Back to Bom

I realise, precious readers, you know that I am now writing these posts from Sydney, catching up on the run "back to Bom", as one of Salman Rushdie's characters exclaims...

Bombay was a gorgeous city in many ways, with Colaba reminding me of more of gentrified Potts Point than anywhere in India or Asia. We'd planned intentionally to visit India as our last country so we could "toughen up" before arriving. We'd been bombarded with plenty of OTT anecdotes, all of which finale with the unprepared westerner being swindled, bamboozled, and eventually defeated by the intensity of the experience that is "India". So far, though, I hadn't felt it, though I'd been jostled, ogled, harassed, guilt-ed, frustrated, baffled, and very, very hot, I'd never felt completely overwhelmed. Until we were wondering down a wide avenue near our hotel, around 10 at night. It was a lovely street, with big old trees, big old government buildings and big new hotels. And people were calmly making up their beds for the night on the footpath. Getting settled, arranging their things, tucking in babies, everything you'd expect to do in your bedroom before sleep. These were not crazed, drug-addicted or otherwise unstable people. Not uncivilised or anti-social, or even very poor by Indian standards. But this was their lot. This was their life. And it was easy to forget as I dodged touts and friendlies and souvenir sellers and rickshaw drivers, thinking I was clever and crafty and had this India thing all sewn up. The fact is I am now in my nice house with all my nice things, worrying my nice worries, oh-so-important. And those people, hundreds of thousands, millions of them, make their beds on footpaths, with a life so different to mine it's kinda hard to comprehend, even though really, they're just the same as me.

Cocktails and Dreams

It seems to be a trend. Ros and Blake book into snazzy resort. Weather turns to shit. Oh well, at least it adds a bit of drama... We spent three days at the Ramada Caravela Beach Resort, eating and drinking ourselves stupid, and lazing by the pool - that is when there wasn't torrential rain.

It was great to relax for a few days, and I'm sure the Indian tradies doing renovations to the other wing of the resort also enjoyed our stay, along with the other bikini-clad western women they ogled constantly, despite our complaints. We also had amusing beverage-related interactions with the friendly but undertrained staff who were oblivious to our requests for the same water that the Indian guests were drinking, and completely overwhelmed by our repeated request to know the variety of wines available - these, once ordered, were inevitably out of stock. But we got lucky and drank some lovely french Cote du Rhone. The same can't be said for the cocktails, but what should you expect from a teetotaling barman?

The Beach

Ah, Goa, the tourist cess-pitt of India. When searching the net for accommodation, I found a comment from a guy who thought Goa was the best country he'd ever been to. Never realised he was in India - fly in, do some yoga, smoke some hash, lie on a beach, fly home again. Nice and easy. And with Goa's Portuguese heritage, longstanding interaction with Western tourists, and tropical beaches, it's understandable (though not excusable), to see how such a misconception could come about. But for us, first stop was neighbouring country, I mean, state, Karnataka. The main beach town for tourists is Gokarna, which we foolishly approached by bus on yet another shitty, bottom jarring dirt track. And despite what we heard from jaded hippies, the town seemed to be maintaining its authenticity in the face of increasing numbers of travellers finding Goa too hectic (though we were there right at the beginning of the season). From the main beach, it was a three hour adventure in 40 degree heat to make it over the headland, past the reject Kudle beach to Om beach, where we settled in the midst of a community of Isrealis.

Beautiful though it was, Om wasn't feeling like home. The young Isealis were learning fire twirling, pumping out euro-trance, playing bad chess, swanning around in their undies and flirting with the yoga teacher. Our last evening's entertainment came courtesy of a Pommy drug dealer trying to ingest as much hash, rum, and ketamine as possible before his girlfriend arrived to drag him off to an Ashram to detox. The perfect straight guy compliment to his theatrics, the guy's mate leaned over at one point and muttered in a cockney accent "He just hasn't realised yet, like, he's in India, you know what I mean?" And we did.

Our next stop was Goa proper. The traveller hub of Palolem was a rats nest of development and commercialism the Gorkanans had escaped by the skin of their teeth. There was even a coffee shop in Palolem. I assume this was supposed to be a "Bad Thing". Apart from a traumatic bikini wax experience (you'd think all those wiry-haired Israeli girls would have been practice enough!), the western comforts of Palolem were fine by me! It was back to our favourite routine, hiring a motorbike and cruising around the tiny hamlets and coastal villages of the area, stopping in to perv at 5-star resorts along the way. Bliss...

