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.

It is that this point that the average Westerner or British’er should try to forget everything that they have ever been taught in school regarding Hinduism.

When I was at school, Hinduism was brought up in Religious Education classes. Unfortunately, these classes forced all religions into the structure of Christianity in order to compare them. So, where in Christianity you have God, you had Shiva and under that you had, in place of Jesus, Krishna, and so on and so forth through the angels (the Deva), the priests (the Brahmans), the Bible (the Vedas) and the Kingdom of Heaven (Rebirth). The one thing is that it is clear from such a muddle is that the people who wrote the RE syllabus had little-to-no idea of Hinduism either. Placed into this twisted context it all looks a little crazy and no wonder as the Hindu faith isn’t like Christianity in almost every way possible. It is a totally different beast. In the first instance it is vital to realise that “Hinduism” is an umbrella term for a whole host of beliefs all interlocked only by their founding geography – that is they all come from India. Then you must realise that when we discuss the Hindu Cosmology we are not talking about a Celestial Hierarchy in the same way that we do in Christianity at all. I.E. with God at the top and you near the bottom just above the animals.

No, in Hinduism you are God.

For the Christians reality is like clay. There is a very clear analogy of God being like a potter at his wheel, or perhaps a watchmaker at his table and we are his creation. In Hinduism the analogy that fits is that of a play, a performance, which you are a part of. You leave and re-join the stage, you may exchange masks or play many parts, but this reality is all “in character”. There is another “self”, a spiritual self, under all this baggage of flesh and bones that is the mask we all wear. This is the spark of the divine, which is exempt from the black and white duality of reality. What we call “reality” is only an illusion because in the true reality you are God – but you have forgotten that you are God. That divine spark is a part of God, part of Brahman.

A meditating man seated towards the morning sun.

But what of Shiva et all?  This is where it gets complex. Essentially, he is an aspect of the Godhead just like everyone else; just with a cosmic job to do. If you were to ask Lord Shiva, “How do you do all this creation and destruction?” he  would answer “I just do. How do you breath in and out?” These “Gods” are not like God in Christianity or Allah to the Muslims, they are like forms of a greater nature a connection with which we have lost.

Keep this in mind when you read about the Hindu’s. It explains another massive difference; the belief in self-improvement. The Hindu’s believe that you can improve your self, your awareness of the self – that is of reality – through training. Religious training that takes many forms. For some it is through Vedic ritual; passed down over countless generations; for others it is by denying the body; the mortification of the flesh; but in all cases it is about release. The release from the chains of your mind. This spirit pervades almost all of Indian inventions. Take their food, Thali, which is devised from the scriptures of Ayurvedic medicine and is all about maintaining the right balance in the body to promote mental clarity (which it sure does, I miss it every time I think of it). This release, this blowing out, is what the Buddhists call Nirvana and is to escape the cycle of birth and death to which we are all (apart from the Buddhas) trapped in. The escape of the self is the waking up and remembering who you really are and the enlightenment of the true self. This is why Buddhists and Hindu’s put their hands together and bow to each other and why their rituals are full of bowing, because they are bowing to the self in each other that is part of the divine.

A man prays  in the Ganges

This is the reason that Varanasi, the center of the Hindu universe, is so important. Because Lord Shiva said that anyone who bathed in the holy river Ganges that flows through the city and burned in its pyres would achieve the Moksha (the blowing out and escape) that all Hindus aspire to. Being there on that river is a very special honour not to be forgotten and something to be cherished.

I tried really hard to keep all this in mind as I regarded the Aghori seated on the steps with his human skull bowl. The Aghori are worshipers of Shiva and totally devoted to their ascetic doctrines. They maintain that all opposites are in fact an illusion and make it their business to – at all times – liberate themselves through the un-acceptance of the duality of life. What this means in real terms is that the Aghori cover themselves with cremation ash and perform the taboo breaking rituals of eating meat, residing in cremation grounds, enjoying tantric sex with menopausal women, sleeping on corpses and even eating the dead found floating in the river or not burned up in the Ghat pyres (which I am coming to).

I must admit that I found it a struggle to maintain the perspective needed to achieve this. It was, if you will forgive the pun, hard to digest.

