Shimla

Shimla has the look and feel of a small English Town. From its mall, filled with bakeries and small general stores to its impecably turned out, almost victorian, children in school uniform. From the pensioners walking about town dressed in tweed suits with accompanying pipes to its mock tudor shop fronts. Shimla has a very colonial feel adding to the illusion that I am in a lost corner of England.

Temperatures in the city varied from a night time low of 2^oC to a daytime high of 18^oC. Nowhere was this differential more apparent than in the unheated hostel we chose to house us for three nights. It was so cold that at night I had to spin myself into my sleeping bag much as a catapillar would into a cocoon, only this action would sufficiently protect me from the elements.

No lush bounty of treasures are hidden in Shimla. We made do with the Advanced institute of Learning, in its previous life, the Viceregal Lodge and the Jakhu (monkey) Temple.

Every summer from 1864 through to 1947 saw the British seatof government move from Delhi to Shimla and the Viceregal Lodge. The lodge, built in Elizebethan style is every bit as ostentatous inside as out. Silk, still in place from 1864, still graces the walls; Burmese wood panels decorate the ceilings and its Marble floors all leave you in now doubt this was one of the homes of an empirical power. During its latter years the building hosted crucial independence and partition discussions leading to the creation of eastern and western muslim states; Pakistan and Bangladesh.

Viceregal Lodge.

Later in the day we stumbled across, with the help of Rough Guide, the finest curry we have yet to experience since arriving. Our vast appetites led us to order a whole chicken, tandorri style, chicken Jalfrezi, Mushroom Curry, 2 Naans, 2 Rice and several Cokes. An excellent meal for under a fiver.

On the final day, after two days of not doing much at all, we decided to visit the Jakhu Temple. Me, Paul and Bart, a Pole we met in the hostel set off nice and early to get the finest view of the mountains; the temple being located 2419m above sea level. Half way up the mountain and a local offers us a monkey stick, soon I would find out why. Approximately 20m from the peak a dramtic increase in the number of monkeys was noticeable, visitng the monkey temple we expected nothing less. Upon arrival at the peak, a peak with a sucky view I might add, I crashed down on a bench. Suddenly a mass of some description lands on my arm, after a panic I realise it is Paul's bag. Phew! The relief is instantly shattered when another object, this time definately an animate object pulls me back; A monkey has jumped on my back. Before I have time to realise what has occured I see a blurry hand shape and feel, as it remoes my glasses, it slap into my face. After trading some Chick Peas for my glasses Paul notices I have a cut under my eye, kindly dispatched as a gift from my monkey mugger.

Damage inflicted by my Monkey mugger.

Rabies! Immediately aware that I need to get this treated, and fast, I begin to shit myself, I've never ever felt mortal before: It feels nasty. It was a Sunday and I have no experience with the Indian medical services. Finging the tourism office I procees to blurt out my predicament, the relaxed gentleman behind the desk winces, really helping me stay calm, and directs me to the hospital.

A waterfall of dirty mop water cascades down the stairs as I arrive in the 'reception' of Shimla's Casualty Department. Indians really know how to keep their hospitals clean I'm thinking as the water gathers into a stagnent pool, slowly encroaching on the lift I have summoned. A doctor directs me to the waiting room, I decide to wait outside the room noticing that the only other person waiting had ceased to be: These doctors have no concept of putting a patient's mind at ease. eventually I'm informed I need five injections over the next month, later, after contacting my own G.P. I discover this is only two. Prescription in hand I head out to the chemist to pick up my vaccination and spot a humourous, if somewhat odd sign which reads: "Red Cross Parking For Ambulance and Dead Body Van". No beating about the bush in Shimla: Dead Body Van.

'Dead Body Van' sign.

I return to the hospital, vaccination in hand and pass it to a doctor, finally, after some pissing around he injects me and I relax. What a final day!
Later in the evening we have to catch an overnight bus to Manali. The driver of this vehicle gets us to Manali by 6am the next morning but not without a bone-crunching ride around some extremely deep mountain passes. At some points on this journey I feel more like I'm on a ride at Alton Towers than on a bus. Poor roads, abysmally fast driving and the fear of toppling into the valley all contributed to my lack of sleep during this journey; one hour in total. After checking into the hotel in Vashist (2km from Manali) I went straight to bed.

