From Kodaikanal to Trivandrum

Since I picked up a copy of 'The Beach' back in Laos, I've always a had a book in my bag. Sometimes I'd fly through it in just a matter of days (Dan Brown), other times I wouldn't plough to the end for weeks (Barack Obama). However, this is the first time I've had a book which is helping me grasp a deeper knowledge of the country I'm travelling in. 'The Age Of Kali' by William Dalrymple is a collection of essays from India in the 1990s, but it gives a fascinating insight into both the present and the past. When I was unsure whether to enter Nepal or not, I think I partly decided not to go because 'The Age Of Kali' made me realise I still had so much more to learn about India. One of the chapters inparticular would turn out to be very relevant to my travels. Dalrymple talks about his visit to The Meenaksi temple in Madurai, and the sacred ceromonies that continue today, unchanged, as they did in ancient times. Madurai became a 'must-do' stop on my journey.

I said goodbye to Kodaikanal on Friday. The place uninspired me, but at one point it did make me giggle for the first time in a while. The two locals standing beside me couldn't understand what was going on. They interchanged between looking at me and looking in the direction I was facing, but they didn't get the joke. I couldn't help it though, the choice of photo which had been put onto the sign for the Hotel Ruchi Restaurant made me laugh.

Before long I was at the bus stop, and the prospect of getting a cheap and fast car journey down to Madurai seemed too good to turn down. I was told that the car was going there to be returned, and the driver was very friendly. He even bought me a tea at our halfway stop.

We arrived at Maduraui as it was getting dark, and once I checked into my hotel I had a stroll around. For the first time in quite a while, I was remainded what I was travelling for. Just around the corner in the buzzing streets were a series of lights going skyward; The Meenaksi temple. Amongst the regular street folk were groups of pilgrims who had come to worship there. They wore only black, although many also chose to be barechested. There was a unique atmosphere around the streets. However, when I approached the temple there was a huge queue. I decided to delay my visit until the following day; I felt like I needed to give myself a little recap in what the temple was about before getting bamboozled in it. I spent the rest of the evening strolling around Madurais fascinating streets.

On Saturday daytime I ventured inside the temple. Unfortunetely, some of the most holy parts are for Hindus only, but there is still much to see, and a lot of atmosphere to soak up. There were various impressive statues, a large water tank, and also the temple elephant who blessed the pilgrims in the same why I had seen in Hampi. However, I was yet to witness what Dalrymple had talked about in his book; that would have to wait for the evening.

Every evening at 9pm, figures of the god and goddess Meenaksi and Shiva are carried to the temple bedchamber to, so it goes, ensure the regeneration of the universe. I returned to the temple for the ceremony, but I wasn't quite sure where about in the temple I needed to be. However, I hung around and hoped to not miss out. If anything, the atmosphere was more intense in the evening than earlier in the day. People's devotion to the various idols around the temple was even more intense. At one point I stood next to an elderly woman as she marked the entrance to one of the Hindu-only sections in a white powder pattern. I had no idea why.

Suddenly I noticed that a crowd had formed around the corner. I joined it at the back. Within moments a small chariot-like box was being ushered through the people-made corridor. This was clearly what I had been waiting for. I followed as closely as I could, and surprisingly easily, I reached within a metre of the chariot. Before long it arrived at the entrance to the Hindu-only section I was by earlier, and it was placed above the white powder pattern.

It stayed there for a long time, but it was a relief; as soon as it entered the room, I would be able to see no more. Me and a handful of other tourists stayed where we were, mesmorised by events that we didn't realise still existed in the civilised world. As a mild smoke blew in the direction of the chariot, one bare-chested man fanned it, presumably to cool it down. Behind me were a small group of musicians, the most impressive of whom was playing what looked like a flute whose end had exploded, and sounded like a wildly flailing but fun trumpet. Finally the procession continued, and assuming that this was indeed the ceremony I had read about, the bedchamber awaited. If I remember correctly, various Hindus ran into the forbidden room behing the chariot, whilst a group of lost looking tourists hung outside for a few moments before realising it was time to leave. And so I did.

Outside the temple I came across an enthusiastic bunch of locals wanting their picture taking. It's difficult to explain to them that my camera display is broken, so only once their excitement is at it's peak and they await to see themselves in digital form, do they find themselves staring blankly at a smashed screen.

Madurai is the best place I've been to for ages, but it is further boosted by the excellent, if wordy, Gandhi Memorial Museum. Being in India, I felt obliged to enchance my somewhat limited knowledge of one of the greatest figures of the twentieth century. It was very interesting. For the journey home I took a cyclo rickshaw. My elderly driver had to put a lot of hard work into moving the vehicle, but he let me have a go at cycling for a while, and we took a breather halfway for a tea. It took a long time to get home though!

Yesterday I moved on from Madurai and arrived in Trivandrum. It's fairly nice for a city, despite there being little to do. However, it represents how the South India can be relatively calm compared to the north, even in the cities. It is also clearly much more wealthy than many other parts of the country. However, tommorow I head north again to Alappuzha. There I will rejoin Hannah once again to celebrate her birthday, and most probably Christmas.

From Bengaluru to Kodaikanal

Things have been fairly low-key lately. Firstly I moved from Hampi to Bengaluru (formerly Bangalore). It was the most modern and Western feeling city I've been to in India, but was ultimately quite uninteresting. I then moved on to Mysore, a popular place for local tourists. It's famous for it's market; I've never seen so many bananas!

Mysore was followed by Ooty, another popular place for local tourists. Up in the hills it was chilly and green and felt like England. Again, there was little to do, but I did meet the goalkeeper of Chennai (formerly Madras) football team, plus I visited surely the worlds worst theme park; Jolly World! After spending the 5 rupee entrance fee (about 6 pence), I strolled around the nearly-empty gardens, dangerous looking climbing frames, and stationery circular rides, before leaving ten minutes later. I didn't feel even remotely more jolly.