The previous night, before tucking into bed, I had wandered down to the river. The old part of Varanasi is all based around the Ghats. These are the steps that lead down to the waters. Many are unique or special to just some groups. Some have washers cleaning clothes, others have cremation death ceremonies being performed, all revolve around the water.

Ours was full of boats, so I booked an exceedingly early boat ride from an excitable boatman and turned in.

Old parts of Varanasi contrasts marvellously with the new. New Varanasi has some of the best universities in the world, some of the most modern hospital facilities and lots of money to run it all. The old Varanasi on the other hand is for pilgrims and tourists and had a vibe almost beyond belief.

In the morning, far too early in the morning, we got up and made our way to the boat. The guide/boatman was waiting and we hopped in.

Our Boatman rows us out at the beginning of our day

I am seriously not a morning person, but even I soon was amazed by the view of the city from the water as the sun rose. The city wakes up slowly and as the sun rises and starts to illuminate the buildings, turning them into a golden glowing red and orange colour, the pilgrims and Ghat’folk come down to the river to wash and meditate.

We went passed people slamming washing on rocks, priests performing the morning prayers to the sun (the same priests that would feature in the evening ceremony described below), monkeys climbing the buildings and seated brightly coloured Hindus enjoying the morning sun.

The stunning Varanasi Ghats

It was quite magical and a vital ingredient in enjoying your visit here. Then we passed the “burning” Ghats and the cameras went away. The funeral pyres were already in progress. The bodies, lightly wrapped in muslin, had been laid on a precisely calculated amount of firewood and then set alight. Even though the practice of wives throwing themselves onto the pyre is now banned, I can understand that the fundamentalist Hindus (that “f” word being the key to almost all the world ills) still want their women to go through with it. The prospect looked horrifying to me. As we passed along further I saw people swimming in the river and drinking the water, which is surely an extremely bad idea as the Ganges is polluted almost beyond belief. Perhaps they are adjusted to it, I thought. I was careful not to get any in my mouth anyway. The entire experience was very peaceful and broken only by the ubiquitous Indian music coming from behind the shoreline.

I filmed everything I could and at the end of this post there is special edition of the film I made of the footage.

After about 3 hours we arrived back at the hotel’s Ghat and retired to a very good travellers shop/cafe/hostel to take it all in. We had lots of planning to do because we were arranging a Tiger Safari on our next stop. I sipped a coffee and Cesca and I slaved over our computers arranging everything. It was there that we learned that there had been a murder discovered along the Ghats that morning. A quick look through the camera footage and we realised that Cesca, quite by accident, had recorded the crime scene.  We look at each other and silently determined to remain cautious about Varanasi.

The poor dead man.  |  Feral dogs roam everywhere.

As night fell, we got back in the boat and were rowed towards the real show.

“Dashashwamedh Ghat is located close to “Vishwanath Temple”, and is
probably the most spectacular ghat. Two Hindu mythologies are
associated with it: According to one, Lord Brahma created it to
welcome Lord Shiva. According to another, Lord Brahma sacrificed ten
horses in a yajna here. A group of priests daily perform in the
evening at this ghat “Agni Pooja” (Worship to Fire) wherein a
dedication is made to Lord Shiva, River Ganga, Surya (Sun), Agni
(Fire), and the whole universe.”

The evening puja location at Dasaswamedh Ghat

Every evening the priests come down to the edge of the river to perform a special ceremony to worship fire.

This is incredible and, like all good ceremonies, goes on far too long entirely on purpose. Its colours and special ambience is on the film as well. This time we were amongst multiple boats that had come to see the event and I soon tired of the tourist horde and so had our boat drop us of on the bank to get a close look at the proceedings.

There was a large crowd involved in the ceremony who were all clapping away to the music as they watched the five priests play conch shells and burn offerings all while wielding increasingly and uncomfortably hot looking fire goblets. It was here that I saw one older women cutting up carrots and praying under her breath. I took some footage and a photo of her and it is one of my proudest shots.

I remember being mesmerised by the look on her face. Whatever she was doing it was a fundamental part of not only her belief, but of her self and her life. That was the first time I stopped and wondered at Hinduism, but it certainly wasn’t the last.