Kerala

What a relief! A whole other world awaited us in the "backwaters" of Kerala - a region feeling more Caribbean than Indian, lush and tropical, relatively prosperous, and scattered with lazy buggers like us looking to float around on a houseboat for a couple of days. We flew into Cochin airport, and after an unexpectedly expensive taxi ride, a midnight stroll around Cochin to find a room, and an early walk back to the bus station, we arrived in Alleppey and it was good. Mainly due to a little establishment called the Indian Coffee House, where we had REAL coffee, blushing pink rose flavoured milk and crazy-cheap biryani.

But the whole point was to get out on a Kettuvallam, the 'traditional' rope, coconut fibre and bamboo boats that were originally poled through the narrow canals and calm lakes of the region, Of course now they're built in steel and plastic, covered in rope, and fitted with motors so tourists can be taken on pleasure trips - and it was our pleasure! Our little boat was staffed by three sweet but sleepy Keralans - Matthew, Arjay and Sanjay, who cooked us feasts, pointed out birdies and other cool stuff, escorted Ros to nice swimming spots and had arvo naps.






We were visited by floating fish sellers, stopped off to check out one of the oldest Christian churches in India, as glittering and vibrant as you'd hope, and has two quite spectacular sunsets from the comfort of our hammock laden vessel.

Udaipur

Udaipur's claim to fame is shaken, not stirred - James's wriggling with Octopussy was filmed in the city during the early 80's, and a few proud shopkeepers still display yellowed Roger Moore snaps. And of course, each budget guesthouse and cheap restaurant feels an obligation to screen the movie night after night. Great until you've seen it. Then not so great. Still, these guys don't have it quite as bad as the waiters in Phenom Penh who had to endure Killing Fields docos every evening.

Anyway, after yet another an unsatisfactory search of "let's-spoil-ourselves" mid-range hotels, we checked into a completely empty guesthouse at 200 rupees. Which brings me to a Note to Travellers: If your boyfriend is constantly embarrassing you by testing out tiny beds with his pack still on, then refusing calf length mattresses and bed feet of any kind, ask for a triple... After sprawling briefly across the 3 single beds we pushed together to create a very luxurious sleeping arrangement, we retired to the rooftop to sprawl on a daybed instead. View from roof is above. It was tough.

We made our obligatory tour of the palace museum, which was quite beautiful, well restored, and full of photo opps of stained glass windows, and mosaics of the most incredible detail. A very special experience fell in our laps during a visit to one of the hotels which now takes up a section of the palace. After a bottle of extremely overpriced but very delicious Aussie Sav Blanc by the pool of Shiv Niwas, a man in his late 50s/ early 60s, dressed in the full regalia of most of the hotel staff, invited us to view the interior of the bar. Inside was a space just as the Maharaja enjoyed it, complete with photos of his family, souvenirs and keepsakes, and some priceless chandeliers, venetian mirrors, more detailed, OTT glass mosaic work, including some kangaroos, and a stunning private viewing area for the Maharani or other female members of the palace - all completely deserted. Our tour guide had been working in the hotel since he was a young man, and gleefully escorted us through the opulent chamber as if it were his own - and in a sense he did own the history of the place... Unfortunately he was working long hours at the hotel while Roger Moore was in town, so although he served drinks to James Bond, he didn't get a photo. Not much of a loss, if you ask me.

Pushkar

Pushkar is one of five major Hindu pilgrimage sites in India, where devotees come to worship at the temple to Brahma, and bathe in the waters of Pushkar lake. There are over 50 ghats surrounding the lake - stepped areas where the deep green water laps at the marble steps - and we were lucky enough to stay at a guesthouse overlooking one (the room was also quite close to a public urinal, but hey...) The morning sunrise over the lake was stunning, and the monkeys that paraded across the rooftops of the city an added bonus...

Ganeshis!

While in Jodhpur, we were lucky enough to get caught up in Ananta Chaturdashi, and because I'm running out of time to update this blog, you can read the Wiki entry on the festival held for the most adored and easily recognisable Hindu God:

"An important festival honours Ganesha for ten days starting with Ganesh Chaturthi. This festival culminates on the day of Ananta Chaturdashi, when images of Ganesha are immersed in the most convenient body of water."