Ooty was followed by an impromptu stop in Palani, a town not even in my guidebook. I was clearly off the beaten track based on the stares from the locals, but after one night I moved on. I now find myself in Kodaikanal, another Ooty-style Indian tourist town, but the foggy views ruin the otherwise beautiful scenery.

So maybe I've been on the road for too long, but clearly the last week or so has been unexciting. I now enter my final month. Hopefully the grand finale is just around the corner.

From Nasik to Hampi

As planned, Monday involved a day trip to Trimbak before returning to Nasik for my journey to Hyderabad. Trimbak translates as 'Three-Eyes', another name for the Hindu god Shiva, and is a very famous place for Hindus. However, few foreign tourists seem to go there, and I was once again the centre of intrigue for the Indian pilgrims. The main part of my visit was to do the Brahmagiri hike; an uphill walk to the remains of Anjeri Fort, and eventually to the source of the Godavari river. It was a pleasant hike with some good views.

At the remains of the fort I was approached by numerous locals wanting to chat and take pictures (often with my camera and without even asking to see the results!). As further great scenery spanned into the distance, the pleasant atmosphere was further boosted by a man who gently lectured to a group of obdient listeners. My guess was that he was telling tales from the holy books. Later the pilgrims would queue up by the man to be blessed by water from a well. With an evening train to catch I decided not to progress further to the source of the river (my guidebook described it as 'rather unimpressive' anyway), and I trekked back down the hill.

That evening I took the night train south to Hyderabad, and after a low-key Tuesday I explored the place on Wednesday. Unfortunetly I found the place quite uninspiring; just another busy Indian city, albeit with a slight Islamic influence.

On Wednesday night I took the night train to Hampi. I have been on the road now for well over ten months, and I think it's understandable to say at this point that I am now rarely taken back by something. However, when I arrived at Hampi's river on early Thursday, I was taken back. From what I had been told, Hampi was unique because of the boulders that are scattered around the landscape, sometimes seemingly defying gravity as they balance upon one another. I had seen something like this before back at Devil's Marbles in Australia. However, Hampi was different. The beautiful boulder-scattered river winded through a landscape where hills and mountains were formed by boulders. It was quite bizarre. Furthermore, memories of Varanasi came back to me as locals washed their clothes joyfully in the waters. As I sat on the steps awaiting a boat to take me to the other side of the river, an elephant appeared some distant away on the steps, plodding down to the river's edge accompanied by his rider. He subsequently got a morning bath.

Hampi is a very laid back place, but to my surprise, there is also a strong backpackers' scene, with many lazing here for extended periods of time. I therefore too found myself intermitently sandwiching days of exploration with days of laziness. I spent time playing chess, and also giving advice to a bunch of locals who were setting up a restaurant. All their proceeds were going to charity, but as of yet they had sold merely a few cups of tea in the week or two they had been open. I hope they take on board my advice if they are going to make it!

It was Friday before I trekked to the temples and pathways to the North-East of the main bazaar. By chance though, it was the start of a Hindu festival, and yet more Indians in the busy crowds found great glee in saying hello and asking where I was from. Late afternoon I climbed to the summit of Matanga Hill, but after scurrying past a few steep drops, I was happy to found out that there was an alternative way down on the otherside.

On Saturday I relaxed a lot but also visited Virupaksha Temple. It was fairly dull, but worth the 2 rupee entrance fee to see Lakshmi up close, the temple elephant I had seen two days earlier. The local kids took great glee in placing a rupee in his trunk. In return, Lakshmi would bless them (plonk his trunk on their head).

On Sunday I embarked on a lengthy walk to the temple complex to the south, got mobbed by a huge group of school kids who yelled ecstatically once they got a picture with me, and finally headed back along a country path. However, the path didn't quite go where I expected. I eventually had to turn around, ask for directions, and wade through a shallow stream to get myself back to Hampi before it was too late. Strangely, it's the satisfaction of survival I get from these type of walks which make them the best!

Tonight I take the night bus to Bangalore, a city I expect little from, but a link to the following destination; Mysore.

From Varanasi to Nasik

The more I thought about my crossroads the more roads I discovered. It took a leisurely three days to work it out. A trip to Nepal? A flight south? A venture to the remote North-East or even Bangladesh? A full southerly clockwise route? On day three I concocted a new plan; I decided to head back west and work my way to the South. Depending on whether I would remain ahead or behind of schedule, there would still be plenty of options available for me.

During the thinking period I enjoyed yet more laid back time in Varanasi. This time included me somehow getting up for my second sunset in as many months, this time for a boat ride across the Ganges with Hannah. It was pleasant, but I prefer being in the thick of it in the busy daytime. At one point though, Hannah asked a surprising question. "Is that a body?" she asked, pointing left into the river. Looking left I noticed a head, a couple of hands and a couple of feet floating motionless in the river. Anywhere else you wouldn't flicker an eyelid, but in the Ganges who knows? A couple of seconds later the toes began to wiggle; a local was having an early morning bath. The submerged cow we saw later, however, was not.

For my final day in Varanasi, I bought myself a present; a sitar lesson. I booked it at a music shop near my guesthouse, only realising later that I hadn't even met the tutor. I knew what I wanted though; an old, wise-looking, slightly frail but still nimble sitar master. When I entered the music shop, I wasn't disappointed. Sat down crossed-legs on the floor was Babadi; a seventy year old with thirty-five years of sitar experience, and exactly as I expected. To further boost my expected stereotype, he was half-deaf and had only half of his eyes working to match.

"What is your name?".
"Andy".
"Angy?".
"Andy!".
"Angy?".
"ANDY!".
"Angy?".
" ... ... yes."

It felt like being with one of the grandmas.