After the ceremony we walked out of the Ghat along with the crowd and caught a cyclo back to the hotel. The poor rider struggled to get us moving and I paid him a bonus for his efforts. I had a lot to think about regarding what we had seen that day. It was all to come to an unfortunate conclusion in the next post, when Cesca and I found ourselves in the maze of back alleys in the “old city” and at the mercy of the unscrupulous…

For now then, here is the Special Edition of my Varanasi film about that day:

Regards,

Basho

We arrived on the train from Bodh Gaya relaxed and ready for more adventure.

It was a dark night and, unlike the Buddhist Centre, the large city of Varanasi was busy even at this time of year, so we joined the hordes at the station exit trying to find transport. The Tuk Tuk drivers descended on us travellers like raptors and the experience soon became a walk amongst shouting voices all vying for our attention. Over the top of the throng I could make out a government taxi ticket booth. These large booths sell fixed price tickets to people wanting transport into the city proper and are the only way to avoid being totally fleeced by the touts. It was only when I approached the counter and saw two policemen armed with sub machineguns standing behind the ticket seller that I started to get a feeling that this might not be the safest place. Indeed in my time in Varanasi I was to see more armed policemen than in all the other cities put together and I don’t mean with pistols, I mean with large rifles, assault rifles and Stirling sub machineguns. We bought a fare to our hotel at the far end of the strip running along the Ganges. It was a good price, slightly higher than one would want, but fixed – and that is worth paying a premium for. We jumped in the first Tuk Tuk, which had two men in the front, one driving and another along for the ride, and handed him our ticket. He immediately pulled off onto the road and started pootling along.

“Where do you want to go?” He asked with a thick accent placing a heavy emphasis on the ‘o’ in ‘go’ so it sounded like ‘Gohhh’

To the “Anami Lodge please.”

He shook his head, “No sir, that not good hotel.”

“Just take us there please.”

“Yes sir, but please this not a good hotel, very bad. I can show you a better hotel. It’s on the way no problem. You need a guide to the city?”

“No, we’re fine thanks.”

“Sir, please let me tell you, I am a government sponsored guide, I can show you the whole city for a fixed price.”

“No thanks” I was starting to get a little tension creep into my voice and Cesca cut in.

“We just want to go to our hotel.” She insisted.

“Ok madam, sir. Sorry, I just wanted to show you the other hotel, very good rate with breakfast included, much better room. Please sir, look at this.”

He took a small book from the dashboard and passed it back. I took it from his and regarded it. I had seen them before. It was a small lined exercise book, the sort a schoolboy would have. In it was page after page of “recommendations” from happy tourists saying that this man was one of the very best guides in the whole of India and that we had really fallen on our feet by being in his Tuk Tuk. Surely, the book told me, we should take advantage of this great fortune and let this wise and friendly man be our guide to this big city. On almost every page was a photo pasted in. Sometimes just a Polaroid, sometimes smaller like a photo-booth shot. Each one had a happy smiling tourist, often girls, grinning and making peace signs or giving thumbs up. The names were all western and signed in different pens; I was greeted by “Lisa” and “Tiffany from Texas”.

All fake.

Over my time in multiple Tuk Tuks in the last month I had been handed many of these books. The names were all similar, the writing familiar and the photos just as jolly and happy. The clue is in the detail; not one of the photos had this man in the shot.

“But surely!” You might say, “he may have been the one taking the photos!”

Perhaps, but I think not. We had so bad experiences with drivers using these books to gouge and pray on us that I began to suspect that there is a company somewhere in India that makes these books, writes the names, copies the photos off the Internet and pastes them in. Why? Because of the Westerners fear of the unknown.

Psychology is an interesting science. Its central tenant is that human beings need filters. There is so much information, so much data, coming into our eyes and ears at any one time that the brain has trouble processing it all. Therefore it looks for patterns amongst that information that it can use to categorise the data into known types. So, a man can look at a forest and see the leopard in the tree. It is a way of making sure that he grabs the branch he leaps for, catches the fish he darts after and hits the target he shoots at. This skill has consequences for society as we actively look for these patterns and when we are worried, such as when we are in a new and very foreign place, we find comfort in them.

How can a Tuk Tuk driver be trusted? Surely by reputation above other indicators. We look for something, anything that gives us the ability to trust this man. Is it his English good? Is he well dressed? If we are female, do we find him rakishly handsome? These are all indicators, but should they fail then he pulls out the “big gun”; the Great Book of Recommendations that is full of such indicators, such known patterns, and they are an attempt to disarm us from listening to our senses. To invite our rational side to override our instinct.