Thankfully, Jodhpur contained such a convenient body, and I spent a few hours perched on a ledge, avoiding bottom-brushing wandering hands and giving in to many, many, many photo requests from young guys bringing their Ganeshas down to be cleansed in the reservoir/lake, and maybe showing off their diving skills at the same time...

Colour Coded Cities - Jodhpur

Jodhpur, the blue city: far preferable to that burnt orange Jaipur insists is pink... And what a relief as well. Set around a large, walled lake, with the Mehrangarh Fort sitting stately above, Jodhpur's lanes and markets were perfect for aimless wandering, snacking, sneaking, snooping and generally soaking things up. A quick warning to travellers to keep distance from celebrating cricket fans post India/Pakistan games, especially if they don't have a good hold on their Kingfisher bottles, but that aside, we had a great couple of days here - mostly due to the surprisingly good audio tour of the Fort, which lived up to its LP reputation, as well as the verbose introduction of the guide working the gate...

Thanks Lonely Planet...

Many backpackers - myself included - have an uneasy relationship with "The Book"... I try to keep ours under wraps, consulting under the table. "I don;t really use it - just for the maps" or "the history section's alright 'cause it's short" is the slightly guilty excuse I often hear (sometimes from my own lips!). Everyone wants to believe they're discovering something for the first time, and if you do happen to, well, just "stumble" upon an LP reviewed restaurant or guesthouse, it's inevitably doubled in price, halved in quality, or generally crap, the result of a "resting on laurels" attitude, an unmanageable growth spurt or simple greed.

These places have been Planeted, and we try to avoid them, along with their self congratulatory guest books and homesick menus of mashed potato, pizza and Israeli salad.

But when the L.P. gives advice on how to handle beggars, I take it. When it advises on an ethical charity group or not-for-profit enterprise, I believe it to be true. And when the section on Jaisalmer suggested that development in the Old Fort was becoming unsustainable and that it might be a wise choice to stay outside the rapidly subsiding sandstone walls, I did exactly that. My faith in the ethics of The Book remains, but the people who have inhabited Jaisalmer's captivating landmark for centuries, and have made a killing from tourism for the last 15 years, are very, very cranky. The number one question became not "where you from", but "where you stay?" - are you an innie or an outie? Do you have THAT book? Do you know they make us unemployed, they want to take our jobs, they tell lies to tourists. There are even placards around the fort, protesting against the guidebook's recommendation. Meanwhile, excessive water use saturates the stone, and walls collapse, most recently killing 10 (but mostly rickshaw drivers, so questionable loss). The local government installs a cosmetic underground sewerage system with narrow pipes, and now the blockages and leaks that were once the responsibility of each household are out of sight, unmaintainable. Yet this is not a problem of government, it seems, or of personal greed. Responsibility is laid squarely at those nasty slanderous writers of the travel bible.

For these isolated but newly wealthy tourism operators, 15 years makes them feel like veterans. Coming from China, I'vw seen exactly how excessive tourism can destroy the soul of a city, but also how government management of infrastructure can turn a humble village into a Disney style gold mine very successfully. I hope neither of these things happens in Jaisalmer, but it certainly won't be up to a guidebook to decide.

(me at one of the resturants withing the walls of the fort... it may or may not have been in the LP)

The end of the line... Dust and desert

The long and dusty train ride to Jaisalmer was kept at arm's length by the fortuitous purchase of very expensive A/C tickets (the only ones we could get). But scenic trips out to the open doors of the train carriage were met by the most physical heat I've experienced so far on the trip. It was bloody hot, and dry as hell - no real rain here for the last 3 years. But we hit the town just at the beginning of the tourist season, and just as the weather broke a little. Despite the textile and trinket shops lining every street, the town was my favourite in Rajasthan - still clinging to a little desert mystery. Craggy-eyed camel drivers and goat herdsmen wandered the main square in their vibrant turbans, retreating from the heat to sip chai in dark corner shops. The old fort is the only in Rajasthan still bustling with life, and both the fort and the ancient town surrounding is jewelled by exquisite sandstone carved Jain temples and Havalis.

Here we were offered opium by a withered but twinkling old desert pirate, chatted with the stunningly handsome vice captain of the local cricket team, and were served food by a gorgeous grandma in a tiny upstairs room. Meal requests were written on a little pad, but without her granddaughter on hand, we recited our menu, and explained our payment to the short sighted old duck as she peeled potatoes to make delicious dry masala curry.