The lesson went well. Being a guitarist helps immensely. However, the most surprising thing was the pain; not in my already callused-fingers, but in my left leg! The heavy instrument sits on the foot of the crossed left leg and leans on the upwards-bent right leg. As a beginner, I found my leg going to sleep every ten minutes, causing me to get up and stroll around the tiny music shop. This apparently is normal. It was good though. I'd like to play one again, only this time with the freedom to play around, rather than doing progressively difficult versions of a simple song called 'Papa, Mama'. I'm still not sure if it was English, Hindi, or gobbledygook, but Babadi did a nice job of singing along anyway. Babadi is so cool!

On Wednesday it was finally time to leave Varanasi. After yet another goodbye to Hannah (I've lost count), I boarded the long train back south. This was extra nice because no-one tried to drug me! I got off at Jalgaon and caught a bus to the Ajanta caves. Numerous impressive sculptures and murals have survived the years in a bunch of caves discovered in 1819. The caves are set in really nice scenery, and it was a worthy stop.

I subsequently travelled down to Aurangabad, my base for a couple of nights, and on Thursday I made the day trip to Ellora. Ellora is another set of ancient sculpture filled caves, and was even more impressive than Ajanta. Most impressive of all, however, was cave 16; The Kailash Temple. It may seem confusing for a cave to be classed as a temple, but when you're there it's easy to forget it's a cave at all. The Kailash Temple isn't built from rock, it is built out of the rock. Over a period of one hundred years, a huge whole was dug from the cliff face, and a beautifully carved temple was sculpted. It's all very impressive.

On Friday I travelled west to Nasik. and on Saturday I took a ride to the river and to Ram Kund; a tank made from the river. It's a very holy place for Hindus, and in some ways it was reminiscent of the popular bathing ghat in Varanasi, albeit on a larger scale. The atmosphere was nice as people bathed in the water and just generally seemed happy. I stayed there for a while embracing the mood, and engaging in the occasional lost conversation. Being fairly off the beaten track, friendly locals are more enthusiastic than ever in saying hello to the white face, and one seemed very smug about gabbing away at me for a good five or ten minutes even though it was blatantly obvious I barely picked up a word. As with most of these encounters, the chirpy local offered to pose in a photograph before he said his farewells.

After a while I moved on to Kala Ram Mandir; The Black Rama Temple. This was the setting for a very well known scene in the Hindu book of Ramayana. Again there was a nice atmosphere, and with no further plans for the rest of the day, I sat down amongst the enthusiastic music makers and took it all in. I was there for quite a while, although it seemed like the musicians were happily going to stay all day. I particularly liked it how the microphone was passed around the circle, allowing everyone to have a go as vocalist.

Tomorrow I catch the train to Hyderabad, but I also hope to squeeze in a day trip to Trimbak beforehand.

Varanasi

Last year I was in Sela bar in Leeds city centre. I remember a conversation I had with a friend. We were talking about travelling, and he was telling me about his experience of Varanasi. He did not like it. He informed me of the role that the river Ganges played in Varanasi's relationship with death, but the strongest memory I have of this conversation was his talk of the poverty. My friend informed me of a screaming limbless beggar he witnessed on the street, and he advised me not to go there; it would disturb me. I informed my friend that if this kind of life is going on in the world, I don't wish to turn a blind eye to it. I want to witness and understand it for myself, even if it is disturbing. Varanasi was lodged in my head.

It's now about eighteen months later, and since arriving here on Tuesday night, I have my own Varanasi experience to talk about. I am staying at Vishnu Rest House overlooking the river. The Ganges is littered with numerous ghats along it's nearside bank; steps leading down to the waters. Upon these steps, Indians gather amongst the holy waters. On Wednesday I began to explore. I decided to stroll south along the river. Kids play with kites as families bath in the dirty waters, believing the holy water brings purity to the living. Lines of people slap their clothes against the steps and use the waters for their washing. Lines of laundry dry in the midday sun.

However, there is little doubt at what the most interesting, fascinating, bewildering and shocking part of the Varanasi ghats is. Pockets of fire and smoke burn from the base of the Harishchandra Ghat. I knew what to expect before I arrived. By the rivers edge, deceased bodies are surrounded by logs and cremated. Relatives watch. The body I had witnessed being carried through the streets the previous day was, I presume, going to the river. Hindus believe that dying in Varanasi attains you enlightenment, and widows and the elderly therefore come to the city to live out their final days. Bodies are cremated by the river's edge; the Ganges is thought to bring salvation to the dead as well as salvation to the living.

As I sat on an upper step looking down, I was conscious and unsure of how I should act. Photography, I knew, would be treated with fierce objection, but what about mere intrigue and observation? I was comforted slightly by the number of locals watching the preceding, but were they all friends and family? Was the ceremony as public as it seemed?

I was soon approached by a man. As in all places visited by many tourists, the incentive of an approaching, confident and English speaking man is likely to be to make money from me, but nevertheless I attempted to get answers to my questions. I asked him if it was okay to observe, and he said it was fine. As we talked, a new body was brought to the river. I also asked the man about the emotions that the friends and family of the deceased were likely to be feeling; the lack of emotion on display surprised me. Obviously sadness would surely be a part of it, but was there a flip side to it? They had died in Varanasi and were being cremated in the Ganges river; This was a good thing, and they were very lucky.

Unfortunately the man failed to understand my question, but he did point out to me a nearby man dressed in white. He had shaved all the hair on his head, indicating he was a close family member in mourning. Strangely, the shaved man didn't always have his eyes fixed firmly on the cremation, and it soon became apparent that despite the emotion he must have been feeling, he was still fully alert; A cricket ball came racing towards him at lightning speed, and the man grasped it out of the air with ease. He calmly passed it back to a waiting boy. Just yards away from the burning bodies, some locals were enjoying a friendly game of India's number one sport.

After failing to get more answers from a man who just wanted to sell me cannabis, I soon moved to the next ghat. I witnessed how the jolly cricketers found nothing strange about batting their cricket ball far into the Ganges rivers by the cremations, and how they asked a possible mourner near the shore if he could swim over and retrieve the ball. I witnessed yet more bathers and washers using the water, and behind them a dog chewing a bone. It looked like a jaw bone to me. I wonder. A nearby woman soon shooed the dog away once she noticed it.