Shimla Hospital

View from Shimla

Train to Shimla

Shit, Shit, Shit! The CD I backed the first 4 days worth of photos on has snapped son of a bitch! Looks like I’ll be investing in another SD card.

From Delhi Shimla lies a mere 300Km, read nothing into this distance though because the city is situated in the foothills of the Himalayas and as such involves a 10.5 hour journey; split equally between two trains. An early rise was required to catch the 05:30 departure for the first leg to Kalka. This was a little painful with lethargy being the usual git of an adversary. Entertainment on this part of the journey came from a very British Brit; speaking through the plums in his mouth he managed to complain about everything possible: Condensation on the window;


"I booked a window seat for the view!" was one of the best.

This guy couldn't sit still and was disgusted at the state of the toilets on board, I have no idea what he expected when travelling on India's Railways. It really was a sight to enjoy, I've never seen anyone get so flustered over such little events: Perhaps this is my destination in later life, minus the plums.

From Kalka the journey continues on what is fondly referred to as the Toy Train: An economically unviable service that completes the final 90km, 5.5hour journey. This railway, completed in 1903, must be one of the final, and finest, examples of British engineering. The route it takes through the mountains is astounding; 103 tunnels were bored and 24 bridges erected. All this to transport the government to the much cooler Shimla during the scorching Delhi summer. I doubt anyone could replicate this project now, not without the use of G.P.S. or a PC: A unique skill lost to the sands of time.

I had been savouring this journey through the mountains for several months now, imagine my despair when a group of seven Yankees clamber aboard the claustrophobic carriage and introduce themselves in a way Americans have a knack for: Excessive and excessively loud vocalisations.


"Look at me, I'm American. Love me, hate me, I don't care. See my wallet, see my dollars, see how they control your world"

Ok, so that’s an over exageration, but true to hegemon fashion they decided that every remaining free seat would be unilaterally conquered. Annoying enough you'd think, oh no! This group suffered an addiction that the entire cabin would soon be forced to endure, no, not eating; smartarse! Photography. One member of the group stood head and shoulders above the rest and cleared needed a 'shot' more than any other, I would later gather this one was assigned the identifier Nancy.

I speak of assigned identification because her need for 'shots' was so dangerously unfulfilled that most of its social skills had been stripped away. Smiles, clearly confined to its pre-photography days, seemed unable to bloom on the steep valleys that formed her craggy face. Photography was truly her narcotic, so dependant was she on it that each time a 'shot' was left wanting we had front row seats to the cursing and seepage of rage that followed. Usually this rage was directed at her friends for "being too slow to move" by which time the 'shot' had gone, or her poor, suffering, husband: Bruce.

The one known as Nancy.

Bruce was accountable for all. For being "too slow!" passing its camera lens. And to "hurry up!" and pass over the 2nd 2Gb memory card of the journey. Blame wasn't entirely proportioned on Bruce, one couple were "Skinny enough to share a seat" and allow her lens, which, by now I had realised was an extension of her eyesight, access to the open window. Another chap was told that "he was wasting his window seat" and "people reading books shouldn't have window seats". Perhaps, had she took the time to request a window seat from the booking office rather than document the experience in full 30 frames per second glory she would have been happier.

Toy Train crossing one of the 24 bridges.

Delhi: The Final Day (22nd March)

Got up later than planned, 9am, and an eventful beginning to our museum day. We began by flagging a Rickshaw to the Mahatma Gandhi museum. Gandhi’s significance to India cannot be understated but for some reason our Rickshaw driver had no idea where he was going. After 40 minutes, 5 stops for directions and a distance of only 4km we arrived.

The museum was ok; it contained a few of Gandhi’s personal effects: Spectacles, microscopes, sandals and books. Most impressively though was the shrine created to worship the great man; this room housed the blood stained clothes he was assassinated in and one of the three assassin’s bullets found on the ghat after his cremation. I felt moved and honoured to witness these items. Across the street we visited the Raj Ghat itself, this is now a permanent shrine visited by millions of Indians annually.