It didn’t work on me.

“Thanks, but just take us where we want to go.”

He shared a look with the man hanging on the front of the Tuk Tuk and drove on in silence. Eventually we arrived at a busy looking road where he pulled into the pavement.

“Over there is the hotel I wanted to show you,” he said pointing over the road.

“And where is my hotel?” I asked.

“Down there.” He pointed to our left where there was a large and dark alley. “You will have to carry your bags down there”. The driver sighed, “Come I will show you.” He got out of the Tuk Tuk.

I eyed the darkness and turned to Cesca,

“Stay here, watch the bags, I will check it out.”

“Are you sure?” she asked looking worried; the alley was pitch-black.

“Yep. Just wait.”

The driver led me into the gloom. It was very dark in this long alley and my senses immediately went into overdrive. As we walked along I noticed shapes along the floor; people lying on the path and the unmistakable smell of human excrement. I realised that I may be about to get mugged. I have walked down dark alleys in many cities from Rio to Barcelona, but this one had a palpable air of danger. Like that part in a horror movie where the victim does something stupid and you find yourself screaming, “Don’t go down that alley! Are you nuts?” As the gloom enveloped me I reached into my trouser pocket and silently took out my folding knife and held it against my leg. The man led me down three or four winding and dark alleys and after another narrow alley full of cows I began to wonder if he knew where to go. Eventually I gave up trying to remember the route and then we came to what looked like the back end of a large building.

“There,” he said. “There is the hotel, up those stairs.”

I walked up the staircase, more a fire escape, and around a bend. At the top was a glass door and I knocked, very conscious of the silence. The door opened and a smartly dressed young man stood in the doorway.

“May I help you?” He said.

“I have a reservation.” I said.

“Mr Bell?”

I relaxed. “Yes?”

“Come in sir! We have been awaiting your arrival!” He said happily with an Indian head wiggle.

I entered and found myself in a very smartly converted large townhouse. It was home to an entire family running the hotel part as a business venture where they live on-site. I counted five members of the same family, three girls and two men, who all welcomed me in with genuine smiles. I had a vision of what I must look like to them; a tall strange white man looking like Jack Bauer having a rough day. I tried to lower the shields and relax.

“May I see the room?” I asked as politely as I could.

“Of course!” The man led me up a few flights of stairs and showed me our room. It was one of the best room I saw in the entirely of India; large and welcoming. It looked over the Ganges and had a small balcony set outside high windows.

“Brilliant” I said. “But, I must ask, why is it so hard to get here?”

“What do you mean?”

I explained how the Tuk Tuk driver had led me through all those dark alleys to this place. The man was shocked and shook his head.

“Why didn’t you just park outside?” He asked, pulling back the curtain and showing me the road right outside the front of the hotel. Clearly I had been led in the back way.

“Thank you, we will.”

He took me back down and I left to return to Cesca. At the bottom of the stairs was the driver. He looked up at me and I gave him 100% of “The Look”.

The Look is something you need to practice to be able to pull off. It doesn’t matter who you are, what size you are, or your age, The Look is almost magical. It is one of practiced pure malevolence.

It is The Man With No Name pissed off,

“You gonna draw those pistols or whistle Dixy?”

Kaiser Sosa being in a line up,

“Hand me the keys you f*cking cock sucker”

Butch being called “paunchy”,

“What did you just say?”

My wife knows it as “my killing look”

I gave him the look and he had the good graces to shudder slightly and bow his head in shame. In silence we walked back through the alleys to my, now worried, Cesca. She visibly sighed in relief when I came out of the shadows.

“You were gone ages! What is it like?” she asked.

“It’s excellent, and this bastard has been mucking us around. The road goes right there, right outside.”

“This other guy has been trying to talk me into the other hotel,” she said, “amongst other things…”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Jade Goody. He thinks she’s great.”

“An amazing women!” Exclaimed the man hanging on the side of the Tuk Tuk. This was the first time that I had heard of the late Jade Goody outside of the UK and I was a bit shocked. It wasn’t until much later that I learned about her “visit” to India in the wake of the “bullying” allegations on Big Brother. Whatever she did here, it worked. I now suspect that a lot of Indians never liked Shilpa Shetty anyway. I shook my head to clear out of the madness and maintain my righteous anger. I turned to the driver.