After strolling down the river, taking a rest, and being startled by a creeping-up goat, I ate some food and went looking for The Monkey Temple. I failed to find it, but when I paid a bicycle rickshaw to take me there, I realised it hadn't been worth the search. I returned to the river and strolled back north. I witnessed more cremations, more cricket and more fun kite flying. Life side by side with death.

On my second day in Varanasi I strolled north along the river. A sole man attempted to fish by the river's edge; not a catch I fancy eating. I also reached Dashaswamedh Ghat, the busiest ghat for bathers. As I walked further up the river I suddenly stopped in my tracks. For the first time I witnessed Manikarnika Ghat, a larger and more crowded funeral ghat than I saw yesterday. Huge numbers of burning wood piles littered the ground amongst the mourners. The absence of gawping tourists, however, baffled me.

My guide book informed me of what happens to the tourists who do come here; they are soon snapped up by 'wood touts' who provide lots of fascinating information about the funeral, including the apparently very high wood costs required to burn a body, and finally, how much money I would like to donate to the cause. I felt that my book was ambiguous about how genuine these people were. This happened to me instantly. I was ushered to a balcony above the funerals (he told me that only relatives are allowed to be there; information contrary to what I was told the previous day). He then told me lots of fascinating information and answered my questions:

Women can not come to the ceremony because, in the past, any woman who was at the burning of her husband would have to jump onto the fire alive.
Some deceased people, such as children and pregnant women, cannot be burned; they are taken to the centre of the river, attached to stone, and sunk.
After a body has been burning for two hours, a close family member smashes open the softened skull; releasing the soul.
Crying is forbidden at the cremations, half answering my question the previous day of why there was not as much sadness as I would have expected.

Unfortunately, the quality of the information I received was matched by the man's anger when I refused to hand him money, and I had no choice but to leave. I now understood why tourists were thin on the ground.

The rest of the day was spent strolling around more of Varanasi, but now I have other things on my mind. I once again find myself at a crossroads. I could go to Nepal, but apparently it's getting cold in the higher regions. Furthermore, I don't want to eat into too much of the time I have left to spend in South India.

Today I have been taking things easy and have been doing more research on where to go next. However, I am taking my time. I have not found Varanasi to be as bad as my friend implied. I have had no significant problems with beggars compared to other Indian places, and I have found the activity by the riverside to be nothing short of intriguing. Surprisingly, I feel very comfortable and relaxed here, and the travellers around me seem to feel the same way. Our guesthouse overlooks the riverside, but it is not a morbid scene; I see bathers, washers and many playing children. The scene is tranquil; the billowing smoke in the background becomes part of the scenery. I feel no rush.

From Jodhpur to Varanasi

After just a few hours in Jodhpur we moved on to our real intended destination; Jaisalmer. Coincidentally, this meant re-meeting yet again with Hannah, who had been hanging out in Jaisalmer for a good while. I said my goodbyes to Jen and Becky, and on the second day joined Hannah and a couple of Americans to visit a school for unprivileged children. Over recent days Hannah had become close to the owner of our guesthouse, Dhanna. Dhanna played a big part in the running of the school, and so I agreed to come along and witness the good work, a concept lost on so many privileged Indians. However, whilst seeing the school was interesting, the woman currently in charge was very pushy, and only wanted our money. We had hoped to offer some time helping the kids learn English, but that had not been possible at the time we arrived. We left the school in appreciation of what was trying to be done, but disappointed in the attitude towards visitors.

The following day the Americans, three Germans and myself embarked on a camel trek recommended by Hannah and run by Dhanna's guesthouse. Jaisalmer is the most famous place for camel trekking in India, and it certainly felt a lot more professional than the ad-hoc trek we had done in Pushkar. Right from the start it felt a lot more safe; falling off didn't feel too likely. Everybody had their our own personal camel, and the food was of a very high standard considering we were out in the desert. The trek was much more secluded too, we were clearly a long way away from civilization.

The atmosphere in the camp that night was not as good as on my Pushkar trek, but the actual trekking was a much better experience. However, as soon as I climbed onto Papoo the camel on my second day, I realised that there was a challenge ahead of me. Riding a camel is painful, and my bottom was already weary from the previous day. Of course, I wasn't the only one feeling the pain, but our group fought on.

With a days experience behind us, our guides felt that we were ready to push our camel skills a little further; our camels began to run. We had done a little running on day one, but this time the sprints were much more lengthy. This was bittersweet. It was certainly fun, especially at the higher speeds, but the faster Papoo ran, the more my pain increased. My soar thighs rubbed against Papoo, and my back felt very tired and stiff. Every one of Papoo's strides hurled me in the air, crashing my bum back down again in preparation for the next imminent flight. Riding a running camel is an experience I glad I have, and an experience I'm glad is behind me.

Towards the end of the second day my group prepared for one last sprint. I was exhausted, and along with Manuel from Germany, we kept our camels at walking pace. However, as the group began to mingle in with the trees in the distance I had a change of heart; I wanted to run with Papoo one last time. Making Papoo run, however, had been a challenge; You are suppose to whip camels with the reigns to make them pick up speed, but in the past I had failed to make an impact on Papoo's pace. This time, though, I was successful. With just a few light whips Papoo picked up speed, and Manuel was left behind.

The group in the distance had gone quite far now, but as the pain began to increase I slowed Papoo down. The group were nowhere to be seen, and looking behind me I saw no sign of Manuel. Me and Papoo strolled through the desert alone, but it felt great. Beforehand, Papoo had just followed the camel in front, but with just me and my camel in the gaping sands, I had a reason to steer, hopefully re-finding our friends somewhere over the hill. However, it was unclear where our group was. After a short while a group of camels were could be seen to our right, but I was unsure whether it was my group; my group had originally ridden much further left. I was still wondering which way to go when my decision was made for me; Papoo steered right. It was only after a little while, and after the distant camels had disappeared over the hill, that I realised that I was lost in the desert and had just left the decision of which way to go solely on the will of a camel.