Raj Ghat-Location of Gandhi's cremation.

Next we headed to the Indira Gandhi, daughter to India’s first Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru , museum. Indira Gandhi, was the first women Prime Minister of India and after and was assassinated by her own bodyguards in 1984. A little known fact is that she declared a state of emergency in between the years 1975-1977 in which the government took authoritarian control and ordered the sterilization of men with two or more children.

Indira Gandhi's Final Walk.

This museum was very busy, perhaps because it was located inside the form PM’s house and the rooms she worked in were visible throughout the tour. It was a really good and interesting place to visit. A problem with this place was the high turnover of visitors; numerous whistle-stop tours of Indians were shuffling through so it was difficult to appreciate every piece of information on offer.

Next was a visit to the first PM’s house, Jawaharlal Nehru’s house, this was a splendid mansion but made for a candidly boring museum. No artefacts of any value were on offer and most all the walls covered with reprinted newspaper stories of the day. If it wasn’t so hot I’m sure I would have found more time to read them, instead I purchased a biography of [Mahatma] Gandhi to read in my own time.

Tomorrow we head up north to the Raj’s summer capital: Shimla. The train leaves early and I’m not looking forward to a 4.45am alarm call. No booze tonight!

Me dressing being Gandhi

Delhi, the return. 19-22nd March

I've had my fill of Delhi now, originally the return was planned for one week but after festering in its stench for three days, three days was too much. This isn't to say I've not enjoyed my time here, just that, as with London, big cities begin to wear you down; physically and mentally. After spending a few days in Varanasi returning here felt like a chore.

The capital city's initial charm wore off so much so that several of its more interesting sights remain, sadly, unfulfilled. I would have loved to visit the Qutub Minar, Lotus Temple and, for comedy value, its toilet museum. It is, with more than a little sorrow that I head to Shimla knowing I won't visit these places.

Finding a scapegoat to attach blame for this new found loathing and disenchantment with the city isn't terribly difficult:

1. Annoying, overcharging, Rickshaw drivers who haev no idea where you want to go. Depserate for cash though, they drive you around hopelessly searching. Maps don't even seem to help these idiots establish even the vaguest geographic picture of their city. By the end of the day walking, even in 32 degree heat, was preferable.
   
2. Wankers, touts, con-men and beggars. OK, so this is old ground but in such a big city it can be pleasant, well, necessary to take 10 minutes time out and sit down for a break. Good Luck! Today, in 10 minutes, I was offered: Cosmo Magazine, the Oxford English Dictionary, Postcards, the chance to give bread to a beggarchild in order to feed his damned dog and of course the usual enticing toutversation
   "Hi mate, where you from?"
   "No time for bollocks chit chat today mate!"
   

The pulic's inability to queue. This is a consistant trait among most Indians but the cheeky weasels here don't even try to appear as if they are queuing. One guy today decides to walk straight to the front of a seven deep queue. When I barged him out of the way to ensure I was served first he lookedt me pussled as if to question my modus operandi.

Humayun's Tomb

Aside from this though I've had a good couple of days here. Arriving at 6am on Monday we spent the day sightseeing. Daylight hours saw a visit to Humayun's Tomb, the pre-cursor to the Taj Mahal. It looks better on film that in reality, I have no idea why it was built only that is was done so by the Moghuls and I can tick it off my to-do list. After the tomb we got a free rickshaw ride to our next destination, sadly that was TGI Fridays, on condition we visit a few shops with the driver. They were dull except for the second one which managed to induce mortal fear into me.

Arriving at a eight foot tall, solid steel gate, the rickshaw driver signalled the doorman to open up. This was no shop, rather a house and we were being shepered into its garage. Upon sitting down the owner sluggishly wonders in flanked by what I assume were his four sons. Pashmena scarves were strewn everywhere and I wondered when this cave had last seen customers. After 15 minutes of looking, with absolutely no intention of buying, I informed the owner it was time for us to leave.

"This isn't what I was after but thanks for your time"

A gaze of filtered rage appeared in his eyes:

"You make me come downstairs, open up, show you my scarves and you don't even buy anything? My friend, this is not good!"
You could say he had a point, there were no windows on the steel gate or the lockup through which to shop.

