up back at the start point. I don’t suppose that the boat had gone particularly far, but it had seemed to be a long journey and since I didn’t notice us changing direction I suspect it was a particular circular path though the rivers and inlets.

The cost of this trip had been very high, but it had definitely been worth it. Relaxed and happy we then travelled down to the south end of Kerala and the beach town of Varkala via another hell-bus.

Cecsa and I have sat down and recorded a podcast of our time in Anegundi in India. This is a total-first for us and so please strap yourself in as we try and capture our feelings about the amazing Hampi area without really knowing what the hell we are doing. I haven’t edited it much, nor put on any intro and outro – this is raw stuff. If you like it, then let us know and I will make sure to up the professionalism about 1000% for next week.

Oh and warning for a few swearwords!

I have uploaded a collection of photos for you to browse as we speak as we refer to them as we go along. Hopefully, this will keep us on track and give you something nice to look at while we blather on. Here is a slideshow of the images, click to open in Flickr and you can go through them as I refer to them in the audio.

(Direct link:Flickr Set)

CLICK to play:

If you are on an iPhone (with no flash) try either the direct link: This Is India 1 or try subscribing through iTunes to www.outsidecontext.com/feed

If you are interested in the village featured in the podcast, then you can find more information here: http://thekishkindatrust.org/

Regards,

Basho and Cesca

Shame I don’t live there then!

Cesca and I have written many articles on the subject of New Zealand and also made a “love letter” of a short-film celebrating the country (found under “films” in the navigation bar). However, I have always wanted to do more to speak of our time driving around these islands.

Well, our wish has come true.

About a two weeks ago I was approached by a company working for Air New Zealand. They wanted to license all our content on New Zealand for use in the official Air New Zealand iPhone app!

On the go and in the air, Air New Zealand’s free Spot-On Travel Guide App Series help you make the most of your visit – even offline.

Browse hand-picked activities, events and destinations by region, then save them for quick retrieval upon arrival. Handy travel tools and social network integration make finding and sharing amazing spots a cinch.

Be a tourist without looking like one.

It’s the Kiwi in us – Air New Zealand.

We jumped at the chance of being involved because we loved our time in New Zealand and the idea of that being celebrated “officially” made us very happy. It gives us another way to share our experiences and give something back. Hopefully, this will have a positive effect on the places we experienced and make sure that people visiting the country for the first time don’t miss out.

I cut down the articles to 150 word long chunks with one picture per chunk. I then uploaded them to a custom CMS provided by my contact. A few days ago they were approved and went live on the app!

We uploaded articles on the following topics:

• See the splendour of Pahia and the Bay Of Islands
• Walk endless sands of 90 Mile Beach
• Be blown away on the cliffs of Cape Reinga
• Walk to the falls of Waitonga
• Cycle up Mount John.
• Walk the Hooker Valley for a view of Mount Cook
• Visit the Sir Edmund Hillary Alpine Centre
• See the wild waters of Hokianga harbour.
• Wonder at the Giant Kauri Trees
• Brave the unpaved roads to Waikawau Bay
• Get washed up in Cathedral Cove
• Bath in Mud at Hell’s Gate
• Dip in the Polynesian Spa at Lake Rotorua.
• Wander around the history of Rotorua museum.
• Early morning at Lake Rerewhakaaitu
• See the wondrous colour palette of Wai-O-Tapu
• See the huge Lake Taupo
• Walk the Queen Charlotte track
• Visit and stay at Furneaux Lodge
• Dig your own spa at Hot Water Beach
• Wonder at the strange Moeraki Boulders
• Get wet at Punakaiki’s Pancake Rocks
• See whales by helicopter in Kaikoura

I have created a special “landing page” for use in the iPhone in-built browser. This can be found here: www.outsidecontext.com/new-zealand

If you are thinking of, or planning, a visit to the best country on the far-side of the world, then get this app and read up on some of the above. We did so much in New Zealand. In two months we travelled one end to the other taking in mountains, beaches, volcanoes, islands, cities and vineyards. We walked on its glaciers, jumped off its bridges, worked on its farms and skydived over its mountains. We didn’t want to leave.

So, get this app and then you too can fall in love with New Zealand.

Just like me.

Download from here

Basho.

PS. If you do get the app, and you like it, then please leave us a comment here to let us know – it would mean a lot to us to hear of your visits to NZ.