Luckily for me, Papoo was correct. Over the hill my group were resting under a tree. Although Papoo seemed to prefer munching on the local shrubbery rather than joining his mates, we eventually rejoined our friends. Manuel was a few minutes behind. It was here that I climbed off Papoo for the last time, and here that I retire my camel riding days.

Occasionally on my travels I find myself at a crossroads; a point in time when I have little or no idea where to go next. After a little research I decided that it was time to head east to Varanasi. I also am now strongly considering a trip into Nepal. I therefore booked my train east, and by coincidence again, Hannah was booked onto the same train, albeit in a higher class. The train started in Jodphur though, and so on Sunday we caught the five hour bus east. It was actually a shame that we had just one night in Jodphur. The market place had a really great atmosphere at night time, and it would have been nice to explore the city in the daytime too. Nevertheless, my ticket was booked, and on Monday morning we headed to the station. At 9:30, the proposed 25 hour journey to Varanasi began.

When I first arrived in my carriage, there was a man sat there who spoke English. After just a few minutes a beggar crawled in and began to tap my leg. Beggars are very common in India, but this one was very persistent; he stayed with me for five or ten minutes, despite me paying him no attention. I began asking the man about his opinions on beggars and what the moral thing is to do. He backed up what I already thought was the case. This boy could walk perfectly fine (although of course, some beggars are genuinely disabled). The boy crawls into the carriage just for affect. It is mostly foreigners who hand out money because the locals know better. The man next to me estimated that the boy would earn about 250 rupees a day, quite a nice sum, much better than many genuine working Indians earn. He was not so poor, but he was also not making a positive contribution to society. The boy also seemed interested in my bag of fruit I had bought from the seller outside the train. However, the man confirmed to me that he was not hungry; any fruit I gave him would be sold right back to the seller. After giving the boy very little attention, he eventually crawled on. Minutes later a second boy crawled in, this time only lasting about 30 seconds before giving up. Not long later I was also pestered by eunuchs (men cruelly castrated at birth and destined for a life of begging), and some drummers (who at least were entertaining people with music to earn their rupees).

The man next to me disembarked when the train set off; he was only saying goodbye to his non-English speaking relative. For most of my journey I was surrounded by non-English speaking locals, except for when I payed Hannah the occasional visit many carriages further up the train. I spent most of my time listening to my IPod, drinking chai (lovely Indian tea), and hopping off the train at every stop to buy some local snacks. I quite enjoyed the ride, but after we passed Jaipur my mood briefly sobered. A local pointed out to me the derailed train besides the tracks. A good few people had died just days early in a train accident; not an uncommon event in India.

The rest of the daytime went smoothly; I met Hannah for a bit, and lent a local my IPod for a short while. However, he seemed disappointed at the lack of Hindi music in my collection. In the evening another local with good English took an interest in me. The usual rigmarole began; a series of questions, including the occasional bemusing one ("What are your strengths?"). We were suddenly interrupted by a man in the adjacent set of beds, up on the top bunk. He asked if he could have some water, because he was thirsty. This bemused me; water could be bought regularly, and he could not be a poor man if he was riding the train. With a spare bottle in hand, I handed him my open bottle and kept alert. He leaned to the side out of sight, and I noticed he had a friend hiding next to him. They clearly were doing something with the bottle, but whatever it was they were not drinking. After just five or ten seconds they handed me my bottle back. From now on I was on-guard. After pausing for a while to analyse the situation, I openly and clearly poured the contents of the bottle out of the window. Druggings are rare but not unheard of in India, and thievery on trains is equally a problem. A white person is a prime target, and a journey to a popular backpacker destination such as Varanasi is prime territory for thieves. I was not scared; violent attacks are very rare indeed, but I did not feel like losing any belongings - or for that matter, taking an extra long sleep on my train.

The man from the upper bunk clearly took an interest in me, and he soon moved down to sit opposite me. He liked to stare at me too. After a while he engaged himself in conversation with the man I had been talking to, and despite not understanding Hindi, it was totally clear who they were talking about. The man next to me informed the suspicious man of the places I had been to and was going to, and he even mentioned 'Software Engineer'. At this point I also began to arouse suspicion with the man I was talking to; he had been asking me which bunk I was in and whether I was sleepy. I began to fear a long night of having to stay wide awake, but luckily things changed. The very suspicious man left his bunk, walked up and down the train once, and never came back. I wondered if he was looking for another westerner. I slept on my belongings, and gradually gained more trust in the man sleeping near me. I now think that he was harmless, but without wanting to sound paranoid, I remain extremely skeptical about the intentions of the man who asked for my water. In the morning though, both me and my belongings were fine.

The 25 hour journey continued in Indian time. By this, I mean that it arrived after 29 hours had elapsed; my longest journey of the year. Me and Hannah are now in Varanasi; a very old, holy, and fascinating town. As we sat in a cafe just moments ago, a chanting crowd could be heard from outside. They sounded celebratory, but my interpretation was surely wayward. The crowd soon bounced past the window. With them, they carried the deceased body of a woman. This is Varanasi. I'm sure I will have much more to say on this in my next blog entry.

From Pushkar to Mandvi

The timing had not been great; whilst my group of five would be on our camel trek, we would be missing a potentially hilarious event at the Pushkar fair. Hannah, on the second time of asking, had agreed to be involved in the ceremony which involves dressing up hapless Western tourists in traditional Indian wedding garb, and then letting a bunch of judges choose the best.

Hannah's event soon left our minds though. I was soon climbing behind Denny on the back of a crouching camel. Moments later, and with a couple of bumps, the camel was on it's feet, and we were totally aware of the very unsafe feeling that you get whilst riding a camel with nothing to hold on to. As the camel walks it pushes from side to side, and the only way to hold on appears to be to push your thighs into the beast; a pursuit that soon grows tiresome.