As I got up to leave he they attempted to herd me back into the den with further rude and agressive behaviour. Getting back to the rickshaw and past the perimeter was a relief, until, 5 minutes later the rickshaw driver begins wheeling us backwards saying:

"Sorry, their is a problem"

Visions of me being filmed begging for my freedom and tapes distributed to Al-Arabiya shot through my mind. Luckily her drove off and the only problem was that he[the driver] wouldn't be getting any commission. That evening consisted of sitting in TGI Fridays for a few quiet beers, average food and the televisual feast of India versus Bermuda in the ICC World Cup. By 21:30 we were ready to leave but our newly found Goan friend offered us a free beer and how could we refuse? Four beers later, a batting world record smashed (India 413-5) and multiple "BOO-YA IND-E-AR" chants we got up and heded home.

Tuesday was a write off until about 16:00 when my hangover subsided sufficiently for me to operate heavy machinery. We headed out to the India Gate, a memorial to war dead, and to the Parliament. This three hour outing offered us some light hearted entertainment in the form of a comical rickshaw driver. After attempting to woo us into his cart he proceeded to drive down the street, park, and on our approach call over:

"India Gate: 2km"
Then the same routine

"India Gate: 1.5km"
And so on until we arrived at the gate and he informed us he would wait "Just over there", pointing at a sea of rickshaws.

The gate was impressive, the dusk sunlight falling upon it gave it a warm orangey glow. Walking around the administrative area of New Delhi reminded me of a cross between London, for its inextricably British planning, and, Washington, for it grandiose waste of acreage.

India Gate

That evening we eate a disgraceful Chinese meal after being promised by the menu that the "Instant one of our culinary creations comes into contact with your palette, pure, and unadulterated pleasure results in an Enduring Nirvana" The only Nirvana felt that night was by the manager who parted me from my Rs350. Did they receive a tip you ask?!

Varanasi

Varanasi: Truly a city to be visited by anyone traveling to the subcontinent. From the spaced out hippies who still think its 1969 to the wannabe hippies who will be returning to downtown Manhattan to wave pieces of paper in the air while shouting "Buy" or, "Sell". This city accomodates them all.

The city itself has few, Ghats and Ganges aside, if any sites to see, it is a place to breathe, to feel, to experience. As with every Indian city the initial impression leaves one wincing: Noise, overcrowding, hassle and of course the car horn. For once first impressions have no foundation.

Evening shopping in Varansi

Once you spend some time getting to know the city; wondering its intricate alleys, browsing its endless bazaars, learning about its silk and gazing at the worshippers washing there infants in holy Ganges water the city digs a niche and embeds itself in your heart. It is a truly wonderful place to be with a unique ambience.

This city is why I traveled to India; To walk the river front and inhale the delightful aromas that wisp by, each one more edible than the next. Come nightfall the smell of fried spice increases as do the ceremonies that I cannot begin to understand and hence explain. Yes, Varanasi has its beggars, its touts, its vagrant cows, chickens, goats and dogs but it also has soul.

At this juncture I should state that with our 3 days in the city we only visited the old city because we had no reason to leave it. This may have slightly skewed my opinion though.

Checking in to the Ganpati Guest House was an interesting experience. I'm sure I will never be introduced to my room again with the phrase:

"Welcome, your room. And this is the monkey stick, Monkeys sometime come to room so chase them away"
And, believe it or not then did: on the final day I noticed one of them outside the room, he gave me a 'what you gonna do about it' look as he stole my sponge and jumped down to the floor below.

Our evening meal on the first night was interestingly compromised by a 67 year old fellow who embarked on a methodic explanation of why a monkey was different to any other creature in the animal world (opposable thumbs, as we all know). Then he intricately weaved together an explanation of why the mushroom has no similarity to other Flora and should be treaded as a magical occurrence, again: Its a Fungus, thats what makes it different pal. Passing this guy the next day I observed the redness of his eyes and how they flickered from one place to the next immediately recognising the signs of paranoia that swept through me during my hemp smoking days. This man was an endangered species: One of the hippies who still thinks Woodstock was last week.