“Take us to the front of the hotel right now.”

“Cost extra” He answered sourly.

Cesca made to complain but I stopped her with a raised hand.

“Just do it!”

He started up the Tuk Tuk and we pulled back onto the road. About 25 meters ahead the road curved to the left and we wheeled around it towards the river. Another 25 meters and we pulled left again and there was the hotel on my left. It was right around the corner!

“You’re kidding!” Said Cesca flabbergasted.

“Now,” the driver said, “pay extra, parking here cost me money.”

“What?”

“To come down here I have to pay those guys over there.” He pointed at a group of men lounging at one end of the street.

I turned to Cesca, “Baby, lets pay these guys and forget about them.”

“But, we already paid! She protested.”

“Come on” I insisted. We got out of the Tuk Tuk and I extracted a small note and gave it to the driver. “Now go away” I told him.

He went without comment and we entered the hotel.

And that was my first hour in Varanasi. Not the most auspicious of beginnings and I wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake incoming here.

Our experience is not uncommon all over India and indeed all over Asia, but here there was something else, some sense of menace in the atmosphere, in the air of the driver. Something was pulling at my senses and demanding that I pay attention. It was saying to me to be on my guard, not rely on the pattern recognition response that could lead so easily astray and be manipulated.

I decided to listen, and in a strange way that is probably why Varanasi was to touch me so deeply. Because I was listening to my senses, paying attention to all that was around me; not simply matching it to a type and filing it away.

In Varanasi I was awake. I needed to be: I was to witness my first dead body the next morning.

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.

Kolkata (Calcutta).

Let me tell you why…

We arrived in the city airport quite early in the afternoon and fought our way out. Crowds of touts gathered to feed off the tourists and we were forced to wave away hordes of tuk tuk drivers all bent on our business, but quoting massively over the top prices for trips into the city and profaning our lack of understanding in this area together with the risks to the traveller of a “bad” driver. I was forced to listen to semi-threatening diatribes regarding our choice of hotel (not that we had yet mentioned it) and how their “cousin” runs the only clean hotel in the whole city, nay even the country. Eventually we bargained our way into an actual taxi and it lurched of into darkening day towards the city proper.

The journey was quite a picture.

I remember at one point that we passed a man urinating into a river a few meters from the car window. My head tracked to follow in amazement and Cesca was pulling a face when, not 10 meters south of the urinater, sat another man fishing from the same “waters”.

“Yuk!” said Cesca.

“Considering that scum is on the surface of that water, and that urine is sterile, he is probably adding cleanliness to it!” I exclaimed in response.

We passed on.

Not a few minutes later we passed a rubbish dump of prodigious size. Huge mounds of compacted waste towered over us. Cesca gasped as she looked closer.

“There are people living in it” she said.

And there was. Carved out of the compact were cave like house dwellings. Lights flickered from hollowed out windows. The stench must have been awful. Inside were people, literally living in the rubbish. My mind was shocked and we swept on.

A Kolkata Slum

Our hotel was quite near the centre of the city, but you wouldn’t know it. The entire road had been dug up and demolished and then just left, like someone had just bombed the street, and the taxi pulled up and bade us to walk the rest of the way. We did and eventually made it to our hotel.

Now, I am not the sort of person who gets all high and mighty about the condition of hotels. I don’t get a sick fascination regarding describing the loath found in these places, or bemoaning the service levels. I don’t read the Daily Mail. On the other hand, while the gentile folk of this hotel tried hard to provide service that left a smile on our face, this hotel was a real shit hole of epic proportions. I woke in the morning wondering how we may leave this place as soon as possible. We had one mission to perform first, we must pick up my camcorder sent to be repaired in England from Vietnam and being delivered down town.

We ventured out for something to eat for breakfast. Picking our way across the bombed out street we passed many street vendors selling hot food to awaiting crowds. Normally I am a strong proponent of street food, but these lads we infested with flies so we walked on. After the “food” stalls we came across three people sitting on the side of the pathway sharing a heroin needle. I remember being very alert as we passed by them not two feet away. I couldn’t help but think about the crap in that needle and the AIDS that probably came along for the ride, and how its owner could easily try and stab it into me. My warning radar buzzed and blood rushed into my hands. Of course, these gentlemen had no intention of wasting their morning injection on us and we walked on by. Next we came to the post office, and Cesca had a large bag of items she wanted to post home. Outside a smart looking man approached us and offered us his packaging service, which we politely refused.