A minute into the journey I was inquisitive. I asked Denny if he had been told what the camel was called. He didn't know, but he informed me that the man walking in front of the camel was Roger. "Roger!" I called. Roger didn't flinch. "Roger!" I called again, but to no avail. "Roger?!" I asked one more time. After a slight pause, the man turned around. "What's our camel called?" I asked. "Raju!", replied the man I had mistakenly been calling Roger.

The ride was fun, but got increasingly tiresome on the legs. Gladly, it didn't take long for us to arrive at the camp. We had a nice evening sleeping under the stars and picking small spiky sand things off our Velcro-like clothes. A local man joined us and seem to enjoy playing the one and only song he knew on his instrument over and over, but it sounded good and atmospheric. Meanwhile our camels lazed around us, except Ernst's beloved camel, Johnny, who seemingly strayed away for hours by himself in the desert.

The following morning we rode our camels back to town, and before long the five of us were having a farewell meal in a restaurant. Hannah was there as well. "So did you win?", I jokingly asked. There was a slight pause before she answered; I clearly had spoiled the surprise. She embarrassingly uncovered a misspelled trophy before informing us all of her victory. The restaurant owner later brought out one of many different national newspapers from that day, open on page fourteen sporting bizarre pictures of the winning Western girl in Indian dress. It was a shame we missed it, she looked so horrible!

After saying an emotional goodbye to Hannah and Denny (possibly for the last time I think, especially where Denny is concerned) Jen, Becky and myself found ourselves on a bus to Udaipur. Unfortunately I got ill in Udaipur, probably from too much sun, and I spent a good few days trying to regain my energy and enthusiasm. After an uninspiring time in Udaipur, we moved on to Bhuj, and soon after that, Mandvi. I feel like little has happened of interest lately, but maybe things will pick up soon. Tonight we take an overnight train back into the state of Rajasthan. We arrive in Jodhpur in the morning.

From McLoed Ganj to Pushkar

On the Thursday Denny, Hannah, Marco, an English guy called Jay, and myself went to see the exiled leader of Tibet, the Dalai Lama, speak. The speech was translated into English on a local radio frequency. The crowds were big, but we managed to find a space to park our bums, even if the man himself was out of sight. However, the translation was often absent, and after listening to the opening few minutes I found little of interest in his ramblings. After the morning session finished, I wasn't the only one to happily skip the afternoon learnings.

The following day Denny, Hannah and myself returned to Amritsar to experience Diwali, a hugely popular festival. We were very excited about this for an extra reason too, it was to be our first experience of 'Couchsurfing'. Couchsurfing is where locals all over the world agree to let travellers into their lives for free, providing a bed for the night and an insight into their lives. We were set to spend Diwali Eve with our Indian host, Aftab.

Aftab sounded a little nutty on his online profile. Under 'favourite music', he chose 'Tranceeeeeeeeeee'. Under 'favourite books and films', he chose 'Trance and tranceeeeeeee'. Before we met him, we knew one thing; he liked trance. However, what we didn't expect was that he would be an unpleasant host, forcing ear-busting trance on our fragile ears, pushing us to drink 'moonshine' we didn't want to drink, and generally being a pain. The next day we told him we wanted to spend a night in the guruwadas in the Golden Temple - and we never returned.

On our previous visit to Amritsar we had failed to find the guruwadas; the lodgings within The Golden Temple. However, this time we knew where to go. It was a simple dormitory, and in typical dormitory style, we met a fair few travellers also ready to experience Diwali Amritsar style. However, all this meant were some fireworks and overcrowding within the Golden Temple. In fact it was only when the crowds had gone the following day that we were able to fully experience the temple without the lavish decorations it had been smothered in on our previous visit.

On the Monday we took the train to Delhi, and on Tuesday I met up with Jen who I originally met back in Ko Phi Phi in Thailand. She is now travelling with her friend Becky. After saying a temporary farewell to Denny and Hannah, my new trio moved on to Jaipur. Jaipur was a little uninspiring, although we visited a palace and a semi-interesting museum. We soon moved on to Pushkar via a night's stop in nearby Ajmer.

We have now been in Pushkar for a good few days. This has included climbing the nearby mountain ready for sunrise; the very first time I have actually managed to get up for a sunrise in my entire journey. However, it was the monkeys on the hill which provided me with the most interest. We have also witnessed the initial stages of the Pushkar Camel Fair, including the Horse Dancing competition.

We have now been rejoined by Hannah and Denny. Pushkar is a popular place for tourists, even though the holy lake is currently dry. However, as from Monday, things really picked up. The Pushkar Camel Fair began to get into full swing. Within the main arena, various competitions are held. Camel dancing and horse dancing appears to be a favourite of the locals, whilst the Locals versus Tourists football match was quite fun too. However, my favourite event is the camel race. I was expecting quite a serious race, but in truth it was hilariously bad. Some camels went the totally wrong way whilst some barely managed a canter. Meanwhile the leader is putting his heart and soul into it despite having no clear competition. Quite funnily, it wasn't until yesterday that Jen, Becky and myself finally discovered the huge patch of desert where the mass of camels were actually being kept.

Tonight Jen, Becky, Denny, a Dutchman called Ernst and myself are going on a camel trek. I expect a bumpy ride.

From Vashicht to McLeod Ganj

I remember sitting at home watching TV one day. Michael Palin was travelling around the world, and I found it very surprising and interesting. I didn't realise the world could be so strange. Palin found himself at the border of India and Pakistan, one spectator in a crowd of many. He was watching a totally bizarre ceremony. I remember thinking how strange and adventurous it must feel to be there, and possibly the first seed in my will to go travelling had been sewn.

About ten days go, after a relaxing day in Vaschicht, Hannah, Denny and myself made some plans. Hannah and Denny want to arrive in Dharamsala later in the month to catch some lectures by the Dalai Lama, so in the meantime we planned a journey west.