The River Ganges, which flows to the east of the city, is considered by Hindus as (I better get this right or Pez will kill me), "The elixer of life, bringing purity to the living and salvation to the dead". Sorrowfully the upstream industry have decided to use it to dump chemicals and heavy metals giving it the added credit of most polluted river in India. Because of this, burning Ghats are located at several points along the river. These are where families bring dead relatives for cremation and to have their ashes tossed into the river, thus bringing them salvation. The ceremony is something to be witnessed, and it would have been nice to fully appreciate it without touts rudely interrupting us every second. I'll have to come back one day in the future I think.

On top of all this we also embarked on the obligatory, sunrise boating trip. It was so cold though that we had to return to shore very quickly after sunrise. Silk shopping also took a lot of our time up here, it is a fine art at which I am now rather well versed, I'll probably write more on this later.

Must stop writing now, we have a train to catch back to Delhi shortly and I'd like to have some food before embarking on a 16hour journey. This train ride will be using 2nd Class compartments I wonder how fancy they will be and, whether the toilet will be more than a slippy hole in the floor of the train. Yuk!

Sunrise on the Ganges.

Happy Rickshaw Man

A dog adds to Agra's sanitation problems.

Went to Internet cafe again on our last day in Agra and then headed home. After being pestered by a cycle rickshaw for over 15 minutes we decided to just get on and let him take us home. No sooner had we boarded than he piped up:


"Can we quickly visit the store?" he meekly asked pointing to a Bazaar 50m ahead.


"How much will they pay you?"


"Twenty Rupees" he said, smiling a grin that beamed in spite of the fact he clearly hadn't brushed his teeth for some time.


"OK, you take us and we spend 5 minutes, buy nothing, and pay half fare" was a fair proposal

"Yes Sir, Yes" came the ecstatic reply.

The store was crappy but importantly he got his cash and I was really happy for him.
It appears I've softened on the Rickshaw drivers, perhaps after a week in the country I'm more familiar with life here. In saying that, you can't put a price on honesty; I much prefer it to contrived 'international women’s day' stories.

On the way home we passed the site of Agra's first mall, currently a two level McDonalds. This fact in itself is boring but check out the bamboo scaffholding being used to constuct it, the H.S.E would go insane.


Health and Safety nightmare.

All that was left to do in the evening was settle to hotel bill; cheap, cheap, cheap :-D and catch the, 21:10, 692km, Swatantra Express to Varanasi. All in all I think I'm finally beginning to understand how this country ticks and beginning to feel a lot more at home here.

See you in Varanasi.

Sending Message...

Sending Message...


Sending Failed, message Barred.

I'm right pissed off at the moment. I can't text Belinda, can't use the internet and can't even find out why my mobile is being a maliglant little shitter.

Earlier today the Red Fort of Agra, which was similar to the Red Fort in Delhi was our chosen destination. Agra Fort surpasses Delhi because of the commanding view, across the Yamuna river, of the Taj Mahal. when visiting these places I am amazed at the amount of work that went into building them. Really puts the castles back home to shame. After the Fort a quick one hour mooch around the bazaar was in order. As well as searching for gifts I had promised my sister I would buy her some fabrics. After pricing a few Saris, Sarongs and whatever else was thrown my way I had to leave for lunch.

View of Taj Mahal form Agra Fort.

Lunch consisted of a Thali; a gorgeous dish that consists of nine small portions of Indian cuisine at a rock bottom price of Rs25.

The Jama Masjid mosque is located slap bang in the middle of this bazaar so after lunch it got a brief inspection. It would have been nice to look around longer but our guide spent more time asking, well, pressuring, for donations rather than show us around.

Paul at the Jama Masjid Mosque

Telecommunications in Agra are not that reliable, just like the electricity it seems to operate as and when it chooses. Cutting me off halfway through a Skype call to Belinda annoyed me enough but to them refuse to let me text while having full network coverage took the cookies. Instead of getting to pissed off with this, and accepting it as part of the travelling experience, I decided to get pissed instead; picking up 3 large bottles of kingfisher to take back to my room.