He gave me a look which said, “see you in 5 minutes” and started on the next guy. The post office was similar to all Indian post offices in that it was complete mayhem with no signs to assist. We did what we always did and hung about for a few minutes to work the place out. We queued and when arriving at the front were told about the regulations regarding international post. Basically, there is an official method of wrapping that all parcels must be presented in. Not only that, but the post office would not do it for you.

“What should I do?” asked Cesca

“Go outside, man out there.”

So wandering back outside we returned to the packaging man in the street and bartered for our parcel to be wrapped. First, the man’s assistant assembled us a box from spare bits of discarded cardboard. Then he expertly reinforced the corners. We put our items in and then the man wrapped the entire thing in muslin and started to glue the corners with wax.

It was then that I received a tap on my shoulder.

It was a female beggar about mid forties, dressed in colourful clothing and with many rings. She looked like a Gipsy more than a poor person. She trust out her left hand under my nose and tapped her right hand index finger in the palm.

“No thanks,” I said and turned back.

She grabbed my arm and loudly demanded something that sounded complex in her language, I presumed money. Now I am no stranger to begging, but this was definitely the most aggressive begging I had ever encountered. I looked her in the eyes and they flashed anger and aggression. I turned to our box cutter and said to him,

“What does she want?”

He shrugged, “money?” he offered. He spoke to her a few words and she rattled something aggressive off. “Money,” he confirmed to me and then he himself reached into his pocket and paid some coins to the women with a sigh.

I looked at her and shook my head. She snapped her finger in frustration and seemed to curse me. Then she moved around to Cesca who waved her away irritated. She persisted and tried to grab Cesca who took offense to how close she was coming.

“Can you tell her,” Cesca said to the box cutter, “that in our country it is considered very rude to get into someone’s personal space and demand money.”

The man complied and the women’s eyes went even wider, she lashed out her hand at Cesca’s  face and spread her fingers centimetres from her eyes, saying in the universal language of the body, “what are you going to do about it? I can do what I like!” It was extremely threatening. Too much.

Something inside me snapped to attention and I reacted. With a loud shout I stepped in front of Cesca and shoved the women hard. She was flung backwards and lost her balance, tripping and falling over herself onto her behind. My eyes didn’t leave her face as she stood back up. I could see her weighing up her options. She wanted to fly at me in a rage, but something in my body language was stopping her. This is the martial arts technique called, “The Invisible Fence”. She shouted at me instead, but stopped when I thrust out my hand and flicked it away and said in my firmest voice,

“Move on!”

She did, screaming insults as she walked away, our eyes remained locked until the crowd enveloped her. The box man then just shrugged and finished our box off. We gratefully paid him, posted the box and went on for food. Amazingly at the very end of then street lay an intersection with another street that was a total contrast. It had neaty shops and even western-style coffee shops. We entered one and sat down.

“You know,” began Cesca, “You didn’t have to get that aggressive with that women.”

“Yes I did.”

“You didn’t have to shove her like that.”

“Yes. I. Did. Let me explain,” I began.

Why is a martial artist capable of defending himself? Is it just technique? No it is something else. Something in the will.

There is an old saying, “Dogs don’t know kung fu”. What it means is anyone can fight and no one should be underestimated. No one. You can die on the knife of a teenager as easily as on the knife of a skinhead. You must be awake to the situation.The problem is one of social conditioning; you are conditioned to be a good person, a rational, reasonable and gentile person. A person who would never commit violence unless it was as a last resort. Unfortunately, this leads to a special kind of blindness. The social contract is based on the assumption that everyone else thinks as you do. And, in general, it works. It is the specific times you need to be careful of and so this blindness manifests itself in a very unique way: You simply refuse to believe that you are under attack. You always extend the benefit of the doubt to the other person and think you can talk your way out of it. You pass right by the “last resort” without realising it.

This had been perhaps the best example I had ever encountered of this point. This women had attacked Cesca, have no doubt of this. Is Cesca to wait until she loses an eye before doing anything? Moreover, the women had been given every possible opportunity to leave us alone, but persisted. She thought us weak and feeble westerners. She clearly hated the sight of us and our bright Western clothes.