On the Sunday evening we arrived in Mandi. The following morning I wasn't feeling too well though so I spent the day indoors watching TV as the others explored the town. The next day we caught a bus to Joginder Nagar and sampled some Thali (various dishes on one plate) whilst we waited to catch a vintage 'toy train' through the Kangra Valley to Pathankot.

After a few hours on the train, we were beginning to feel a little drained and bored. There was the occasional nice piece of scenery, but the journey was going to take about ten or eleven hours. However, before long some locals spotted the white faces and decided to practice their English. This happens very frequently in India. Usually you are approached with an opening 'What is mother country?', and before long the interrogation begins. Common questions include 'What is job?', 'What is salary?' (a question not considered rude in India, and used to decipher social status), 'What is father's name?', 'Who is country's Prime Minister?', 'Who is captain of cricket team?', and my personal favourite from this week 'What is aim in life?'.

Events on the train dramatically amplified, however, when Denny and Hannah were interested to see what would happen if I took out the guitar and played a few tunes whilst the train lay motionless at a station. They soon found out. Huge crowds gathered within the carriage, huge crowds gathered outside my near window, and apparently yet further crowds gathered outside the opposite window. Following the commotion, the Indian's became hugely more inquisitive. A group of about ten young males suddenly found the courage to say hello, and we were bombarded with attention for the remaining few hours of the journey. It actually began to grate, and I was quite happy when the train finally pulled up in Pathankot; the attention had been quite arduous. However, I did find out that 'Andy' means 'egg' in Hindi.

Hannah wasn't feeling well on Wednesday so we spent an extra day in Pathankot, but on the plus side this gave us extra opportunities to eat at the fantastic Sikh run restaurant near our guesthouse. On Thursday we caught the bus to Amritsar, a fairly uninteresting journey despite the woman next to me continuously vomiting out of the window.

The main attraction of Amritsar is The Golden Temple, a very holy Sikh Temple. Our aim that evening was to stay in one of the gurudwaras in the temple; lodgings primarily aimed at Sikh pilgrims but also open to foreign tourists. The temple was crowded, but we dropped off our shoes at the designated place, and entered the compound. The atmosphere was very impressive, the golden lit temple reflected beautifully in the man-made waters. Amplified singing echoed through the air and thousands of people walked around, listened to the sounds and bathed in the waters. We were also approached by many friendly people eager to offer us help or inform us about the temple. With all of our luggage in hand though, our main focus was to find the gurudwaras.

Before long, however, I began to feel uneasy. I was still holding my spare shoes in my bag (a big no-no), and I was suddenly informed that the cap that Denny had lent me was not ample head cover. Furthermore, Denny was informed that it was currently a very holy day (hence the excessive crowds) and that the gurudwaras were likely to be full. This was the final straw; we decided to leave the temple and find a guesthouse outside the compound.

The following day we entered the temple in daytime, this time more prepared. Again the atmosphere was incredible, and Hannah and Denny were particularly moved. Indeed I feel that it is the most worthwhile visit to a religious building I have been to on my travels. However, my experience differed somewhat from the experience of my friends. At one point I picked up a plate and joined the huge queue that was crowding towards the central and holy centre of the temple. However, the queue was barely moving on such a busy day, and so I left the crowd and continued to walk around, plate in hand. I soon found Denny involved in a long conversation with a local, and Hannah was been approached by numerous women thrusting young children into her hands as an ice-breaker and a possible photo opportunity. Meanwhile, the only time I was approached was when one local pointed to where I should deposit my plate, and duly walked away. I think I need to lose my tan.

A little later I found it very amusing walking a few feet behind Hannah as she walked through the crowd. I felt like an ignored and irrelevant bodyguard trailing behind a superstar walking through the adoring fans. All eyes turned and stared at the white woman walking between the masses, and numerous women and children continued to approach and say hello. Meanwhile I blended in unnoticed.

That evening I found myself in a taxi with Denny and Hannah heading to the border ceremony between India and Pakistan. Vague memories of Michael Palin looped through my head. and ironically, my guide book described the ceremony as 'Pyhonesque'. Indeed it was. The event felt like a mix between an episode of Monty Python (including a few Cleese silly walks), a pantomime, and a boisterous football match. Before the real ceremony began, a group of lucky and ecstatic school children danced energetically to modern Indian pop tunes. A little later the real show began. As the guards from opposing sides competed to see who could yell into the microphone the longest, the frontman of the ceremony would wind up the crowd to a frenzy. Periodically the guards would do a crazy march towards the border - and presumably the Pakistan side of was doing the same. The crowd were ecstatic. Pro-Indian and anti-Pakistani slogans were chanted, seemingly all in good nature. Jeering the opposition was also commonplace. It was all a big pantomime, but considering the ongoing difficulties between Indian-Pakistani relations, it all seemed very perplexing, yet amusing.


On Saturday I visited the Jallianwala Bagh memorial in the morning, and later the three of us arrived at the train station in preparation for a journey back to Pathankot. A sad looking homeless boy was slumped by the wall as we waited, and so Hannah decided to buy him a bag of sweets. He swiftly and thanklessly took the bag and began to devour the goodies. Realising that this was probably not the healthiest food we could have given him, we subsequently bought him something somewhat healthier. This time he took the bag with suspicion, but gladly ate the lot. He then remained his distance.

After a while me and Hannah started playing cards, and suddenly we noticed that the boy had been joined by a couple of friends, and they had plucked up the courage to take a closer look at the foreigners' game. The boys revealed that they too had a pack of cards, and before long we were playing together. The bravest boy stepped up. Unfortunately, counting and numbers seemed beyond his knowledge, but nevertheless we managed to teach him a simple game of 'Snap'. Sometimes he would decide to delve into the pack, choose very carefully a card, ponder over it for a while, and then play - although somehow he still failed to make a 'snap'. The game was fun, and the boys certainly seemed to enjoy the interaction. I doubt there is little other fun in their lives.