One dark and moody evening we took refuge at our guesthouse as a dust storm moved across the skyline at speed and enveloped the old fort in sandy, swirling darkness, and a few drops of precious water - though not out on the dunes, where hundreds of camels with their pushy drivers await a passing tourist bus to plod out towards the sunset...

Jaipur

We arrived in Jaipur a little wilted after an almost 50 degree train ride... There may have been a Flashpacking moment as we checked into a guesthouse with A/C and a pool, as Ros was about to blow a fuse.


But a swim and a good night's sleep later, we were back on the budget trail. Hard to find a decent place, although we saw very few tourists. Wandered around the "pink" city - which is more of a deep burnished orange, left us fairly uninspired, especially as the Hawa Mahal, Jaipur's most famous landmark, was covered in scaffolding. The one site of interest was Jantar Mantar, an observatory begun by a Maharaja, Jai Singh, in 1728. The site is full of looming, bizarre structures for determining time, planetary positions, and lots of other no doubt useful information about the stars twinkling in the clear desert sky. (A guide might have been a worthwhile investment).


After 2 days we were on an overnight train to the end of the line...

That big marble thingy

I know Blake's already posted about the Taj. I hate big tourist sights - always expensive, always a hassle, full of touts and never as nice as in the postcards. Plus you have to stay at the town that surrounds the sight, which is inevitably also full of touts, overpriced and hard to manage.

But the Taj was stunning.

Yes, there are a lot of people who want your money, and the entry fee is the most expensive of any we've paid in Asia. But we arrived at about 6.30am to an almost deserted view, the whole compound is calm, grassy and without anything to be sold except photography, and it's easy to sit and contemplate all that soothing while marble as long as you like. Beautiful...

Urchins

The poverty in India is simply a different concept to anything I've experienced. These kids live by the train tracks, collecting bottles and rubbish that can be recycled. They sort amongst the shit and piss that accumulates from the trains (it seems everyone wants to go when the train is stationary), deal with rats and dogs, and carry bundles much bigger than themselves up and down, day and night. The railway staff treat them with disdain, but their roll is well accepted - they keep the station clean and tidy. And they still play and giggle as they work.

Although the rules say don't give to kids, this girl got an apple from me (don't tell Blake!), which she demolished in a matter of seconds. The tiny core which went over the side of the platform like everything else, was then her evidence to the other urchins wandering the station, with much extravagant relating of size of apple, and disbelieving responses, and cheeky grins back at me, watching the show from my bench.

And a Note to Travellers - When you get to the station at 5am and the nice lady announces the train is an hour late, don't think, oh well, I'll wait an hour and sleep on the train, because you'll be a very cranky person 4 and a half hours later when you're STILL WAITING!

Delhi

After 20 hours of travel and no sleep, we arrive at Delhi Airport around 11pm. It's hot. We wait 30 minutes for our luggage on the slowly moving carousel before realising our bags are in a pile in the corner of the dusty arrivals hall. Pass taxi drivers telling us that buses have stopped, buses are dangerous, the concept of "bus" is a falsity, a non-entity, then to the courteous and helpful cops in their vintage 60's sedan, just wait here, bus is only 50 rupees, and would you like a map of Delhi? On the bus, stenciled sign: "Please check for bomb under seat - report for a reward". On the bus, it's still hot.

It's hot, dirty, brash, audacious, pushy - everything we were expecting, but Delhi is filled with small revelations that created constant shifts in my feelings for the city and the country. Walking through New Delhi station even at midnight - especially at midnight was a kaleidoscopic mass of bodies, each face featurig a glint of gold, a daube of red or deep blue, a flash of dark eyes veiled by a translucent sari which shines and shimmers, fold on fold. Bundles of rags become kohl-eyed babies. The deeply tanned faces break into smiles of blinding white, darkly glowing metal or the rich red-brown of betel nut. But these men don't smile at me. At me it's definitely more a leer, or else I am invisible, to be trod on, cut off, pushed in front of. But among themselves, each individual takes up only the minimum amount of space, and then the next, and then the next.

But there is quiet, just around the corner. A young boy (so neat!) stirs milk for his grandmother. Albino carriage horses are returned to gleaming white in cool alcoves away from the dust. Young children play in any corner, perfectly at home - and so they should be...