Was I wrong in this assumption?

How could I know? We didn’t speak the same language. Do people really have to be reliant on words? Words are essentially rational but, as often noticed, actions speak louder and to the quick. This women had spoken all right and so I spoke back in the same voice. We are not helpless worms I said. We are people; good people. Treat us with respect and we will return it a million fold. Treat us with violence and you will have to deal with the undisputable and salient fact: Basho is awakened.

If Cesca was trained in the same way, I would have let her deal with it. But, in all honesty, I like Cesca just like she is. I am the one who has seen the darker side of life – I would avoid Cesca having to see or think like that. We are a team and in any great team each member thinks differently.

I think Cesca understood, but I realised immediately that she didn’t like this “cold reality”. I reminded myself to always try and give her the benefit of the doubt as her instincts are very acute in most respects. I will just pay attention to the “last resort” and mark its passing with action.

Imagine, all this before breakfast!

I would like to tell you that Calcutta got better, but I can’t. We spent the rest of the day being seriously ripped off collecting my camcorder (a long and painful tale I will avoid telling), and again spent the night in the hotel of nightmares. The next day I was determined to leave the city and we ventured to get a tourist train ticket out of there.

The tuk tuk up to the ticket office (a good 20 minutes away) took us through the better parts of Calcutta. Well, if you like massive British Raj parks and buildings stretching to the horizon. I am, like most Londoners, a fan of Victorian buildings, but here they sat so heavily on the city, so aloof and uncaring. They were the expression of cultural power. Of the elite. For a brief and horrifying moment I knew how the French peasants felt when the saw Versailles. I was again amazed when I considered the strength Indian People like Ghandi must have possessed to realise that these enormous monuments to the British empire were actually dying, passing from history. That the filth around him and the people living in it had just as great a destiny to take up and were themselves more permanent.

The train ticket office was packed, but as usual, the saving grace was the “tourist booth”. As long as you had some idea which train you wanted, and easy task with the LP to hand, you could take advantage of the travellers only tickets. The Indian government is to be congratulated for this, and I wish we had the same thing for visitors back home. We left with tickets out of the city for that very same night. Happy for just a moment we walked up the street to see the park visible through the throng of people, tuk tuks and food stalls.

It was turning that corner that I saw the worst thing I saw on all my travels.

She was laying in the middle of the grand path like she had collapsed there, not begging just collapsed. She was naked apart from her only possession, which was the tatty remains of a ripped rough hessian sack. She was dark skinned, covered in crime and sticky with dust. Her black hair was matted into a shuttlecock tangle. Her face was contorted into a grimace and she murmured to herself insanely. People were not even noticing her. At the very moment I spoke to her a couple of brightly dressed Indian people, talking into mobile phones, were stepping over her like she was a simply crack in a paving stone.

I must admit I almost cried it was so awful.

“How can…” I began and then stopped; lost for words. I stood and stared for a good twenty seconds. What could I do? She was clearly insane or mad. I couldn’t rush to her aid, I wouldn’t know where to begin. I tried to think of someone to tell, someone who would care. I realised, to my horror, that this poor women was helpless. whatever fate led her to this – it was beyond my fixing.

Cesca tugged my arm and pulled us away. We remained the only two people in the many who passed who even visibly noticed this women. The rest appeared to have a blank spot*.

I remember thinking to the Buddha’s reaction when he saw such wretchedness for the first time. I wished I could have had his strength to devote the rest of his life to answering the question posed by such revelations.

This is not she, but an example from Flickr of what I mean

Cesca and I walked all the way back to the hotel and tried to enjoy Calcutta, but in all honesty it was too late. That night, we waited in the train station surrounded by sleeping groups of people.

Our overnight train eventually arrived and with an extremely grateful sigh we left the black hole that is Calcutta. Having been taken so low by its grime, crime and poverty I felt like my soul had been scoured clean of Western conceptions. In a strange way, this was to become a right-of-passage. Calcutta had posed the question and we were to visit the place where one man worked out the answer.

Was it to become my answer too?

We sat in the trains booth and I setup my camcorder. The video was back, and India was about to give up its most special sights and jewels. Starting with Bodh Gaya; the place of the Buddha’s enlightenment.

Regards,

Basho

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.