Eventually it was time to take a train. For the first time on my Indian travels, I was travelling by Sleeper Class, the cheapest ticket. The three hour journey cost me seventeen rupees; about twenty pence. Hannah warned me to prepare for a scrum whilst boarding. She was not wrong. As the train pulled up and the doors opened, hoards of passengers jumping off the train were forced to battle through the crowds trying to fight their way on. It was a first-come first-served basis; if you want a seat to sit on, you need to get there first. Once those exiting the carriage were gone, people began to trickle onto the train; the carriage door was a bottle neck of bodies and bags. As I tried to force myself into the gaping door in front of me, my bag was being inadvertently forced into the adjacent door a couple of feet to my right. I somehow successfully blocked anyone else from boarding my carriage until I had freed my bag from the crush, but even so I was too slow boarding to bag a seat. I was forced to stand for the first half of the journey, although standing totally vertical within the sweaty crowd proved somewhat more challenging. Next time I think I need to use more elbows.

On Sunday we arrived in Pathankot, another chance to return to our favourite restaurant. This time we discovered the incredible tandoori chicken, a choice we revisited again the following lunchtime. In the afternoon we caught a bus to Dharamsala, or more precisely McLoed Ganj, home of the Dalai Lama. Before we even arrived at our chosen guesthouse we bumped into Marco from our jeep journey to Manali, and the following day he informed us of a performance by some local school children. I didn't realise that it was going to be such a professional affair, somewhat similar to school performances in the West. However, it got a little samey after a while, and so we booked a taxi and retired to bed.

Today I have a slight cold, but we are in McLoed Ganj for a while with the intention of taking things easy until the Dalai Lama speaks in a few days time.

From Leh to Vashicht

On Tuesday morning I joined Hannah, Denny, Marco, Roman and Mel in our three day Jeep journey down the road to Manali, the second highest road in the world. This was an incredible ride, and despite all of the scenery and landscapes that I have seen this year, the soaring mountains and winding hillside roads of the Himalayas tops them all. However, such views come at a price, and there were a few irksome moments as our Jeep teetered over the edge of huge drops, sometimes whilst overtaking slower moving vehicles over bumpy potholed roads. However, our driver seemed very safe, taking most corners at a comfortable speed and often using his horn on the uncountable number of high blind corners.

We arrived on Tuesday afternoon at lake Tsomoriri. The neighbouring village was rural and fascinating, but at 4595 metres above sea level, altitude was still a problem. After a walk around the farmland and a meal of quick-cook noodles and local sweet tea, we retired to bed. It was an uncomfortable night as our bodies got used to the thin air, but nevertheless I managed to get some sleep.

On Wednesday we began the long journey down to Jispa. Our driver seemed to attempt a shortcut, although all of the passengers seemed to agree that we seemed to simply drive in a huge circle for a few hours along barren landscape. Eventually though we were back on track, and the views continued to excel. As we climbed higher and higher, the only way to left to go was down again; a long nerve wracking descent down a windy mountain side road. Eventually we arrived in Jispa, and the relatively low altitude ensured a much more comfortable night's sleep.

The following morning we began the final leg of the journey. Very early on we were riding around a blind corner at a fairly slow speed, when a speeding motorcycle emerged around the bend at a scary pace. Our driver was able to casually apply the brakes and comfortably stop a couple of feet before the mountain edge, but the motorcyclist's options were not as positive. To avoid colliding with our Jeep, or a fate much worse, the only option he had was to fling his bike to the ground. Once he fell, our driver analysed the situation for a few seconds, concluded he was okay, and drove on. We were all just glad that it wasn't a larger vehicle speeding around the corner, for while our Jeep may have stopped the vehicle in it's tracks, our Jeep itself may have no longer been on the mountain. We could well have looked like the burnt out car we drove past near the bottom of one of the winding descents later in the day.

Our journey concluded with the Rohtang Pass, a section of the journey we had been joking about for the full three days. This was largely due to it's English translation; 'Pile Of Dead Bodies'. The long descent was chock-a-block with traffic, although when you see two large lorries crawling past each other on narrow mountain ledges, it kind of gives you confidence that your relatively small Jeep should have plenty of room to manoeuvre. The descent took a while though, partly due to a few traffic jams on ledges. However, after a lengthy but fully worthwhile journey, we eventually arrived in Vashicht, a small village just north of Manali. We had survived. That evening our group of six enjoyed a meal together, played a little Burmese Stroke, and went to bed.

My intentions today were to take things quite easy, but I ended up going on a walk with Denny that lasted longer than I expected. Firstly we walked to a small village. After some local kids tried there luck at trying to charge us for sitting on the wall of the local monastery, they seemed to enjoy playing with my camera and taking pictures, even if they couldn't see the results due to the smashed screen endured back in Thailand.

Me and Danny then continued to walk towards Manali, but what we stumbled across was a total surprise; a theme park! I'm sure Disneyland has nothing to worry about, but 'Club House' was extremely enjoyable, if only because it was so bad it was good. There are bumper cars (with a maximum of two cars ... although we saw just one car driving in circles), high speed go-karts (which appeared to travel at approximately jogging pace) and our personal highlight (and I quote): 'Dynamic Dinosaurs SPL King Kong' (Dragon fighting with dinosaur horror cage and another horror dinosaur). This involved a series of rooms displaying models of dinosaurs, gorillas and dragons. There was also a model of Mickey and Minnie Mouse, plus a stage with a couple of lights above it which we can only assume was for dancing on.

At one point I moved ahead of Denny into a particularly dull room including one sitting gorilla and one standing gorilla. There was a curtain in the corner which looked intriguing, so I peered through, but all that was there was some staff corridors. As I turned around, the sitting gorilla was now walking towards me, causing me to scream out loud and sprint halfway across the room before I once again composed myself. There is clearly no limit to the amount of fun a man dressed in a monkey costume can make, although we also felt sorry for the man who has to sit still in a gorilla costume all day, waiting for the very occasional tourist to walk in.

We are using Vashicht and Manali as a breathing point in our journey, but as of yet most of us haven't decided where to head to next.